This time it was to be ready for Grandpa Jack, aka my father, when he arrived to pick me up at 4am. Dear old Dad isn't much of a morning person either, but he did manage to find Amy's parents' house in Kirkland even though everyone, including the sun, was smart enough to still be asleep.

First stop was the 24-hour Starbucks on 85th Street. We were joking about something with the barrista and mentioned the cops. She said it must have been a busy night for them because usually they see them more often. Hmph.

Of course, the reason we were up at this time of the morning was to get to the airport for a 6am flight to Salt Lake City. Before you ask how I convinced Amy it'd be cool to have another wife be aware that we would have only the briefest of layovers in Utah before hopping on a little prop plane heading north to Helena in God's Country. Of course, to get on the plane we had to pass security.

As usual, I was paranoid that although I didn't actually own a gun I would, for some reason, have one hidden in my bag. If not a firearm, then some other prohibited item like toothpaste or water. Regardless, I was sure I'd be pulled aside for a very public and uncomfortable search. Turns out it was Dad that got the special treatment on account of his bionic hip. (Every time he takes a step you can hear a sort of Six Million Dollar Man sound: Boing-ing-ing-ing.)

Well after the coffee had kicked in and the jitters of not enough sleep had passed we were on the plane. The steward had clearly also not had enough sleep. He launched into a VERY entertaining routine that included our most important consideration: Did our shoes match? (HA! I had no shoes! Confiscated by security! Joke's on him!)

(No, my shoes weren't really confiscated and yes, they did match.)

The flight to Salt Lake was pretty cool. It would have been cooler had it been two hours later when the sun was up. The sunrise was mostly obscured by the clouds and although we flew right over Rainier it was just a white blur. The sun wasn't up enough for photos until we were over the Columbia.

The Great Salt Lake looked kind of lame on the way into town. More like a Great Salt Marsh. The mountains around the city looked pretty cool, though. I can see some great outdoors opportunities there. On the way out I realized that what I was looking at was the Great Salt Marsh (though probably with a more tourist-friendly name) and the Great Salt Lake actually was a lake.

We landed in Helena at about 10:30am. I think. It's all kind of fuzzy. We breezed through the four-gate airport, grabbed our bags and rods, and hopped into the car. First order of business was finding a fly shop for licenses and advice on where we could go. The fly shop was less than helpful. The guy grunted a lot, told us he didn't sell licenses, and told us the Little Blackfoot was the only river open, but we probably couldn't get on it because it's surrounded by private property.

For the first time in YEARS I went into a KMart. I don't even know where there is a KMart around home, but this one seemed to be doing a decent business. We spent half an hour getting licenses because the Montana licensing system was not designed with KMart employees in mind.

We grabbed some lunch and headed west toward Missoula along Highway 12. (Yeah, the same Highway 12 that goes past Mt. Rainier.) We climbed up the Continental Divide and crossed at MacDonald Pass. Kind of a weak pass to tell the truth. It was all rolling hills and nothing dramatic and certainly no place you could pour liquid out and watch it go east or west. Lame.

Down the other side we found the Little Blackfoot and started looking for an access. We found one, but a herd of cows had found it just upstream so it wasn't looking all that nice. We continued downstream becoming less sure it was going to be possible to fish without a guide. Finally, we found an access where a tiny bridge provided a crossing and a non-barb-wired scramble down to the water.

We fished with dry flies and did pretty well. Small fish hung out in all the places they should. We wound up with a bunch of rainbows, a couple of browns, and a couple of (GASP) whitefish. (Although the whitefish fights really well it's a sort of second-class citizen compared to trout. Actually, maybe the Untouchable class in India would be a better analogy.)

Right next to the river is a BNSF track that gets a ton of use. At least four trains thundered by, though most were slowing as they passed us and one actually creaked to a stop.

Probably the best part of fishing the first evening was getting me reacquainted with fishing. Casting came back pretty quickly and although I missed a ton of fish early on I was back to normal when we called it quits a couple of hours later. Being more of a hiker than a fisherman lately I was thinking of maybe cutting half an hour off our return to the car, but it would still be quite a slog. Uh... yeah. 10 minutes later we were back at the car.

After getting back to the hotel in Helena we found one of the theatres was showing Man of the Year and figured that'd be an ok way to spend some time. Unfortunately, the two spots we tried for dinner before the film were too full so we wound up with popcorn. The movie is decent, but nothing outstanding. Afterward we returned to the hotel and called it a night.

Or at least we tried. Actually, Dad did. He had warned me about his snoring, but I didn't think it was a real threat. Turns out he has a level 5 death snore that guarantees a minimal amount of sleep for anyone in a three-county area. Happily, a pillow over the head (my head, not his) helped enough for me to get some sleep.

Unlike some crazy folks, our guide had not intention to start fishing before 9am so we didn't have to get up too early. We found the local Starbucks, Safeway (for some cough drops and asprin), and a sandwhich place called The Dive that had a great breakfast sandwich.

