The man who sang at our wedding
When Iris and I were married, she asked a favorite high school teacher, Al Olson, to sing at our wedding. Later learned he was a fly purist, the kind who didn't even like to ride in the same car with a worm fisherman. Close friends never mentioned things like Colorado spinners or bait-casting rigs in his presence.
A few years later, Al extended the highest honor, invited me to go fishing with him. I knew that "fishing" meant "fly fishing," but for some reason that fateful day, I did tuck away a small spinning reel and three metal lures. To this day, I believe it was "survival instinct."
On the way, Al explained to me and his friend, Hal, about fishing Hidden Lake. He said, "These are very crafty trout and there is good food in the lake in spite of its high altitude. You can see them when the wind isn't blowing as they cruise in schools out from the shoreline."
After hiking from Logan Pass and down to the lake, I was so excited I could hardly get a fly tied on my 2 X tippet. It was a little windy but not overcast. After lunch, the breezes died down so I could see schools of bright cutthroat cruising by, rising effortlessly to take a small insect from the surface. Some were lunker class, but I couldn't get a nibble. It was as if someone had told the fish, "That guy on the shore can only cast 35 feet, so do your cruising further out."
After an hour of frustration, throwing a metal lure out there seemed the only rational option. We had hiked miles into this place and it was going to be a long tough climb back out, "Too high a price to pay for getting skunked."
Evil thoughts began forming. Casually worked away from Al and Hal, until I got around one of these pretty peninsulas and into a sheltered bay where they couldn't see. Quickly dismounted the fly riggin' and put on the spinning reel with a shiny daredevil. Didn't make three cranks and a fat 16-incher hit hard.
Thinking back later, the trout did make a pretty loud splash and maybe that's what betrayed me. Reeled in fast as I could, feeling a rising sense of guilt. The minute he was on land, I conked him with a rock, looking about furtively while jerking off the spinning reel. To a person watching, I'm sure it would have looked like I had just murdered someone and was desperately hiding the evidence.
Was about to heave a big sigh of relief as I stuffed the spinning reel into the pack when ... I felt a presence.
Al saw the beautiful trout lying on the beach and started to remark about what a nice prize it was ... then he spied the little box of lures. I'd forgot about them. A look of horror came over his face.
There was an embarrassed quiet time as I began shrinking smaller and smaller. After an eternity, Al broke the high mountain silence with his very clear voice. "George! I had no idea you were that kind of a person." Then he walked back around the bend for another two hours of fruitless casting, hoping the cruising trout might move into range of his dancing dry fly. Intentional or not, he made me feel guiltier and guiltier with every hopeful purist cast.
On the hike out, we paused for a breather high up among the flowers, goats and waterfalls on the shoulder of Mt. Clements, right by some giant red boulders. The beauty of the scene is engraved forever in my memory, and so is what happened. Al turned to Hal with a smile, and said, "I suppose George will soon be hauling a boat in here ...so he can troll some cowbells."
Many years later, I took my youngest son Clark to that wondrous trout heaven. It was again tough fishing, but Clark hung in there, and when we had only a few minutes left, hooked a splendid cutthroat on a perfectly floated Royal Wulff.
At least Al would have liked my kid.
G. George Ostrom is a national award-winning Hungry Horse News columnist. He lives in Kalispell.