Absolutely incredible I say to myself, no one for 75 miles. The winding Montana mountain road is so desolate I wonder if the Indians or Lewis and Clark were the last to see it. Not to mention it’s slightly, umm, shall we say hillier than Indiana?
I round the curve and there’s the guy I’ve seen a thousand times in my dreams. Surrounded by mountains, valleys of pine trees and a bald eagle stretching his wings, he stands in the middle of the river fly fishing. I 'bout put the sliding, squealing and smoking tires of the Harley in the drink with him I can’t get stopped fast enough. He thinks he’s about to meet his maker but seeing that “Mr. Clad in leathers” has it under control, he smiles instead.
Wanting to be in another galaxy, embarrassed by the commotion I caused, I compose myself slithering off the bike making sure the beast is steady on its side stand. I stumble down the bank taking residence on a bed of velvety soft pine needles. The gurgling fast moving water rushing over the rocks plays like a symphony orchestra. Watching, listening, filling my lungs with the pure sweet smelling air of the Montana Rockies, my mind wanders. I ponder how blessed I am to have time, a motorcycle and money to be right here, engulfed by beauty so spectacular that Picasso couldn’t touch it on his best day.
We make eye contact and I’m mesmerized how effortlessly he casts the fly. Ever so gently it floats to the water like a feather in a free fall. Harley’s and fishing are a perfect match.
I inch closer to the river; we size each other up for a minute when he breaks the silence with “that was a real grand entrance ya made there. Was thinkin’ for a minute I’d be fishin’ for Hawgs instead of trout,” his boisterous laugh joining mine as they echo off the canyon walls.
“I had a Harley once but not a big dresser like you got there. Had an old Shovelhead and with 50 gallons of silicone behind ’er gaskets she still leaked oil. Bet that fancy one of yours doesn’t do that huh?” He makes another cast when out of the blue he asks, “Wouldn’t care to cast a line and hook some beautiful Rainbows would ya”?
Ah ha, I say to myself! I knew it! I see where this Montanan is headed. He lends me his fly rod, I lend him my Harley. My gut says the folks in Vegas wouldn’t roll these dice.
“I always wanted to live in Montana,” I say, “In a cabin by a stream. Had a picture of the scene on my fridge for 15 years.” Told him this was my first cross-country trip on a bike, never thinking to go anywhere but west. He counters wanting to see the Atlantic, the Lady Statue and Ground Zero. He says he admires the journey I’m on. Fighting wind gusts, monsoon rains and the suffocating desert heat.
I return the gracious gesture saying not all could live the Daniel Boone style you’re living. He makes a final cast slyly putting the last of today’s rainbows in his basket. Trudging out of the river hearing the screams of my hunger pains he quips, “Four rainbows are perfect for two people to share supper with.”
As the fly fisherman finds the skillet, (they carry the whole State in their trucks) I notice the sun taking its rightful place as it begins to slide behind the still snow capped Rockies.
The sizzling of grease, the sweet aroma of trout meeting the pure Montana air wafts all the way to heaven. Today being so glorious, I feel called to pray a lengthy prayer before taking that delectable first bite. “Lord, let me eat this trout before the grizzlies eat me and I come see you.” Amen.
In between bites of the days catch, we swap stories and life experiences. We talk God, guns, guts, wives all the things that have made our Country so great. We solve every problem in five minutes. With all the new laws coming out of Washington, we decree one for our own making August 1 a National Holiday honoring all Fly Fisherman and Harley riders.
What seemed like minutes have turned into hours. I sense the Montana fly fisherman, like the Indiana biker, doesn’t want this sun to ever set.
What a sight; the biker dressed in head to toe leather, the fly fisherman in waders and that goofy hat all covered in flies. His ratty old four wheel drive pick up huckleberry pie everything’s nice, to my shiny decked out Harley-Davidson, touch it I’ll kill ya. City lights, Mid-night stars. Big Sky Mountains, Hoosier Flat Lands. Montana timber to build our country, Indiana corn and wheat to feed it.
The day that began with two different people living two different lives ends with the realization there are no differences. We are both free spirits, gypsies in our own way living life on our own terms. We feel the smiling mugs of Washington, Jefferson and Madison looking down on us, hoping, praying we are living Freedom and the American Dream the way they envisioned. Standing in what must be Heaven itself, the feeling is indescribable. We feel blessed beyond all comprehension. Today, in the Big Sky of Montana, a fly fisherman and a biker have become brothers.
No river is too wide. Mt. Everest is not high enough, not powerful enough to stand between us. There aren’t enough miles on the globe to separate us. Mother Nature stands no chance. Not on this day. Not on this night. Not ever.
With only a sliver of sun left, I light up the big Ultra and our eyes meet for a final time but they don’t say good-bye. We know we’ll never see each other again in this life, but two brothers joined in heart and united in one spirit, most assuredly will, in another.
