-One-
THREE MEN IN A BOAT with plenty to drink or in this case three clowns in a 16-foot Avon raft, floating down the river on a stone-cold pretty July day is nothing special out here in south central Montana. Tens of thousands of people do it every year as they cast with wildly varying degrees of skill countless different fly patterns to the river’s trout – Yellowstone cutthroat, rainbows and browns. The river is world famous and many individuals both in state and out make a very good living guiding the properly attired sports downriver – hundreds of dollars a day plus money spent on flies, lines, wildly over-priced fly rods, waders, tips, lodging, meals, drinks and so on. The once eccentric, esoteric pursuit had grown into a sometimes obnoxious child that generate big bucks in Montana.
These three were a bit different, though there were others like them roaming the state looking for a quick dollar. They were land investors, developers, and perhaps most sadly fly fishing grifters intent on closing off as much prime country and trout water from the non-wealthy as possible. They’d spun off ranches on the Boulder River to hack actors, retired TV news readers and West Coast dotcom billionaires. The three clowns in the raft made millions from this. Right now they were casting grasshopper imitations along the grassy banks in the afternoon breeze along a stretch of river east of Stillwater where the river moved away from its mountainous beginnings and out onto the northern high plains. The trio hadn’t experienced much success. They weren’t very good at fly fishing. The action is often desultory at best during the heat of mid-day under a cloudless sky. The sun was unrelenting. Cold beers helped some but not all that much.
“We sold 12 thousand dozen flies last year through our outlets,” a fat man in his fifties and sitting in the front of the raft said. “We have the kiddie trash in Haiti tie them for pennies apiece. Material is next to nothing. Customs is no problem. We clear $15 bucks on the dozen. I’ll take 180K the easy way all day long.”
“It all adds up. Works for me,” said the one manning the oars – fortyish, trimmed beard, khaki shorts and shirt, leather necklace holding various implements of his trade, wading sandals, fly rod company logo ball cap, silk scarf, wrap around shades and the piece de resistance, a lycra pair of leggings patterned to resembled a brook trout’s color patterns. He had the yuppie fly fisher oh so hip uniform down cold. An idiot on parade. “How’s the deal on Cottonwood Creek going? That’s some sweet water.”
The guy in back, a clone of the oarsman said “We’ve secured access rights from the highway stream crossing west of Yorkedale for 11 miles up the lake road from the Erick’s Ranch. We’re working on another eight miles on the eastern edge of our lodge property near and along Cottonwood Lake. Our outfitters and guides have been told to push this water and the stuff along Sixteen Mile Creek. Brokaw and Keaton have said that they were interested in this property, too. That’s why I’ve been pushing so hard to upgrade and update the lodge and out buildings. The so-called moneyed elite like their premium granite kitchen counters and electronic blinds. Big time Montana ranchers. More like big time mooches. Eight million. With our eight percent that’s $640,000.”
|
