Wind River Range to the Big Horn--Cowboy state delight

With a cast of characters identifying themselves somewhere between Jack Twist and Ennis Del Mar in a modern cowboy romance, and a hot sweaty hombre in a Spaghetti western--we fantasize that we’re not a group of high school teachers, but instead wildly romantic adventurers flying by the seat of our pants—or rather our waders. Its time for all of us to leave behind our obligation, responsibility and The Mother fucker known as Covid -19 to dive head first into another fishing adventure beyond the 100^th meridian. Meeting at the Wal-Mart parking lot at 4:00 a.m. because one of us has the good sense to know that all of us can handle missing a few hours of winkie-winkie time to get to camp with a whole day ahead of us.

 

It’s, as much about time spent with this group of degenerates, as it is the quest, the fish and the rivers--I can’t wait to sink my teeth into these bastards. I’m confident they all love getting together, particularly to soak their delicate lil’ parts in a river, and swilling down each other’s selected whiskey at the campfire. But for me hanging with this group originally referred to as “The Mag 7” after the original 1960 western, then a name changed occurred to the “BBB” as the group grew in size and sensitivity, fills the cockles of my heart with nuttin’ but joy.

 

An old member who often waits until the last moment to bail on us to chase Nick instead of hanging with Dick joined in. He’s as attractive and lovable as he is brilliant. He may not get to be the Dad, but he will always be “The Oracle.”

 

He brings with him a couple post adolescents that for sure fit into the category “Young Guns.” I couldn’t say which one is more handsome, or which one would be more likely than the other to be in a “boy band” but put them together and they for sure bring meat & muscle to the “BBB.” The senior member of the two is often referred to as “The Jungle Boy” and is sort of the sponsor to the newest guy who is cutting his teeth on not only fishing but campfire antics as well. Breaking in the new guy and showing him the ropes is a big deal, and the original plan was to have a Baby Bear do it, thereby transforming him from Ursa-Minor to Ursa-Major, but that just wasn’t in the stars. Giddy up “Young Guns!”

 

It’s not an adventure with out the scientist who doesn’t know he’s a poet, and the poet who knows he’s a scientist.  For years the “Mag 7” searched for just the right guy to be “The Dad” of the group, that guy who adds stability and a sense of strength and comfort, when the wind blows hard on your tent flap, or a twig snaps in the dark when you’re taking a pee, you know he’s there to keep you safe. Brains, Brawn, Ballz and Bravado—both of them! The group also lacks answers to questions that usually only the poet/scientist have answers to; with them we are cradled in comfort. My the Lord above bless me with years and years with both of their stiff rods at my side.

 

 

Our destination has two legs to it, starting with the southern tip of the manly peaks of the Wind Rivers, finishing up rolling truck tires over the Big Horn side of the cowboy state into Big Sky Montana where we’ll join Frank aka Spock, his son Zach aka Zach and his their side-kick Walter.  Somewhere along the line we named the trip “The quest for Shangri-La.”

 

I remember exactly where the seed was planted in my mind to find Shangri-La. It was on another of Wyoming’s remote and delightful rivers steeped in out-law lore; Diamond James Tobler and I ran into a Texican who couldn’t believe another person was on that river, but after bullshitting for a bit, he shared another of Wyoming’s hidden jewel’s he claimed was every bit as good or better than the river we were on. Fishermen will lie and hide their private rivers, but do they ever lure you to rivers they say are special, but are not? No. The seed has been growing for about 3 years, and the quest for unknown, undiscovered remote rivers is actually better than fishing them.

 

I guess each fisherman is after his/her own thing, it seems like most are out on lakes and rivers to simply catch fish, big fish and a lot of them. My experience is that most fishermen are also interested in big rivers, famous rivers that have big tales told about them, and people flock from all around the world to see if they can catch some of those fabled fish.

 

I too like catching a lot of big fish, but there is something about the hunt for new waters, and new mountains and driving to new territory that evokes an unquenchable desire that never gets fully put out. But when you find the next Shangri-La there is a brief moment when you feel like you have fulfilled that hunt, and you can be at peace. Of course it all starts again when you get home, put the gear away, rest a few days and let it sink it, then the next seed starts sprouting. If I’m really honest on the drive home I start talking about the next quest…shit!

 

I felt that elation hiking over a hillside to find one of the spots the Texican said two rivers confluence. It was lush and deep with moose and elk carcasses picked to the bone and bear shit all over the place. It was sort of scary and thrilling at the same time, and unfortunately we left dad aka El-Padre back down the hill, so who was to protect us?

 

Enough can’t be said for the beauty of the Big Horn Mountain range. I totally get why Crazy Horse, Sitting Bull & company were willing to fight so hard for the area. Spock reminded me at the campfire that the battle wasn’t fought in the actual hills of the Big Horns, but in my mind it was, it took place all over the damn place. I don’t think Spock could hear their voices in the wind, he would say it was a truck or some other campers, but I could hear their war cry “Ho-ka-ha “Today is a good day to fight, a good day to die. Strong hearts, brave hearts to the front, cowards weak hearts to the rear,” Crazy Horse said to the fighting Oglala Sioux. Odds are I would have pissed my pants and slithered to the back. But standing on the Big Horns 2020 in the midst of Covid, I am one bad son-of-a-bitch that heeds his war cry and I am sandwiched right between Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull with my little Sage 3 wt. rod in hand ready to get it on!

 

The remainder of the trip was delightful river after river bouncing from one little tributary to the next, getting home late--beat up from staying too long on the water with afternoon rain storms, and almost not getting out at all because of muddy roads; ended each night with nursing out our frustrations at the crazy world we live in at the camp fire.

 

I stayed one day too many to the chagrin of my lovely Sweet Melissa who so patiently waits for her wandering “legend in his own mind” to finally decide he’s ready to come back to her caressing arms. I don’t think she will ever learn to live with my mistress named “The River” I get it—sort of. I don’t know any woman who is more patient and understanding, and I sure as hell can’t expect her to understand my terminal issue.  May she never make me pick between her and my mistress, it would suck to never stand in a river again.

 

Driven mad to find that last section of Shangri-La the Texican talked about drove us over the Big Horns into Montana and back again in the cowboy state to prove that the last but sure as hell not the least member of the “7” and the “BBB” is more than a snake snatcher, but a navigator extraordinaire. When I had give up hope of finding that last little tributary, Tobler held strong and found and fished Shangri-La leg 2. He deserves to be the only one. But in the spirit of the ancestors I feel that when he achieving his goal, we all achieved the goal. As you say "If you don't go, you don't know." Diamond James you are a true explorer!