Drifting on the Clark Fork Floats my Boat

Part of the Montana dream—for any fly fisherman, that is, is the drift boat. And for me and my husband Brad, it was not just any drift boat. He had googled his research and ogled color photographs long before we made the move here. Suffice to say, the boat was ordered before the house blueprints were finalized.

Montana Boatbuilders makes a wooden drift boat that is artwork. Grown fishermen cry when they see it; the guide who we hired to help us launch her and teach us all the rowing techniques caressed her bow as if he were touching the Holy Grail, then refused to take any money for his day with us on the river despite the fact that such shepherding is how he earns his living.

“It’s my pleasure,” his voice broke as he tried to express gratitude without becoming overly emotional. “I’ve always wanted to go out in one of these.” Throughout the day he had spoken of its builder, Jason, as if he were some kind of god. Guess we bought the right one.

I’ve anchored in my share of berths—heck, I was practically birthed in a berth, my father having been a full-leisure-time Pacific Ocean sailor. Our boats were often wooden and always sailing ships—no power save for what the wind could provide. He was forever varnishing, so finally took it to the next level and simply built one himself. In other words, I am no stranger to the sea.

But the river? I’d camped by one; I’d vacationed in a cabin on Rock Creek and fished a few, but the drift—now there’s something old as time and new to write home about. I’d grasped the oars of my small sabot on Balboa’s Southern California bay when I used to row to the fish market to buy the family dinner.

I packed a picnic lunch before we headed out to meet our guide—let’s call him Jim. Flathead cherries, I thought, as I washed them before slipping them into a bag.
And no cell phone. Right away I felt the pressure of any ordinary day fall from my shoulders that were anxious to ache from the rowing.

After arriving at the put-in, we slid her into the water and all three of us stood, like adoring cherubim. Finally, Jim’s voice punctured the silence.

“Take a picture—this is her birthday on the river.” Amen. Click.

We gingerly stepped aboard so as not to make a single mark.

“You first, “ spoke Jim. “I don’t want to be the one to scratch her.”

“By all means go ahead,” Brad urged him. “Let’s get that part over with!”

All at once we were on the river, its unconscious current purposefully pulling us away from civilization. Within moments, there was only beauty and we three—not another soul in sight. Nor was there for the entire rest of the day.

This is progress, I thought, as I realized that the rest of the world would no doubt define that as cellular reach and Internet accessibility. Every appliance in our rustic log home in the woods is computerized—I have to wear strong reading glasses to maneuver through the options on my washing machine. There’s a digital directory on the outside of my refrigerator. I still can’t negotiate the four remotes in order to operate my own television set. Thank goodness I’ve yet to master the alarm clock.
Yachtsmen rely on gadgetry—the digital compass, ship-to-shore radio equipment, automatic winches and steering that is standard equipment now. But not driftboatsmen. I need only wrap my palms around the oar handles and—pull.

We took turns rowing. Jim showed us the different strokes, crabbing being the one that reminded us of patting your head and rubbing your stomach—this would require practice to perfect. Maybe we’d need to come out everyday for a month? Hopefully.

After awhile, when Jim saw that his students were adept enough, we began to take turns fishing. My casting is like opening the proverbial can of worms, but I improved after hooking my dear husband, only twice.

“I’m sorry you’re not catching anything,” I apologized to Jim who deserved a grander reward for his patience towards me.

“It’s all good,” he answered, and meant it. As if on cue, we all looked around us at the staggering scenery, acknowledged that there is nothing on this earth quite like moving along on moving water. Then we anchored, stepped out, and waded a few feet to fish some more.

An hour or so of that, back in the boat, and we were astonished under the wingspan of two bald eagles and a great blue heron while we nibbled on fresh Flathead cherries. Just your average afternoon in paradise.

As we approached the takeout, we backpedaled, no controls on this craft save the oars; I didn’t need my glasses. We slowed it down a notch, stretched it out, but ultimately were at the mercy of the current that had carried us forward—and back.

In the car, I succumbed to a river-induced coma and slept all the way home to Huson. When we arrived, I reached for the cell phone that I’d quite forgotten to activate. Let it remain mute.

It’s all good.