From the time I could... uh... remember we spent our family vacation in Montana. It was a sort of pilgrimage as we traveled from river to river across the southwest part of the state. (Technically, we were in Wyoming a bunch, too, since we spent a couple of days in Yellowstone, too.) It was a great way to spend two weeks with the family even if I didn't realize it at the time. (Yes, I remember being a pouty teenager and bringing my computer at least once. (And no, it was a full-size computer, not one of these fancy, new-fangled laptops the kids have nowadays.)).

College, work, family, more work, dogs, and hiking all conspired to limit those types of trips in recent (uh... the last 20) years. This year, though, Dad and I hoped to recapture some of those times.

It's a long drive from Western Washington to Craig, about 45 miles north of Helena. 600 something miles long. It took most of the day, but we took time to hit some of the tourist spots we always used to. The trout display in St. Regis looks bigger than before, but Elmer's Fountain seemed smaller.

Craig was also... smaller. There are three flyshops in town. Three lodges, too. This would be about average for a town the size of North Bend, but that's about all there was in Craig. Plus, the three lodges were run by the three flyshops. There were a couple of places to eat, including an awesome restaurant/bar populated equally by flyfishing guides, their clients, and locals. Dogs roamed freely and all the talk was about how the fish were biting. In spite of its rough clientele, the food was decidedly sophisticated and really good.

The next morning we checked into The Trout Shop to meet out guide, Tim Plaska. The Trout Shop served many purposes. Sure, they had flies, but also operated a shuttle service for guides. They had gear I'd only expect to find at REI like Arc'teryx and a deli in the back that served Starbucks coffee. Needless to say, in a town like Craig, one does not succeed by being a one-trick pony.

Tim arrived and we hopped in his truck for the short drive to the Holter Dam, just upstream. Over the years, my father and I have had great luck on this stretch. On my second cast, I hooked a fish. Yes, it was looking like it would be a great day. We caught two more fish in the next 10 minutes. Oh, yes. It was looking good.

But no, it wasn't to be. After those first few fish it got awfully quiet on the river. Tiny tricos were hatching, but the fish weren't feeding. Periodically, we'd hook a couple in quick succession, but that was the exception. It seemed the fish, and there were lots of them, just weren't interested. (How did we know there were lots of fish? They would spook from under the boat as we silently drifted over them.)

By the end of the day we'd had hook ups with 15 or so fish so clearly, it wasn't our guide's fault. Heck, if we'd landed all those trout we'd have thought nothing of the 30 minute pauses in activity.

Regardless of how many fish we saw, hooked, or landed, it was a great day. The sun shown in spite of a forecast for rain and although the wind made casting a little more difficult we got our flies to their destinations most of the time.

After another dinner at Izaaks, we retired early. We had thought about wading the Missouri near the dam in the morning, but instead opted to head west to Rock Creek. Rock Creek was always the first and last night on our two week summer trips. I was looking forward to another evening hatch on its small-stream waters.

The next afternoon we drove 25 miles up the dirt road along Rock Creek. In my youth we had mostly fished within the first few miles of the river. I had expected the river would be the same wandering creek all the way up. How wrong I was.

We saw the meadows, but also tight canyons. Along the edge of the Welcome Creek Wilderness the creek was bordered by huge rounded rocks that looked fake. A cool suspension bridge provided access to what may be the smallest wilderness in the nation. (Actually, the smallest is the Pelican Island Wilderness at about five acres. Welcome Creek is over 28,000 acres. Oops)

There were plenty of deer and a couple of turkeys, too. But who cares about that, right? How was the fishing?

Again, it started off great. We parked and walked straight to the creek, crossed, and I hooked a nice fish. Dad followed with a couple more. But like on the Missouri the day before, it wasn't consistently good.

As we hiked back through the brush to the road I realized the saying, "If it was about catching fish, it'd be called 'catching,' not 'fishing,'" was so true. From an objective standpoint, we hadn't been very successful. Two days of vacation from work, four days away from the wife and kids, 1200 miles of driving for 20 chances at fish.

However, when I factor in the value of recapturing some of the pure enjoyment of fishing with my father from when I was just a kid the calculus changes dramatically. Suddenly, all that expense seems a good deal

So while we didn't land the lonely lunker, I'm hoping we get a chance to do it again next year. And maybe soon my kids will be old enough they can come along to build some memories worth recapturing in years to come.