Guarding drift boat has drawbacks

Luke turned and asked me to keep an eye on the drift boat while he and Brett Prettyman, outdoor editor at the Salt Lake Tribune, shuttled the pickup and boat trailer to our intended take out at a place called Dearborn several miles downriver. Brett and I were fishing partners for the day, and Luke, a tall drink of water from Virginia, was our guide.

Brett and I, along with a handful of other outdoor writers, editors and conservationists, had traveled to Craig, Mont., for a summit organized by the Theodore Roosevelt Conservation Partnership. The group’s eclectic makeup led to interesting discussions about such things as the impact of climate change on habitat and the cost to wildlife of the modern-day gold rush — energy development on public lands. The chance to go fly-fishing on the Missouri River, one of the country’s premier trout fisheries, was icing on the cake.

While Brett and Luke made the trip to Dearborn, I assumed a lookout position overlooking the launch ramp and our fully loaded drift boat. Inside were digital cameras, coats, rods, reels and fly-boxes containing hundreds of flies. I took my job as boat sentry seriously. That my lunch was in the boat didn’t hurt.

As I watched over the boat, a guide who was to take out another pair of anglers pushed his drift boat off its trailer and into the river. Suddenly the boat began moving toward the main current. The guide had failed to keep a line attached to the boat, and it was free-floating with no one at the oar.

Dave, the boat’s owner, stood wide legged in the water midway between the rapidly moving drift boat and its trailer. He looked at the boat, then at the trailer. And while he was looking back and forth, the boat turned down stream and disappeared beyond the bridge. Then Dave looked at our boat.

Leaving his idling truck parked on the launch ramp, Dave and one of his two clients jumped into our drift boat. Dave hauled in the anchor and pulled on the oars, and the boat shot out of sight.

“They stole our boat while I was on watch. What will Luke and Brett say when they get back?” I muttered to myself while trying to remain composed, despite visions of Luke’s hands wrapped around my neck. I paced back and forth, not sure how to get word to Luke so he could keep an eye out for either of the two boats.

After moving Dave’s still-running vehicle from the launch ramp, his second passenger and I discussed what to do next. Just then we saw Dave walking along a nearby railroad track heading our way.

He had caught up with the phantom drift boat about a quarter mile downstream of the bridge. All we had to do was hike along the tracks until we passed the outfitter’s tent where some recluse lived year round, then squeeze under a barbed-wire fence without punching a hole in our waders, slide down the hill where the horses go for water and maneuver through the brush without getting sprayed by a startled skunk. That’s where the boats would be waiting. I just hoped the recluse didn’t shoot trespassers.

Dave explained the situation to Luke and Brett. That probably saved my life, but I managed to bring only one rainbow trout to the net during the remainder of the day.

One has to wonder if Luke got his payback by guiding me only to fish that specialize in getting off the hook just as an angler reels them close to the boat. Or perhaps it was with the No. 18 hook on the Pheasant Tail that became buried in my finger as I cleared it of weeds. Then again, perhaps Luke conjured up the high winds and 40 mph gusts that made casting a fly so enjoyable.

What I do know is that next year I won’t be guarding the drift boat.

Freelance writer Doug Nielsen is a conservation educator for the Nevada Department of Wildlife. His column is not affiliated with or endorsed by the department. Any opinions he states in his column are his own. He can be reached at doug@takinitoutside.com.