Ten seconds later there were parting footsteps outside his door, and all went quiet at the Gold Rope Ranch. Rusty was none the wiser as to who was attempting to gain entry.

Last day on the ranch… At least for him, that was what he was thinking. He knew Sally had a couple more days of filming booked, but his fun meter had officially bottomed out.

Feet to the floor he made his way to the dry bar (same location he’d frequented too much, only a few hours prior) for a bottle of water. At this point his arrowed hand hurt less than his head, and he chose to pop a horse sized pain pill and get dressed for the day.

At 5:13am he was in a Quonset near the horse barn. Seeing some of the ranch workers come and go from this location it appeared to house an ensemble of four-wheelers and side-by-sides.

Rusty chose a Polaris Sportsman 450 H.O. four-wheeler and shot out of the gates. He’d privately made airport departure plans with River Jon (shuttle driver) the previous day and had eight hours to burn before departing the ranch.

Next stop was the tackle shop. With no one to be found he helped himself to a 9-wt rod, a handful of dry flies held within a small tackle box and prepared to exit the building. At the same moment he also noticed a string of flocked mallard decoys piled in the corner, along with a used Benelli Super Black Eagle and a box of 3” shells.

“Hmmmmm… Blast and cast?” he thought to himself. “Why not!” And then it was back to the Quonset exchanging the 4-wheeler for a Ranger XP 1000.

Author A.B. Guthrie had coined the phrase “Big Sky” back in 1947 and this particular morning on the Windrush River was mesmerizing. Rusty found the slightest form of a peninsula jutting out from shore and chose that location to place the dozen floater decoys held in tow.

The current was swift… There was not a breath of wind… And Fahrenheit temperatures dipped near zero.

Settled within a makeshift ground blind he waited for sunrise and gazed at the nearest cluster of stars hanging just beyond his outstretched fingertips. Suddenly Montana was not a forsaken land that he wished to escape.

The first flock of birds came low and fast, screaming upriver in search of freshwater shrimp within harboring eddies. Rusty recognized them as whistlers… The same Goldeneyes that inhabit the lakes of northern Minnesota and Northwest Ontario. There were many male species among the group with their radiant amber eyes, green-black glistening heads, and brisk white bodies.

He wrapped his arms further around his chest as the sun began to cast rays over the foothills, bringing hoarfrost to the trees and legal shooting hours to harvest waterfowl. Then there were circling wings overhead and the first flock of mallards found their way down the channel of the Windrush.

Rusty held tight… Glancing ever so slightly from under the bill of his cap… Greenheads descending from the skies.

Two plump hens splashed first as the balance of the flock circled in caution. With orange legs down, on their next approach, he sprouted from beneath cover and pulled up on the nearest drake.

Squeezing the trigger, the Benelli came to life, and he watched the lead bird tumble three times in succession. Then he sighted the second bird and rallied with another blast that dropped bird number two.

Swinging on bird number three… This drake was backpedaling to escape… Rusty kept his head down on the stock, glared down the rib of the barrel, and swung the 12-gauge with thoughts of his first potential “greenhead-triple” spraying out with the shot pattern.

He saw the bird momentarily drop, only to catch itself.  There was a dusting of feathers hanging in the chance. Then as the bird reached the far bank it collapsed from the sky and crashed into the shoreline. The impact was fateful, and Rusty tipped his cap to the waterfowl gods.

By the time he waded the river to retrieve the third drake mallard… Circling currents had caught his attention with what appeared to be a late season Baetis hatch.

Although he’d never fished it, Rusty had witnessed this phenomenon also referred to as the Blue-Winged Olive (BWO) on a YouTube video. Midstream, he picked up the pace with high knees, returning to the Polaris side by side and the 9-wt fly rod.

The small mayfly that hatches in the fall is quite significant for trout fishing. He searched for the fly box (early morning is a great time to find a bite) and then found a size #22 Baetis Emerger Cripple. Olive is most often the preferred color but being a Minnesota Vikings fan, he chose purple.

Back to the river bottom… Rusty slid down an embankment… And set off downriver in search of a rainbow trout. “Oh buoy” the start of this day was beyond epic!

–            To Be Continued –