Ultralight is ultra-in. They say the journey is the destination, and for some the lighter the better. Packs have gone structureless. Forget the fancy suspension system and extra pockets. A top loading sack with straps is all you need. Four walls is a waste. Use your pole as a center post to hold up a tarp. Better yet forget the poles, just tie the tarp between the trees. Carrying a stove is basically like carrying a kettle bell - unnecessary. Soaked oats is preferred. They weigh nothing and after the first day you've also eliminated the need to bring the trowel and toilet paper. Comfort is optional, weight is death.

There is no need for me to weigh my pack, I already know the answer. Like a forty foot RV towing a car, I'm bringing comfort and enjoyment. Lakes are the typical destination, so my rod, reel, and small assortment of flies is a must. Sunrise and sunset are often too good to miss, so the tripod's coming too. It takes work to get up into those alpine basins, so what better way to kick back and relax than a nap in a hammock. Let's not forget to celebrate the achievement of all those miles covered and elevation gained. That deserves a drink. Cocktail hour anyone? Now I do like oats, preferably hot and with some fruit, brown sugar, and nuts. I also find it pairs well with a hot cup of coffee sipped slowly from my chair positioned by the lake. The hike out might feel like hell, but at least I'm enjoying the ride.

Montana is often referred to as "Big Sky Country". The quintessential western scene of a large grass filled valley framed against sky that stretches for miles to the distant snow capped peaks - Oh give me a home. Yet there exists beyond its borders a place of even larger, almost unimaginable scale. A place where the peaks reach higher into the clouds and the rivers run so deep and wide they cross paths. Glaciers are not confined to a park here. Catching a fish will require both hands on the rod, and maybe even a friend's. Where a man might need a horse, he's better off with a Cub or Beaver in these parts. They call it "The Last Frontier", but I call it "Big Country". 

It felt like we were walking through a graveyard, the burnt poles like headstones and statutes marking the deceased. Without branches and leaves, the air moved silently across the hillside. Our footsteps on bare ground and our heavy breathing the only sounds filling the void. I stopped and looked back down the slope, across the valley, and to the opposing hills, all burned. I imagined for a moment the intensity and chaos of the fire. The smoke filled air blocking out the sun, the explosion of a tree burned from the inside out, orange embers swirling around moving the flames from bush to bush. I looked down at my boots to see a small green plant - new growth. It would be years before the forest returned to this hillside, but it would happen. Slowly season by season the cycle would start anew. Perhaps one day someone would even stand in this very same spot under the cover of a green canopy, wind whistling through swaying pine bows, animals darting through the under brush. Would they stop and notice through the density of branches the remains of a singular tree, its bark like blacken charcoal, the remaining sign of this once barren and scared hillside?

Progress slowed to a crawl as I hung my head staring at myfeet placing one in front of the other. Sweat dripping off the brim of myhelmet while the sound of my own heavy breathing filled my ears. I paused lookingover my shoulder to see the little progress we had made and Dana in her ownwrestling match with gravity. My outstretched arms holding up my bike, whichmay have in turn been holding me up. I turned my wrist to look at my watch andsaw that our current pitch was 34%, the slope steep enough to ski. Sighing, Iturned my head to look up slope, a mistake I instantly regretted. We were halfwayup the power-line cut, a questionable route we had decided was the best way toreach the start of the trail. Our decision fraught from the get-go and confirmedby locals who said they were uncertain of its destination because they had onlyshuttled the ride. Yet there we were, committed to the cause one slow foot infront of the other.

The forecast said the rain would hold off, but the dark skies above us said otherwise. We had just reached the lake when the first large drops rippled the water’s surface. The pattering sound growing louder as the drops slapped against the broad leaves of the devil’s club that surrounded us. We retreated to the cover of a ski lodge’s porch, closed for the season. In silencewe threw on layers and snacked while watching the clouds roll through the verdant mountain tops. After sometime our muscles became almost too relaxed, moving from a state of recovery to a state of rest. We knew that we should start moving again before the rain finally penetrated the thick canopy of cedars and hemlocks making the underlying roots and rocks so slick that our tires could no longer gain purchase. We pulled on damp gloves and raised hoods over our helmets. Looking out across the lawn to the dark foreboding forest we crossed the threshold into the rain heads down as we pedaled into the loamy singletrack the race against the rain.

The day was full of hustle and bustle - driving, shaking hands, and lots of conversations. Now I stand on the fence line taking in not the silence, but quiet of my agrarian surroundings. I listened to the slow hum of the pivot motor and the distant murmur of cattle moving through a pasture. The smell of semi-sweet alfalfa freshly doused in water mixed with sage. Swallows and fly catchers darting about feasting on the evening hatch. The hawk perched upon the arm of the sprinkler eyeing the field below for its next prey. My surroundings not still, but in rhythm, slow and methodical. For the first time that day it feels as if I am stationary and the world is rotating around me.

Bodies shuffled about in the predawn darkness trying to shake off the chill and perhaps nerves. It is the first day of the Boise Trail Challenge, a local event where participants attempt to ride, hike, and/or run approximately 140 miles of trails across the foothills, not always in a straightforward or efficient manner. While the challenge technically spans a month, those of competitive nature attempt to finish as fast as possible. Thus the group gathering before sunrise, stuffing last minute provisions in their packs and adjusting lights. The climbs ahead would be tough making the weight of the darkness that much more difficult to lift. Finally, someone fired off the rhetorical question "Ready?". With the last goodbyes they set off up the trail, lights quickly shrinking in the distance. The coming hours of daylight would be plentiful, the miles gained only limited by the fading of legs and energy.

