Proof The Bible Is True

Indian summer in Montana—the perfect day to float down the Clark Fork River and catch a few trout. My buddy Mike, a Chicago native, had been bugging me to take him on a river float, so he and his sister-in-law, Lagora, met me by the Petty Creek Bridge, about 30 minutes north of Missoula.

As we put my Hyde drift boat, loaded down with fishing rods and other equipment, into the water, I explained that I’d been on thousands of trips down the river, in the past as a professional guide and fisherman. “I’ve never gotten anyone wet,” I said. “I could do this trip in my sleep.”

Even navigating Devil’s Tongue, a white-water chute a few miles down the river, didn’t scare me. To say I felt confident about my abilities and knowledge was an understatement.

I realized I’d probably taken too much gear, all of it thrown haphazardly into the boat. The afternoon was getting away from us. I wanted my friends to see as much of the river with the sun dancing across it as possible. There was no time to change into my waders. I just pulled them on over my blue jeans, which I’d never done before.

Read More  King of the River.