Flies & Family Ties

by Carson Sprague

Many men go fishing all of their lives without knowing it is not the fish that they are after. —Henry David Thoreau

Growing up in Montana, some of my fondest memories are of fishing the rivers, streams, lakes, and ponds with my younger brother, Cullen. Sometimes, Cullen and I would go out on our own, riding our bikes to the East Gallatin after school to cast a line, waste time, and avoid our chores. Once I got my driver’s license and bought my first car—a gold 2007 Ford Escape hybrid that I proudly festooned with a big trout decal—our world expanded tremendously. That rig took us everywhere: to and from school, back and forth to Norris, West Yellowstone, and Livingston, and thanks to the impressively quiet hybrid motor, stealthily out of the driveway late at night when we were looking for trouble.

Sometimes we’d just sit back and enjoy a can or two of light beer we’d pilfered from the garage fridge. With only 17 months separating us, Cullen was my not-so-little brother, and we were raised without the firm barriers often found between siblings.

It’s impossible to count how many afternoons we spent on the banks of some close-to-home river. Sometimes we’d fish, other times we’d talk about sports, or girls, the fish we weren’t catching, or those we’d caught before. Sometimes we’d just sit back and enjoy a can or two of light beer we’d pilfered from the garage fridge. With only 17 months separating us, Cullen was my not-so-little brother, and we were raised without the firm barriers often found between siblings. Instead, we operated in tandem—especially so when it came to getting on the water. 

But things change as you get older. I went off to college—a whopping 15 minutes away from our parents’ house—and we didn’t fish as much. I was busy, and so was he. We worked together that summer, often ogling the Gallatin as we drove up the canyon to do our manual-labor jobs, but seldom made the time to cast a line when the day was through. Eventually he moved to Idaho, occasionally sending me a photo or two of a lunker he’d caught, accompanied by his trademark humble-brag. I was proud of him for striking out on his own, and yet somewhat melancholic, longing for the days when all it took to spend time together was a walk down the hall. Once he graduated from college, it was off to Utah for a sales job. Meanwhile, I’d made my home here in Bozeman, albeit with intermittent breaks for summer jobs across the West. We’d become weekend warriors, chasing trout when we had the time instead of any time the urge struck.

And so it would be. Two brothers reunited, to once again fish together under a Big Sky. And while I hate to be curt, I must be going now—I’ve got fish to catch and a brother to catch up with.

Then one day, out of the blue, a text came in. “Call me. Got an idea.” I excused myself from my computer, walked out into the early autumn sun, and gave Cullen a ring. “What’s the story?” I asked. “Take off the second week of October.” He said matter-of-factly. I balked. “A whole week, Cull? For what?” I could hear him chewing over the phone. “A fishing trip.” At that, my ears perked up. It had been years since we’d fished together. I was intrigued, but more than anything, I missed my brother. “I’m in. But where?”

“All over, dude! To all the streams we never got the chance to check out as kids when that golden turd of yours would hardly make it down the highway.” He laughed. “I’ll be flying in that Saturday. Make sure Dad’s got plenty of beer in the garage fridge.” 

And so it would be. Two brothers reunited, to once again fish together under a Big Sky. And while I hate to be curt, I must be going now—I’ve got fish to catch and a brother to catch up with. But then again, perhaps it was never about the fish after all.