I once saw a bumper sticker that said something to the effect of "Caution fisherman on board. Vehicle may make frequent stops at bridges". As we drove through the canyon both Luke and I craned our necks to scan the river below. One eye looking for rising fish, the other RVs or fellow rubber-neckers coming around the bend. Although I was driving slow (mostly), I was filled with a sense of urgency. The river, known for its feisty brown trout is popular amongst the region's anglers. While we had both taken mental health days to come out here, we knew there were enough retirees, remote workers, and fellow fishing prioritizers that we wouldn't have the river to ourselves. Driving around the next bend I slowed the truck to a crawl and checked the rearview for fast approaching rodbox clad pickups. I looked at Luke for his opinion and he nodded his head in "lets give it a shot" approval. I eased the truck off the main road and down the two track.  Parking under a giant cottonwood we looked around for other vehicles. Nothing. I released my hands from the wheel and we both sat back for a moment taking in the quiet save for the sound of the river. We had found our spot. The only thing to do now was fish.

This country holds beauty not readily apparent. Dry and sparse it is a minimalist's landscape. Yet in time it's beauty is revealed. In the evening hours as the sun recedes, the harsh contrast begins to soften. It's colors layered in shades rather than diversity. Softening light bathes the hillsides in gold and even the fastest of movements seem to slow and hang in the still air.

One of the biggest attractants to fishing is solitude. Particularly with fly fishing, where concentration, precision, and stealth can be of utmost importance. It's natural then that we don't like to share our spots with others. At least for me though, fishing is best when shared with friends. If you catch that monster you need someone as witness and to high-five. Miss a hook set, a friend can serve as a shoulder to cry on or a tough-love reminder to keep your shit focused. There are places I fish that were shared with me and I don't mind showing others those same special places. That is as long as they promise not to tell anyone.

I heard it before I saw it. That distinct laugh, quick and repetitive. The context was all wrong though. I continued on my walk home from the bus stop along the busy road. Again I heard the trilled laugh. This time I stopped and took a long look around. The sound familiar, but out of place. I was about to resume my walk when I finally spotted it, a belted kingfisher. Perched on a rail above the canal head gate it turned its head from side to side, almost as if it was waiting for someone, or something. Was it waiting for the water to return? The canal was bone dry save for a few small puddles from the recent snowmelt tucked in the shaded corners. It would be nearly a month before the reservoir released and waters would spill over the gate. It called out again. Wishful thinking perhaps.

Cold plunges are all the rage these days in the health and wellness community. So we figured why not start the New Year off on the right foot? If subjecting yourself to uncomfortably cold water somehow rejuvenates the body or at a minimum cleanses the aftermath of the previous nights festivities, why not give it a shot. Since we are going to be in the river anyway, why not bring our rods? I mean we should probably  rejuvenate our bodies AND our minds? Man, who knew fly fishing was so good for you. 

Blindly we stood at the top of the mountain. The fog so thick that our view was literally devoid of color, shades, or shapes. We had entered the white room and our only guidepost was each other.

Nervous faces hid behind reflective goggle lenses and gaiters. We exchanged a few shoulder shrugs and slowly lurched forward setting the group in motion. Turn by turn my eyes moved from ski tips to my nearest friend making sure I or nor anyone else made an unintended front flip or nose dive into a tree well.

Suddenly, we crossed the foggy threshold and tree shapes began to emerge. Details of the landscape returned and the snow once again had texture and contour. Finally we were able to loosen the reins and open the throttle. The deep snow no longer a hazard, instead a welcoming landing pad.

The blanket of clean white snow seems to heighten the senses. The insulating effects of snow make the world go silent. So quiet that all I can hear is my breathing and the compression of flakes as I shift my weight from one foot to the other. Devoid of color, the accumulation creates detail across the ordinary ground. I am suddenly aware of each and every wooden rail bed as they lead to the distant station. The air cold and crisp making me aware of every hair on my exposed skin. Time seemingly stopped with only the present moment in motion.

In sharp contrast to the arid west where we now live, much of Alaska is lush and thick with vegetation. Like daydreaming in the back of my high school history class, my mind wanders amongst the beauty of our surroundings and distant landscape. And like hearing my name suddenly called in that high school history class, I snap back to the present with the rustling of nearby bushes, remembering that we are in bear country. Scrambling to recollect the subject in hopes of providing the right answer I blurt out "Hey Bear!".

The snowy silence enveloped us as we rocked slowly in the chair of an old fixed-grip. Our cloths damp from the day long snowfall. We sit quietly taking in the scene of the blank white hillsides. 

The silence is broken as the first skier crests into view, poles planting to mark his next turn through knee deep snow. Hoots and hollers erupt from the chairs ahead as others cheer him on, vicariously living through every turn. The energy rises as more skiers take the plunge carving turns to the right and left of the original track. It suddenly becomes apparent just how slow the old chair is turning. Excitement turns to a small panic as each skier leaves their mark on the blank white canvas. Will there be any fresh turns left by the time we get there???

Finally we see the top, the liftie's stoic face hiding behind sun glasses what I can only imagine is brewing jealousy or heartbreak. We hop off the chair, make a quick plan and head off before more skiers arrive. The snow is heavy requiring my brain and body to make on-the-fly calculations and adjustments that seem to be two second too late. Entering the main run I hand the wheel over to gravity. Rhythmically I rise with each turn before fall ing back into the arch of fresh snow. The sensations sending an innumerable rush of synapses to my brain until involuntarily like a southern baptist on Sunday I let out a "yeeeeeeoowwww!"

I stop at the cat track to catch my breath and find my friends. We look at each other with grins of disbelief. Did that just happen? Without speaking a word the group consensus is that it was in fact that good. Pushing off we race back to the chair hoping to recreate the experience as many times as we can.