Fishing on the upper Missouri

We are on the upper Madison River in southwestern Montana at Lyons Bridge. John Thorp and his friend Jim launch John's float boat, ease it over to the rocks so that I can climb in without getting my feet wet. Then we are off into the current of the "100-mile riffle," as the upper Madison has been called, with John at the oars.

Jim is in the bow, I am in the stern, and we cast Panther Martin spinners as we drift down the river. The day is overcast, gray and threatening and before long the boat strikes a submerged rock, almost tossing me out of my seat.

"Sorry about that," John says. "I can't see the rocks very well without the sun shining."

"One time a dozen years ago we hit a rock lower down on the Madison," I say to Jim. "I went flying off my perch and landed on my spinning rod, smashed the hell out of it."

It doesn't take long for a brown trout to strike the green-bodied, gold-bladed No. 6 spinner that I am casting, and then Jim has one on too. We have decided to release all the fish we catch today, so that is what we do.

I haven't made 10 casts when my line tangles into a bird's nest near the reel. "Just put this line on today," I say to John.

"You're going to have to cut it."

"That's why I like a small snap-and-swivel, but I didn't bring any along."

"Keep the line tight at all times," John suggests. "You probably allowed it to get slack and the current rolled it."

I take John's advice and after cutting out the mess, stuffing the tangled line into my pocket, I experience no more tangles.

Earlier, I pointed out to Jim the Madison Range scraping the sky to the east, and the Gravelly Mountains to the west. Jim is a Nebraska native who lives in Georgia.

"Looks like elk country," he says.

"Indeed it is, " I say.

"You shot an elk in the Gravelly's, didn't you?" John asks me.

"Yeah, a bull farther north."

"I shot a bull on the West Fork of the Madison one time."

We float and catch fish. One time I hook a leaping trout that manages to get under the boat and break my line.

"Rainbow," I observe.

"Brown trout," John counters.

The wind picks up and within a 10-minute period Jim and I each hook 18-inch rainbows. I am using a No. 6 Panther Martin with a bright red blade and catch a number of fish on it before losing it on a snag.

Looking back to the south we see blue sky peeking through the clouds, but to the north it looks ominous. John says he has a couple umbrellas packed under my seat. I think he is kidding, but he says he is serious.

So I bring out the umbrellas, and he insists that I pose for a picture. "I will if you promise to destroy the picture after you view it." He shoots the picture but I know he will gleefully show anyone who will look at it the picture of me in a drift boat holding a black umbrella over my head.

"John, why don't you let one of us row so you can fish?"

"I am very happy doing the rowing," he says.

We reach the takeout point early in the afternoon just beyond the vertical cliffs at a place called Palisades. Jim and I drive in my old Suburban the eight miles back up river to retrieve John's pickup with the trailer. We barely get onto the highway when the rain comes in torrents.

Half an hour later we are back to get John and his drift boat. It is still pouring rain, and there is John grasping the line of his drift boat and holding a garish green-and-white umbrella over his head.

And I didn't bring a camera...