On Glacier National Park’s Doorstep, Fly Fishing Is an Art. This Is What It's Like.

The guides at Glacier Anglers also know the region’s fish as intimately as the river routes they take their eager guests down.

As Dana, a guest on my trip who has fly fishing experience on the Flathead, said, “[These guides] know every fish in this river, and every fish has sore lips.”

Another thing I learned while during my trip to West Glacier and Paddle Ridge: No matter your skill level, comfort, or experience, you’re going to catch (and release) fish.

Getting to Glacier National Park’s western gateway

My trip to Montana started in Calgary, Alberta, just a few hours’ drive from the Roosville Border Crossing. The route is a beautiful one, covering a section of Alberta’s aptly named Cowboy Trail (a swath of British Columbia’s epic Crowsnest Pass) and down into the plains and fields of Montana on Highway 93. Views along the way include towering snow-capped peaks, rushing rivers, and sun-kissed cattle fields, sometimes being rounded up by cowboys on horseback.

Alternatively, getting to West Glacier can be as easy as hopping on a flight to Glacier Park International Airport in Kalispell, which is just 30 minutes outside the village.

West Glacier is the charming western gateway into Glacier National Park. You’ll find everything you need for any adventure there, as well as a grocery store, fine dining at the Belton Chalet, mini golf, a Western-themed “saloon” called Freda’s with a fantastic beer list and tasty meals (get the bison smash burger), and, of course, a Huckleberry-themed gift shop.

West Glacier village’s biggest draw, however, is that in mere minutes, you can enter Glacier National Park and embark on Going-To-The-Sun Road or visit Lake McDonald, known for its rainbow pebbles that lend a colorful foreground to any photograph. Avid hikers are a stone’s throw from epic trails, and water lovers can delight in the crystal-clear, frigid lakes and rivers hugged by jagged, jaw-dropping mountains. The park’s entry fee of ($25-$30) is a fair exchange for the delights that lie beyond the gates.

My group’s accommodation at Paddle Ridge was less than a mile from the village. The property, which was originally purchased in 1992 and has slowly been developed with cabins and amenities ever since, served as the perfect base camp for any and every activity we could have dreamed of during our three night’s stay.

It was on the balcony of Glacier View House — the property’s newest four-bed, four-bath luxurious chalet-style cabin — that the idea of a fishing competition first came to be.

“I’m going to win. I’m from New England. We’re competitive,” Sarah Lamagna quipped as we gazed out towards the mountains in Glacier National Park over our glasses of rosé. Dana commended her spirit, but as the most experienced fisherman of the bunch, he wasn’t going to let her have the title. The rest of us did our best to stay out of it.

Until Sarah asked me to be in her raft, that is. I’ve never been one to back down from a challenge.

An introduction to fly fishing on the Flathead River

A fly-fishing adventure with Glacier Anglers begins at the headquarters of Paddle Ridge, a large fly-shop-meets-office that’s bustling in the earlier hours of the morning as rafters and anglers alike fix to depart on their Flathead adventure. Between the Glacier Raft Company and Glacier Anglers, the outfit has a team of about 70 guides, all of whom cut their teeth by teaching beginners dryland fishing courses, graduating to short day trips, and then moving onto long ones to eventually embark on the most coveted of excursions: overnight trips. The operation is one of four outfitters with special permits from the US Commerce Service to be on the river. According to the general manager, Mike Cooney, its team members also act as stewards of the delicate environment, ensuring that the waters remain healthy for the resident fish.

“We have one of the most robust fisheries for our native species anywhere in the Pacific Northwest…” says Cooney, noting that we may even see some boats performing their annual “Weed Rodeo” where volunteers round up invasive species of plants from the river beds.

“We’re good stewards of our environment. We try to keep it that way. Healthy, active. That’s the draw [of fly fishing here], for sure. Getting to see this beauty, appreciate it, become a part of it for a few hours, right? It’s exciting. Take those memories home with you.”

For our group, the order of events was an afternoon of “Intro to Fly Fishing,” which involves learning to cast in the field and practicing at the stocked fly fishing ponds on the property. Then, a full-day rafting and fly-fishing excursion on the middle fork of the Flathead the following day.

For up to four people, a half-day introduction costs $365. A full day of fly-fishing on the Flathead costs $675 for two people, lunch included. The fee for a Montana fishing license is $31.50.

After a sunny afternoon crash course of knot tying, learning about flies (the lures and the creatures), perfecting our overhead and roll casts, and coaxing the slow fish of the practice ponds onto my hook, I felt ready for the Flathead.

As a final act of reassurance before our departure in the morning, Cooney echoed Dana’s earlier sentiment:

“The fish are plentiful, and they’re hungry. They like to eat, so you don’t have to be an expert, you don’t have to sneak up on them all the time … We have some exceptional guides here that can give you great instruction, and they’re pretty much on a first name basis with most of the fish out here, so they can show you where the fish are.”

After meeting our guides — Cash, Frank, and Stacie — and a quick 30-minute drive to the Paola Creek drop-in point, our rafts were in the water, stocked with gear and lunch, ready for our 12-mile competition to begin.

Casting lines amid epic park views

I’ll start by saying that I’ve always been fairly lucky when it comes to catching fish. My older brother once fished for hours off the coast of Half Moon Caye in Belize only to hand me the rod out of boredom and watch me land a barracuda. I kept this fact to myself until the morning of our trip, not wanting to jinx the experience. As I settled into the front of the inflatable green raft for three, a guide rowing in the middle and two anglers, one at the front and one at the back, I felt a flicker of nerves. What if I get skunked? As the sun broke through the clouds and we gently floated into our first set of rapids, my worries melted into wonder.

