Lessons From a Fish Dog

A day of fly fishing in the mountains... 

Lincoln, our eighty-five-pound golden retriever and official Montana Casting Co. Gear Durability Tester, learned long ago the meaning of an engine growling to life. The clomp of wading boots. The zip of fishing vests. The clatter of fly rods hitting the truck bed. These sounds are the melody of his favorite song, and he sings the chorus at the front door—whining just loud enough to ensure we don’t forget he’s there. Not that we can, of course. Every time we step out, an eager Lincoln must be blocked with a lightning quick foot. Hold on buddy—not yet.

We take breakfast on the go—granola bars and apples in the truck as the first rays of sunlight slant across the mountains. Lincoln launches into the back seat, and we hit the road. By the time we get to the trailhead, he’s hanging halfway out the rear window, tongue lolling, tail thwapping. Our friends are already hauling float tubes and waders out of their own truck. A pair of mules crop grass nearby.

When boots hit the trail, it takes less than ten minutes for Lincoln to decide we aren’t moving fast enough. Before any of us can react, he snatches the mule’s lead and bounds up the trail with it. The mules barely notice—continuing at their own relaxed pace—but Lincoln’s message is clear: it’s time to get fishing.

The lake, a rolling 4.5 miles farther on, is a brilliant crystal blue. The wind sends tiny waves tumbling against the shore while puffy clouds cast shadows from above. The Montana sky is endless. Float tubes are inflated, fly rods pieced together, and finally the first cast is made.

As we disperse around the lake, Lincoln runs himself ragged to keep up with the action. It’s safe to assume that wherever Lincoln is, it’s fish on. We’ve trained him to stay on shore, but even so, by the time a fish hits the bank, his nose is married to it—and his tail could propel a motorboat.

At the end of the day, he hauls himself into the truck. His eyelids drift closed, then jerk open, fighting sleep. Despite his exhaustion, his tail continues to thump. When sleep finally takes him, it looks as if he’s reliving every tug of the line and leap of a fish. Some goldens make good bird dogs. Lincoln? He’s a fish dog, through and through.

 ...becomes a day of fly fishing to remember. 

The first time Lincoln set foot in a river, he was a scrap of golden fluff—no bigger than a house cat. His entire body shook as we plopped him in the shallows. That shifting current must have seemed impossibly large to him back then, a living beast trying to snatch him away. But then he discovered fish.

He sat beside us as we cast line after line into the water. He learned to watch strike indicators, to look for ripples that marked a fish rising to swallow a fly. He learned the body language of “fish on” and mirrored our excitement when a flashing trout leaped through the air. It wasn’t long before Lincoln was encouraging us to grab our rods and head to the river.

We won’t wax philosophical on the many merits of fly fishing. Every fisherman has his or her own reasons for getting out there. Lincoln’s reasons (as far as we can tell) are twofold:

The fish (he really likes the fish) and his people (he really, really loves his people).

Whether he’s urging the mules to go faster, running circles around mountain lakes to catch every fight, or bonking us in the legs with a slobbery “hello”, he reminds us of something important: long after we’ve forgotten the particulars of the day—the weather, the number of fish, what we had for lunch—we’ll still remember the way it made us feel to be out there, sharing that time with the people (and pups) that we love. A bit corny, perhaps, but you only have to look at Lincoln’s doggy grin to know it’s true.

We’d love to see your fish dogs, too! Post a picture of your fury friend on the river and tag us @Montanacastingco on Instagram or Facebook. Have a story of your own? Share it in the comments below!