Distinctly Montana Magazine

My Daughter's By Kathleen Clary Miller W hen my adult daughter Kate asked me would I teach her to flyfish in Montana, I jumped at the chance to enjoy a mother-daughter experience that was only about the two of us, and the river. We performed the dressing ceremony until she was fully equipped with the proper socks, waders, boots, vest, hat, and glasses. As she held the rod and I snapped the picture, we facetiously agreed that, regardless of whether she hooked a trout, she was quite the catch. All the way down the path that paralleled the creek, I warned about this, advised about that, and instructed her on every detail. Here's what to do to prevent wind knots. Look behind you before you back cast. If you see a fish rise, pull up on the rod and keep it high. When you feel something take the nymph, don't rush it. Kate patiently listened, her head nodding comprehension as she confidently high-stepped through the tall grass ahead of me. We plopped down on our bottoms and slid down the bank to the water. "I'll hold the rod. You wade out as far as you comfortably can," I said. "Its okay, Mom, I can do it." I'd conveniently forgotten the years. She was a grown-up, and in order for that to be a conscious realization, I'd have to accept that I was growing old. I reluctantly handed her the instrument and began S P R I N G | 2 013 14 D I S T I N C T LY M O N TA N A Gal to fine-tune the art of casting. It's all arm movement, no body. Don't throw the line like you're throwing a ball. Wait to feel the weight of the line behind you before you cast forward. Achieve a natural drift of the fly or the fish will know it's a fake. "When did fish get so smart?" she asked as she moved swiftly against the current without losing her balance, unlike her mother who always falls and fills her waders. She found her spot and took her stance, her feet firmly planted in the narrow space between larger rocks. Her back was turned to me where I stood on the shoreline, poised and ready to administer additional essentials. After her initial movements with rod and reel, I remembered about not making any noise because the fish would scatter, so I cast aside my role as director. On the river, the quiet always felt right. I sat, rested my elbow on one knee, let my chin fall into the palm of my hand, and let go to observe my daughter's dance. She was suddenly stunning. My tall, gangly, rather awkward adolescent had vanished. Here, I was afforded the rare opportunity to lean back and watch her from a distance. Ironically, we were not at her

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