August 25, 2005 Issue

We left Seattle on another cloudless day, headed for Livingston, Mont. Eddie was our navigator and he got us off of Interstate 90 in Spokane. The scenery through Washington was beautiful and included hundreds of bicyclists competing in a century ride. They shared the highway with more Harley Davidsons than I have ever seen in a year. The bikers were headed to do their strange thing in Sturgis. The bikers we didn’t see on our way to Livingston; we saw the next week as we headed to Aspen and they headed home from their rally in South Dakota. Once we got on the blue highways past Spokane, the vistas became even more incredible.

We knew we couldn’t make it all the way to Livingston, so we chose the small town of Sandpoint, Idaho as a stopping place. A town of 6,000 people, Sandpoint runs alongside a picturesque lake just north of Coeur d’Alene. Chatham noticed a large crowd gathered along the lake, and we wandered into the Sandpoint Music Festival, a 14-day celebration designed, according to the local chamber of commerce, “to make life better for our residents and for our visitors.” What a novel idea.

We listened to Drew Emmit and Leftover Salmon, and Sam Bush, a three time Grammy winning artist known for his mandolin playing. The setting and the music and the people made for an unexpectedly wonderful evening.

The next morning we set off for Livingston. The length of the drive was mitigated—at least for the boys—with a case of Henry Weinhard’s beer on ice, and the scenery was enhanced by the music of The Grateful Dead, Bruce Springsteen, and Wilco. My father and I rarely listened to the same music, but it certainly is convenient to enjoy the same music as your children.

The Murray Hotel in Livingston was our destination and we arrived late in the afternoon. Russell Chatham greeted us at his nearby gallery and we watched as he put the finishing touches on a painting headed for his friend Mario Batali. Handwritten on a wall above a desk in his studio were the following lines: “Meaningful labor - Reciprocal love - Hope for the future” Karl Marx. Karl Marx is not someone often quoted in our area of Florida.

We had dinner with Russ and his friend Liz and his daughters Lea, and Becca every night of our stay except for the last night. Our only dinner out was at Chatham’s Livingston Bar and Grill. Aside from being having one of the most stunning restaurant interiors I have ever seen, the food, with a kind of cowboy-pacific rim flair was excellent.

The primary type of boat used for fishing on western rivers is the dory. We fished four days on different parts of the Yellowstone River. We caught brown, rainbow and cutthroat trout with our guide Brian O’Connor. Brian’s fiancÈe, Sally, is Russ’s chief assistant. In a small town everyone works together, and we were fortunate to have the best river guide in Montana.

Livingston is a unique combination of old west charm mixed with an eclectic brew of artists, writers, and outdoorsmen. Peter Fonda, Jeff Bridges, Tom McGuane, and Tom Brokaw all have homes there. There are no chain restaurants, almost no traffic, and the temperature in August is in the mid-40s at night and may get up to 80 degrees in the afternoon. Also, there is very little humidity.

Our last day on the river was spent fishing and trading tales with Jim Harrison and Dangerous Dan, his fishing and bird-hunting guide. Harrison is the author of Legends of the Fall and numerous other novels and books of poetry. In addition to being a world-class fly fisherman, he is also a marvel of a storyteller. Some of his tales required that I quit fishing as I tried to gauge his stoic face to determine if a story was based on truth or fiction.

Our dinner at the Harrison’s house on our final night was remarkable. The food, the conversation, and the chance to meet Jim’s family made for a memorable time. My son Chatham sat at Harrison’s desk in his writing studio and struck a scholarly pose as he pored over Harrison’s notes, all of which are written in longhand. Who knows, it might take.

Before dinner began, Linda Harrison, Jim’s wife, urged him to say a blessing.
As we all bowed our heads, he made a concise request. “God…. Bless these boys in Aspen. Amen”

The next day, after lunch with the Chathams’ we were off to Colorado.

Seven hundred miles makes for a long day of driving. The most stunning part of our trip was driving alongside the Big Horn River in the aptly named Wind River Reservation. Home to Apache, Comanche and Shoshone tribes, this stretch of highway in the wide-open state of Wyoming was breathtaking.

The back roads Eddie had mapped for us from Riverton to Rawlins included a 141-mile stretch during which we drove at what we deemed to be a “reasonable and proper speed.” We kept our pace at 100 miles an hour and on that desolate highway we saw fewer cars than pronghorn antelopes. When someone had need of a comfort station, there was no need to pull over to the side of the road—we simply stopped in the middle of the highway. Not only were there no cars, there was virtually no sign of people.

Next time you have had enough of the development, traffic, and the late summer heat and humidity of Destin, we have got just the place for you.

We arrived in Carbondale, just down-valley from Aspen at 2 a.m. What our friend Mike Bodnar had described as a little fish camp turned out to be a bit more than that. Perched on the Roaring Fork River the camp house made us realize what a joy it is to have successful friends, particularly when they are generous.

The towns of El Jebel, Basalt, Carbondale, and even Glenwood Springs have all absorbed Aspen’s growth. Aspen is a town for billionaires. These towns are more for just multi-millionaires. We floated the Roaring Fork and caught nice browns and cutthroats. Our last fishing trip was on a private hunting and fishing preserve near Paonia. On 22,000 acres that is home to bear, mountain lions, elk and mule deer, we fished more than 20 spring fed ponds loaded with fish. The difference between these fish and the stream trout was size and aggressiveness. What a great combination. We caught more than 80 fish with the largest being an 8-pound brown. It was almost like cheating compared to the river fishing we had become accustomed to. It was an amazing day and we were glad we saved it for the end. The size of the fish and the easy bites would have spoiled us for the smaller but native fish on the mountain streams.

While in the Aspen area we were also fortunate to spend the week with Chris Bodnar, one of the great brewers of all time. He has relocated to Colorado and has chosen a beautiful place to call home.

Eddie was undeniably the high-liner of our trip. I’m sure if given the choice between college and fishing, he would still be on the Roaring Fork or the Yellowstone. Chatham caught the largest trout of the trip, and while he is a great fisherman and loves to hunt, the allure of his freshman year at Alabama, and all that it entails, had him eager for Tuscaloosa.

The boys left for home on an early morning flight out of Aspen on Friday the 19. They would only have one day to pack and leave for school. My flight plans were to fly home on the 22. While I would have preferred to wrap up the trip and traveled home with them, there were still two items of unfinished business left for me.

One thing I could check off my life list was the trip of a lifetime. A trip with two fine young men who helped open my eyes to the broad, beautiful spaces that exist in the western part of our country. And while I hope there will be more trips left for us, this one will last in my memory for a long while.

Next issue: Memorial services for Hunter S. Thompson and C. Fritz Clark.

More from Charles Morgan