WHAT MAKES A GREAT FISHING TRIP

It’s an early Montana summer morning. You’ve called in “sick” for work, and the guilt is still kind of eating you. The sun hasn’t quite risen yet, and you’ve just finished your internal debate whether to wear waders or not (you chose to wet wade). You can hear the birds waking up the trees and flowers, while your knees buckle with the frigid air. You’re trying to rig that 5wt that’s been collecting dust all winter while you tighten your core for warmth. Finally, rigged. 

In this scenario, you’re an animal and went for the streamer first thing, since the lack of sun has you shaking in your boots. 

There’s still a slight mist grazing on the other side of the river, and you’re not exactly looking forward to stepping into that cold stream. You try to fish without stepping in for a few minutes, but you and I both know that the tree behind you is preventing that first-cast fish. 

Down by your feet, the river and the bank meet your eyes while you ponder for a few moments. A long sigh, a deep breath... step. “That’s not too bad.” 

Of course, the very next cast: TUG. “FISH!!” 

Naturally, no net. You didn’t anticipate this big of a fish to come out of this size river, let alone within the first five casts. If only you had invited your buddy (who always has a net). The fish is fighting with everything it has. A solid fish, a friend would’ve come in clutch with the scoop. And with that final thought of of your friend, no more tension. You lose it. 

You sit down on the bank, soaked, recovering your breath, no longer cold but still frustratingly smiling. No fish in hand, but the moment hit. That could’ve been a double-high- five, a net scoop, a photo, a memory that lived on for more than 20 seconds. 

That’s when it hits you: fishing isn’t always about catching. Sometimes, it’s about witnessing. 

We’ve all got that buddy. The net guy, the snack guy, the one who tells the story better than you do. Maybe he talks too much. Maybe he forgets flies (or oars). But when the fish of the day shows up, he’s the first one hyping you up like you’re Kobe at the free-throw line (or MJ, I guess). 

Fishing with a friend isn’t just convenient. It changes the entire day, the whole rhythm. It’s shared silence. It’s dumb jokes on the hike in, or when you catch a whitefish (we love ’em). It’s someone seeing that under-the-bush cast you’ll remember next winter. 

SPARKLE MINNOW, FTW!

You can fish alone. But a Montana fish with a witness? That’s the one that lives forever. And you didn’t land that big fish. But you’ll remember it. Plus, even if you did, who’s going to take that photo (proof)?! Better yet, make that witness a GoFishMontana guide. Part net man, part storyteller, part fish whisperer. 

The day continues, but the Montana river gets hot when the air matches. Adams, Purple Haze, and Chubby Chernobyl dry-fly eats, with a classic Copper John taking care of the picky eaters down below. Not to toot your horn, but on this day, no tangles, no lost flies in bushes, and no money lost. 

And just when you think you’ve caught all the fish in the river and  the day’s over, the river throws you something else. A plastic cup from an unknown fly shop drifts right into your path. Elk Hair Caddis, score. 

Every trip teaches you something.  

Sometimes it’s technical. Tighten that loop, mend upstream, don’t dry fly set on a streamer.  

Other times, it’s just you vs. the elements. You learn how to stay present. You learn that patience is a skill only fly fishing could teach you. 

Today, you learned you’re still underestimating how cold a river can be at sunrise. You learned that leaving the net behind is an emotional choice, not a practical one. And if your buddy had come along, yeah, he’d be roasting you about it. 

But that’s the thing, he would’ve handed you that net, then told the story better than you ever could. 

Fishing alone sharpens your instincts. Fishing with a buddy sharpens your memory. You log the casts, the misses, the wins. You pick up something every time, even if it’s just how to laugh when it all falls apart or comes together in a low hanging tree. 

That fish you lost this morning? That story is already a memory, a legend. These are the tales you tell in the truck, in the fly shop, over a beer at your local brewery.   The fish matter. Of course. They always will. But they’re just one part of the entire thing. 

A great fishing trip is made of cold mornings, bad decisions, imperfect gear setups, and a well timed joke from the guy who brings the net but leaves it in the truck. 

It’s the whole experience, the struggle, the rhythm, the laughter, and the stories.  

And that’s what makes a great fishing trip.