The Wind Blows a Little

Lake Elwell, more commonly known as Tiber Reservoir, was originally formed in 1969 by the final construction of a dam across the Marias River in Northern Montana.  The reservoir is located a little below Highway 2 where the highway crosses the Great Northern Plains just before arriving at the Front Range of the Rocky Mountains and slightly below the Canadian border. People in Montana refer to the area along the highway as the Hi-Line.

The wind blows a little along the Hi-Line.

More on that later.

Somewhere in the vicinity of early spring 1981, I went on a fishing trip to Lake Elwell with some friends.  The lake is known for decent trout, walleye, and northern pike fishing.   We stayed for two nights on that excursion—camping in a grassy swale along the shore of the lake.  Part of our fishing scheme was setting out “jugs” for northern pike.  Essentially, the jugs—made from plastic milk jugs—are tied to set-lines.  The northern pike, if they take the bait connected to the lines, will drag the jugs around the lake.  Often they will drag the jugs into the rushes along the shore.  If you set a string of jugs, the idea is to boat around and check on them occasionally.  If a jug is roving around in the water, you have a northern to pull onboard.

On the afternoon of the second day, the wind started in.  We were standing along the shore trying our luck fishing for walleye with crank-baits and didn’t pay much attention to the gusts at first.  But as the waves began to pile-up at our feet and the wind nudged us harder, we took note.  At some point, Arnold (the owner of the small outboard fishing boat we were using) said the equivalent of “uh-oh,” though in a slightly more colorful way.  He had noticed that the white-capping waves and wind gusts were pushing our jugs toward a somewhat rocky and shallow shoreline.

“We need to get those jugs now,” he said, looking (for whatever reason) at me and not the other two fishermen with us.  “If they get to that shore we will never get them.”

Arnold and I scrambled together some gear and climbed into his small aluminum fishing boat.  Both of us strapped on our life preservers.  I tell you seriously, the next fifteen or so minutes were among the most terrifying of my life—punctuated by one of the funniest moments ever.

By the time we got in the water, the waves were big enough to require mountaineering skills.  I sat in the bow.  Arnold commanded the boat from the back.  Bucking the whitecaps, Arnold splashed around the lake and swung me to within arm’s reach of our jugs so that I could snatch them from the waves.  Whitecap after whitecap pounded at us.  Water splashed up against my chest and started to fill the bottom of the boat very quickly.  As we jostled from one jug to the next, I would scoop water from the bottom of boat with a gallon coffee can.  I kept looking at the steady shoreline, wondering what in the hell I was doing out there the convulsing lake.

By the time we neared the farthest jug it had drifted dangerously near the rocky shore.

“We are gonna have to grab that last one and then turn sideways with the waves to get that one,” Arnold suggested.  “That might be it for us.  We might end up swimming”

I nodded.

As we started to buck waves, heading for the final jug, Arnold began to kick a few things into order at his feet.   He stared at me—half-pointing.  I could tell he wanted me to do something, but the words were failing him.  He was getting frustrated.  Finally, he blurted out: “Can’t you hear what I’m thinking!”

In spite of the waves and danger, we both burst out laughing.

As I recall it, we had to make two passes at the last jug before I managed to grab it.  But we did grab it.  And then we pushed straight against the wind and the waves all the way back to our camp.

I have posted a couple of photographs from that trip.

Me with a northern pike.







Kevin at my car above the lake.

--Mitchell Hegman