The Flathead River is a deep green and blue, gem-like and unparalleled by colors of the material world. In some sections — with the right light and when the water is still — it looks like your companion rafts are suspended in mid-air, floating in a different dimension. The scenery of our journey was ever-changing. We floated our way through mild rollercoaster rapids, looked out towards epic peaks, entered narrow channels hugged by rocky walls, spotted waterfalls that splashed into the river, and always kept a look out for different water patterns and “fishing holes” that indicate a good place to lure trout up for a bite. At their favorite spots, the guides row you in and toss down a small anchor, giving you a chance to reap the bounty of the Flathead.

After a glacial post-lunch dip, we even spotted mountain goats within the Glacier National Park-side of the river, picking their way up a steep cliff and licking the salt from the rocks. It was times like those I forgot I was supposed to be fishing. Until Sarah reminded me of the count. By mile three, she was a few fish in, and I was yet to hook one.

Perfecting the art of fly fishing

Fly fishing is more delicate than other types of fishing. There’s an art and feel to it that many anglers will describe to you as a meditation. It’s a steady and relaxing hum, pause, and swish as you arch your line back and aim for a specific swirl or bubble in the water. You take time to get a good float, “mending” the line up or downstream to make the fly look as natural as possible. The fish are that smart.

The indication of a fish on the line is subtle, especially with the setup our guide, Cash, called a “dry dropper.” This is where you have a dry fly floating on the surface of the water and a “dropper” tied onto that hook, which sits in the water below. A fish could go for either. He routinely switched out both hooks, trying different patterns and types of bugs to mimic what was happening in real life. At one point I watched as his hand shot out, creating a fist in mid-air. He slowly opened his fingers to reveal a bug.

“Stone fly,” he confirmed, before promptly switching out the lures on Sarah’s line to adjust for this new intel.

Among the current and movement of the river, you’re looking for the tiniest shifts in how your dry fly moves on the surface of the water — a quick dip or sudden twitch. When you see it, you have milliseconds to act. You have to “set” the hook with a quick pull of the line in your hand.

The fly fisherman slang for every little bump missed is “farming,” and according to Cash, Sarah and I were exceptional at fish farming. By mile four, I’d missed upwards of 20 fish. My once-meditative cast was becoming more and more aggravated as we drifted.

But then, I finally saw it. The tiniest dip.

With more gusto than necessary, I shot my rod upwards and was immediately rewarded with the fish adding weight and wiggle to my line in protest. I started reeling, reveling in the fight. There’s a fine line when it comes to landing a fish. You need to keep tension on the line so the hook doesn’t come out, but you also have to let the fish run. Too much tension, and it snaps, costing you gear, the fish, and your bragging rights.

As I brought my first one into the net, the results were less than satisfying. A small to medium-sized whitefish, a non-native species in the Flathead River. We were after cutthroat, or “cutties.” But I felt the thrill all the same. It was game on.

As the miles churned by, I started to get the hang of setting my hook. Our boat seemed to be the busiest, with Cash either constantly untangling Sarah and my lines when we cast simultaneously, or grabbing the net as we fought the next “big one” onto the boat. By the last mile, we were tied, six and six.

Tucked next to a shady rock wall, I saw my last fish before I felt it. It went straight for the dry fly on the surface of the water. As it bit down, I pulled up, setting the hook with a sharp inhale. The battle began as the fish made a dash for deeper water, pulling out line while my reel spun. The sound is akin to a contestant trying for the big prize on the Price is Right. The fish made me work — every time it was close to the surface, it would glimpse the boat and make a wild dive, fighting to get away. One of the other rafts hooted and hollered as they floated by.

“It’s a toad!”

Toad is in the fly fisherman’s dictionary as “a big fish.”

This was my last chance to take the lead and land the fish of the day. Cash was already in the water waist-deep with the net, unwilling to have this be the one that got away. In a last ditch effort, the trout went straight under the raft. I pulled up, seeing his speckled body and tell-tale orange throat shimmer in the sunlight. There’s something beautiful and elegant about a cutthroat trout in crystal-clear waters. Finally, Cash got the net under the fish, and we released the hook from its mouth after a high five.

While 18-19 inches might not sound big to trophy fishermen that haul in massive creatures of the deep, for a first-time fly fisherman with a few 13 inch-ers in the net, the 10-minute fight for the biggest fish of the day was a significant ordeal. My trout, sparkling in a way that puts any gold trophy to shame, took its time to exit the net and return to its home. Its mouth gaped, gills filtering oxygen from the water as he recovered. Finally, with a powerful flick of its tail, the trout exited the net and slowly faded back into the deep of the Flathead.

A return to Paddle Ridge with a story to tell

Kaskadia was just around the bend where the rest of our tired, sun-kissed, and successful crew of newly branded fly fishermen were waiting. Like any good anglers, we spent the 30-minute drive back to Paddle Ridge regaling each other with stories from our own rafts and comparing numbers. Sarah’s confidence and my good luck had paid off. We sat and enjoyed a chef’s dinner back at Paddle Ridge under a gazebo, famished after a day on the water.

It’s no wonder guides come back every season, year after year, to bask in the beauty of the Flathead and Glacier National Park. It’s truly an outdoorsperson’s paradise, sitting on the cusp of adventure at every turn. Tomorrow, we would make the drive back to Canada and the reality of desks and deadlines. But for that evening, we were fly fishermen through and through.