The sun was shining with no clouds in the sky, but there was fog down in the valley. Last time I was in Helena for a fishing trip (October 2002) there was three inches of snow on the ground when we woke up the first day. We were happy to see that although there was ice on the windshield there was nothing on the roads.

We met our guide, Tim, in downtown Craig. Craig consists of a big neon cross on the hill, three fly shops, and a bridge. (I'm sure there must have been a bar somewhere and presumably a church, but I didn't see either.) We drove north (downstream) a couple of miles to an access called Pelican Point. The Missouri was quiet under a thick blanket of fog. If we looked straight up we could see blue sky.

Once on the river we saw lots of fish. We started with big dry attractors with a nymph on the dropper. (This means we were fishing two flies at once. One was floating on the surface and the other was just under the surface.) For the most part we were casting to probable spots rather than places we saw fish rise. Where we did see rises we usually got hits. Except when they were in the dreaded pod.

"Pod" is a guide's code word for "it looks darn good and will get you to come back next year, but don't expect to actually catch any fish." From what we could see on the surface it was clear there were a bundle of fish actively feeding in a pretty small space. Three or four would sip flies from the surface at a time so the water was roiling and enticing. I think there might have been a device planted under the water that made it merely appear as though there were fish feeding. We'd throw a fly and have a perfect drift and the "fish" would stop feeding.

So aside from pods we did pretty well all morning. The fog burned off and we had a beautful day. I had dressed in layers: T-shirt, flannel shirt, wool sweater, two pairs of socks, tights, shorts, fleece bibs, fleece jacket, fleece gloves, goretex rain jacket, goretex waders. By lunchtime I had ditched everything on top except the t-shirt and flannel shirt and it was all good.

With other guides you need to bring your own lunch. This usually means that around 11am I look at my father and we both realize we forgot to stop and pretend we're not really hungry. With Tim he provides the lunch experience. While we walked downstream to fish to another pod Tim got out two coolers, a table (with trout-themed tablecloth), chairs, sandwhiches (three different kinds), chips, apples, cookies, and drinks. Dang.

To make lunch all that much more perfect I actually caught and landed a fish from the pod. HA!

After lunch it was more of the same. The Autumn sun turned the cottonwoods and aspens a perfect golden orange. I spent way too much time looking at the beauty along the shore instead of my fly. However, the trout were forgiving so I didn't miss too many. (At least not too many on account of lack of attention.)

We pulled out at the Cascade town dump where Tim's truck and trailer were waiting. (A cottage industry has grown up over the years catering to fishing guides and their need to get their truck and trailer to the downstream side of their floats.) We packed up, drove back to Pelican Point, and headed home.

(We were right near a Lewis and Clark site that we'd hoped to visit, but it was already growing dark so we put it aside.)

We were spent and went to bed without dinner. I was worried about not being able to sleep again, but a pair of ear plugs helped me turn the tables. This time I kept HIM up by snoring. Revenge is best served while sleeping.

In the morning the sky was red as the sun rose and shone between the hills and the clouds. However, we were a bit worried given the age old proverb, "Red sky at night: Sailors' delight. Red sky in the morning: Sailors take warning." After all, Dad was in the Coast Guard... But the warning wasn't that important. It never did rain, but it certainly was cloudy and threatened rain.

We met in Craig again and left our truck there. Tim took us up to the Holter Dam to put in. This day was set to be a shorter float than the previous day because we had an early (5pm) flight. We started fishing with buggers while we waited for the fish to start rising as they had the previous day. However, the buggers worked early and we caught a bunch of bigger fish right near the dam.

We switched over to dries and nymphs again, but the fish just weren't that interested in them. Dad stuck with the bugger for much of the day and did fairly well. I tried to take the high road and got a couple of fish on the dry, but eventually gave in for at least a little while to share my father's success.

Since we needed to be off the river earlier than usual Tim pushed us through spots that were traditionally slower and we ate in the boat rather than on shore. As we approached the take-out in Craig I fished to a couple of pods hoping to end the day with a last fish, but no such luck.

We said goodbye to Tim and jumped back in the truck headed for the airport. On the way we decided that next time we did this we'd still float with Tim for two days, but we'd have a day that wasn't as focused on fishing so we could hit Mt. Helena overlooking Helena, Tower Rock State Park, and the Gates of the Mountains. (The last two are both Lewis and Clark sites.)

At the airport we were surprised to see a SeaTac quality line at the counter. Apparently, a flight to Salt Lake City had been cancelled earlier in the day and they were still trying to rebook them. It looked dicey for us so Dad jumped the Delta line and stepped up to the Horizon counter and got us on the next flight straight to Seattle. Thanks to this we arrived in Seattle a full five hours earlier than expected and were able to spend some time with the girls before they went to bed.

All in all, a very successful trip. Lots of fish, good time with Dad, and a new class of adventure for the website.