SALSA saved my life

By Craig Haney

With a great deal of humility, I confess I am well known among my friends for my prodigious “luck” (not necessarily good luck) while fishing, and also while pursuing less important things. This luck of mine has followed me throughout life for quite some time, and I figured it was with me when I boarded the plane for Bozeman.

My good friend Billy had moved to Bozeman a couple of years earlier and would be my host for the week. A great addition would be my buddy Sam, who had recently moved to Gillette, Wyo., and was coming with his new drift boat.

Once Sam arrived at Billy’s, we wasted no time discussing the myriad of fishing opportunities and decided to try the Madison River the next day. Billy had checked with his buddies, Henry and Doug, and a couple of fly shops earlier that day and felt like the Madison River was a safe bet. The weather forecast was favorable with a high of 73 degrees, cloudy, and little wind. We didn’t realize it then, but the fishing gods were lurking in the shadows waiting to open a can of “Haney Luck” on our trip.

We left Billy’s place early the next day headed for Ennis and Madison River Fishing Company to check again on conditions, and to spend some tourist dollars on flies and other needful things. After buying maybe a half-pound of streamers, articulated and otherwise, we headed to the truck. Suddenly, as if Moses had appeared with a message for me on a stone tablet, I realized I had left my prescription sunglasses on the dresser at Billy’s back in Bozeman. The can had opened ever so slightly and a wisp of my luck had eased out.

MRFC didn’t sell fitover sunglasses, so we went down the street to the Orvis dealer where I found a pair and spent an additional 50 dollars, which helped the local economy but hurt mine. Getting in the truck, we headed upriver to the Windy Point boat ramp—the day bursting with promise and high expectations.

It was 10 a.m. when we pulled into the parking lot at Windy Point and parked the truck and boat. Quickly assembling our rods and reels, we tied on flies and loaded our gear into the boat and pushed off into the Madison. If I had not been so ready and excited to fish, I might have noticed the wind had picked up and that there were a few dark clouds looming in the distance. Would the name “Windy Point” become a bad omen of my luck still to come? Was the can of Haney Luck in the boat? These questions were on my mind as we started the trip.

Sam is young, strong, and adept at the boat’s oars and soon we were casting streamers to the banks of the Madison. An hour passed without a strike for either Billy or me. Changing streamer patterns did not help and nothing else in our fly boxes enticed the trout either. The wind had picked up considerably and grayish clouds were blocking the sun. As the temperature had not risen since we started on the river, we decided to put on our wading jackets to block the wind and add a little warmth.

The wind continued to gain velocity, and the dark Montana clouds grew closer as we fished downstream. I started to wonder if my can of luck had been blown over by the gusting winds and was now leaking. It did not take long for the answer as cold rain started pelting us, stinging our faces and hands, and chilling our bodies.

Sam hopefully offered that maybe the wind would blow the rain away and things would settle down, but he did not sound convincing as he struggled with the oars to keep the boat on track. We soon passed a guide who had pulled to shore with his clients to wait out the hard rain. The body language of the wife in the back of the boat indicated that she was mad as heck and would keep her husband up half the night trying to explain why they did not go to the Bahamas like she had wanted for vacation.

As we traveled downriver, I started shaking as had Billy and it was clear the can of luck had emptied out in the boat and was affecting us. Sam hurriedly scanned the river bank for a place to beach the boat. Before Sam found a place to pull over, Billy and I started shaking uncontrollably due to the cold, driving rain and endless wind. Suddenly, the boat turned right and the sound of the gravel bank scraping the hull was a welcome sound. Quickly finding a hoodie and fleece vest for us, Sam handed us a large jar of salsa and the largest bag of tortilla chips I had ever seen. The two of us were warming up as Sam set his small gas grill on the shore, fired it up and put the sliced elk tenderloin complete with his “magic seasoning” on to cook.

We devoured the salsa and chips as if we had not eaten for days. I never realized how good salsa and chips could taste. Seriously, they were the best I had ever eaten! The salsa and chips soon started warming us from the inside out. Before long, my shivering slowed as visions of grilled elk started filling my head. Sam soon announced the elk loin was ready and handed Billy and me a piece hot off the grill. Like wolves on a fresh kill, we made fast work of the tenderloin, not stopping for bread or condiments.

The rain soon slowed then quit, but the wind was still coming in strong gusts. After filling up on salsa, chips, and elk, we loaded back up and headed downstream with Sam furiously fighting the wind and current.

Billy and I finally put our rods up in frustration as we continued down the Madison. It was disappointing to quit fishing, but the fish were clearly turned off and the wind made it tough to place your fly anywhere close to where you wanted. The rain finally stopped, although the dark, mean-looking clouds still threatened.

About a half-mile from the McAtee Bridge takeout, a huge rock appeared directly in front of the boat like the iceberg in front of the Titanic. I called out to Sam to make sure he had seen it looming menacingly ahead. He yelled back, “I got it!” and I heard a loud grunt. I was not convinced he had it, but the boat narrowly missed it, moving magically to the right of the rock at the last moment avoiding disaster.

Turning to look at Sam, his big grin told the whole story. The magic was in his strong back and arms. Billy called from the back of the boat, “If I had been at the oars, we would have been in serious trouble!” Billy was probably right as Sam’s extra six inches in height and 100 pounds made the difference, not to forget Sam being 30 years younger than either of us.

Back on track, the ominous dark clouds and strong gusting wind had been replaced with the warming sun as the takeout came into view down river. Somehow, bouncing around in the boat the top evidently secured itself on the can of Haney Luck just before we centered the rock as the trip neared the take-out and dry clothes.

I’ve often heard it said, “If it wasn’t for bad luck, I’d have no luck at all.” That Friday on the Madison River, maybe no Haney Luck would have worked better.