Pine Knot Outdoors: Montana fishing encounter made lasting impression

We enjoyed a big cake pan of crappies and brook trout fillets for dinner the other night. The crappies were freshly pulled from the deep weed line of a nearby lake. The brookies had a longer journey. They recently swam the cold streams of Cook County, making their final splash in the hot grease of our fryer. My brookie chasing days are winding down. Now, I rely almost entirely on my kids to gather them. When I was young, one of my jobs was to supply three freshly caught brookies on demand for my dad. Luckily, Big Otter Creek flowed on the backside of our 10 acres. Two wasn’t enough, four was too many. Goldilocks conditions warranted three brookies were just right.

The summer I turned 13, we traveled to Missoula, Montana, to visit Leroy and Ardella, my great aunt and uncle. A short distance from their home lay some of the world’s greatest blue-ribbon trout rivers. “A River Runs Through It,” the classic story detailing the Montana of Norman Maclean’s youth, still echoed off the rim of the Bitterroot Valley. Just down the road, Lewis and Clark followed Sacagewea and “Old Toby.” The captains hired Shoshone guides through the Lolo Pass on their way to the Pacific. The area was meant for great adventures and I was ready for mine.

Settling in on our first night, my thoughts turned to the trout rod I had packed for the trip. Without much prompting, Leroy gassed up one of his wheelers, pointed me down the dirt road, and I was off. Dad made his usual request: three brookies for the frying pan.

Less then a mile down the road, I surveyed my destination as I pulled my wheeler off the dirt road and into the swampy ditch. A small stream cut through an enormous cow pasture, a small ribbon of water bordered by a mass of vegetation that defined its boundaries. I ducked between two strands of barb wire and kicked at old cow pies as I approached the stream. Each cow pie produced a few more worms to scoop up and add to my collection. Norman Maclean showed disdain for meat fishermen in these parts, but he would have to forgive me. Throwing a small spinner or a floating crawler was my only formal stream fishing education. My introduction to fly-casting would come years later in the parking lot of the University of Alaska Fairbanks, on a minus 20-degree January morning.

I relied on my Big Otter Creek education from back home. I squeezed between the underbrush and tall grass that lined the edge of the creek. I floated my crawler into the deep holes cut underneath the banks by the ever present current. To my surprise, a big cutthroat trout inhaled my offering within seconds. The next drift, a magnificent brook trout found its way to the bottom of my creel. I caught fish after fish in the first two holes I encountered. I returned triumphantly before sundown with three brookies and the confidence of youth.

I should have remained content fishing the same deep cuts in the bank. Each drift produced a violent strike from a cutthroat or brook trout. The next day, however, I had to test new waters. As fishermen, especially wanderers of streams, there is an eternal drive to see what’s around the next bend. This curiosity pushed me further downstream. I exited the thick underbrush lining the small stream and walked hurriedly in the pasture, free from the tangled streamside mess grounding my progress. A small opening appeared less than a 100 yards away. I scurried in that direction, realizing both sides of the stream were free of the choking undergrowth that lined the entirety of the creek.

If I were a great fly-fisherman of Maclean’s youth, I thought, here I could do some damage. My arms free to swing a dry fly in all directions, I would choose a place just upstream allowing my stonefly imitation to naturally settle. Alas, I was only a dreaded meat fisherman, but my approach was proving effective, albeit uncouth. I settled into my side of the creek surveying the water. A small bend in the stream gave way to a rolling rapids that dumped its energy into a deep swirling pool at my feet. Perfection. I grabbed my hook and excitedly worked to thread a chunk of crawler onto its barb. My eyes examined the opposite side of the creek, where the streamside grass was beaten down to mud. I realized the creek opening was a watering hole for nearby cattle. The underbrush and debris had been trampled down over the years as cattle jostled to drink from the same trout-filled hole I was about to drift my crawler through.

I scanned over the top of the battered clay bank opposite of me.

Standing less than a football field away stood an enormous Holstein bull. He already knew I was there. I froze. My mind told my feet to slowly back away from the stream. My feet shuffled in place, providing no regress. The bull, straight out of a nightmare, pivoted and charged. The bull covered the distance between us almost instantaneously in a flurry of motion and anger. My fight or flight reactions proved wildly insufficient. The bull charged down the opposite bank, black and white and mud all blurred into horror. I stood. Motionless. The only thing separating us was the narrow, shallow stream. He slammed on the brakes. His horns clipped, still menacing, danced at eye-level, less than 15 feet away. His eyes rolled deep into the back of their sockets as snot and slobber blew from his nostrils. He began to bang his head violently against the clay bank, mud and mucous cascaded in all directions each time his massive head recoiled and slammed into the bank. If he wanted me dead, he would have crossed the creek. If he wanted me frightened out of my mind, he had succeeded.

My feet finally decided to take a full assessment of the situation and get out of Dodge. I scrambled up the bank, found solid footing in the pasture, threw my rod over my shoulder, and never looked back. I didn’t settle down until I pulled into Leroy and Ardella’s on the four-wheeler. The three brookies from the day before would be the last Montana brookies I would gather.

I am haunted by cows.

Bret Baker is a lifetime resident of Cloquet. He is a proud husband, father, Cloquet High School teacher and outdoorsman. Bret began guiding fishing trips when he was 16 years old. Today, in his 40s, his passion is to introduce people to the tremendous outdoor adventures our region has to offer.