From Pennsylvania to Montana and Back

by | Dec 13, 2017 | 8 comments

Early August in Montana, 2007. The afternoons burned hot, but the mornings were bitter and covered with frost. Our days swam together until neither the time nor the day of the week mattered at all. Dad and I had two weeks and more, long enough that the internal nagging and the mental questions about how long until all this had to end were sent away.

We watched no television. Listened to no radio. We visited no restaurants. No bars. With two coolers and a camper-freezer full of food, we restocked at a grocery store only once. It’s as far away from everything and anything as I’ve ever been, for as long of a time as I’ve ever known. There were timeless, surreal moments, and they were fantastically long.

Dad and I towed his small camper from Pennsylvania, 1900 miles in 32 hours, with no stops — just gas fill-ups and bad fast food to go.

A long road trip done that way seems fast, because your progress never stops. You burn through states and cross county lines at 80 miles an hour. And yet, you’re not doing much besides holding a steering wheel and drinking coffee, as the wide highway passes in slow motion.

Traveling west and chasing the sunset is like driving toward the past. Night falls and weariness creeps in, begging for sleep. But when you make it through the dark, your sails are hoisted with the dawn. You feel the sun push from behind as it rises again. And then on the other side of a second day, at the next sunset, the orange fire pulls you like a friend into the gentle darkness. And your headlights cut through the dewy space again, speeding west at 80 miles per hour.


The rivers were big, full of wide water like I’d never seen. The rivers were fast, tumbling down mountains taller and steeper than I’d ever known. The rivers were hard, full of huge granite boulders that dwarfed the soft limestone of my home.

And I felt small. I remember the first phone conversation with my wife. I told her all of this, how Montana was a gorgeous, incredible place, but that it was so big that I somehow felt half-size. The valleys were rugged, jagged and wide, not like the comforting green shadows and protective arching limbs of my own familiar waters.

Within two days, I lost the small feeling, and I found some balance with the land around me. And I fell in love.

Old School

Dad and Dylan

We fished morning into night until it was habit. We explored and waded large rivers and back country feeders, with few breaks in between. Dad and I sometimes lost track of the day and the hour, enough that we felt at home in a place that wasn’t our own, if just for a while.

READ: Troutbitten | The Ladder and the Sky

Two weeks. Then we packed up and burned back down the highway with the sun pushing against us. It resisted us from the east, and when the shadows shifted to the road ahead, the sun pulled us backward toward the setting horizon. The time zones and clocks added to our travel, contesting our progress eastward, until we finally crossed the Pennsylvania border, back to the familiar. In the last three hours of travel, the wheels felt like we were slogging through mud.

Then, in the final stretch, the thoughts of home warmed me from inside. Dad and I were both ready. Sixteen separate days was enough, and at last we were home. The embraces, the smiles, the stories and the laughter shared with family was welcome because it was missed.

I remember being restless on the first night home. And I walked outside at 3 am to feel the summer breeze, to smell the familiar scent of oaks and maples. I stared forever at the truck and the hitched camper, motionless, until my own legs were stiff and needed sleep.

I still daydream of those miles. I remember the cross-country travel with Dad as much as the fishing. I remember the lonely campsite atop a windy knoll. I can smell the burned-out sagebrush. And I can feel the wonderful emptiness of just me, Dad and our Border Collie. I remember the nothingness and the peace that came with it. I remember it all.

Enjoy the day
Domenick Swentosky

Share This Article . . .

Since 2014 and 600 articles deep
Troutbitten is a free resource for all anglers
Your support is greatly appreciated

– Explore These Post Tags –

Domenick Swentosky

Central Pennsylvania

Hi. I’m a father of two young boys, a husband, author, fly fishing guide and a musician. I fish for wild brown trout in the cool limestone waters of Central Pennsylvania year round. This is my home, and I love it. Friends. Family. And the river.

More from this Category

Lost Fishing Friends

Lost Fishing Friends

The lost friendship transforms a river bend — the one with the ancient and hollowed-out sycamore — into an active tombstone. The towering tree with the undercut bank becomes a place to remember shared moments of casting into cool waters, where the ghosts of laughter and fond companionship persists.

Seven Days

Seven Days

For those who fish daily, the routine resonates. We are part of the pattern, not mere observers of the design.

We have time to learn and grow, to breathe deep and sigh with satisfaction. We’ve the time to stand tall, to rise from the constant crouch and the intensity of a fisherman, to take in the surroundings, not once, but regularly. It’s the ferns, the sun and the rain, the trout in the water and the birds on the wind. It’s everything . . .

What water type? Where are they eating?

What water type? Where are they eating?

Fast, heavy, deep runs have always been my favorite water type to fish. I can spend a full day in the big stuff. I love the mind-clearing washout of whitewater. No average sounds penetrate it. And the never ending roar of a chunky run is mesmerizing. I also enjoy the wading challenge. The heaviest water requires not just effort, but a constant focus and a planned path to keep you upright and on two feet. Constant adjustment is needed to stay balanced, and one slip or misstep ends up in a thorough dunking. It reminds me of the scaffold work I did on construction crews in my twenties. I always enjoyed being a few stories up, because the workday flew by. When every movement means life or death, you’d better stay focused. I always liked that . . .

The Twenty Dollar Cast

The Twenty Dollar Cast

“Okay, Dad,” Joey bellowed over the whitewater. “Here’s the twenty dollar cast . . .”

His casting loop unfolded and kicked the nymph over with precision. And when the fly tucked into the darkest side of the limestone chunk, Joey kept the rod tip up, holding all extra line off the water. It was a gorgeous drift. And the air thickened with anticipation.

We watched together in silence as Joey milked that drift until the very end. And I think we were both a little surprised when nothing interrupted the long, deep ride of over thirty feet.

“Not this time, buddy,” I told him.

Joey flicked his wrist and repeated the same cast to the dark side of the rock. And because the world is a wonderful place, a no-doubter clobbered the stonefly nymph . . .

Nobody Home | Nobody Hungry

Nobody Home | Nobody Hungry

Nobody home means there’s no trout in the slot you were fishing. And sometimes that’s true. Nobody hungry suggests that a trout might be in the slot but he either isn’t eating, isn’t buying what you’re selling, or he doesn’t like the way you are selling it.

Does it matter? It sure does!

New Structure | Old Structure

New Structure | Old Structure

One of my favorite places in the world is a deeply shaded valley that runs north and south between two towering mountains of mixed hardwoods. The forest floor has enough conifers mixed in to block much of the sunlight, even in the winter. The ferns of spring grow tall, and thick moss is spread throughout. The ground remains soft enough here that all large trees eventually surrender to the valley. When they can no longer support their weight in the soft spongy ground, they fall over, leaving a broken forest of deep greens and the dark-chocolate browns of wet, dead bark. It’s gorgeous.

Fallen timber also dictates the course of this cold water stream. The fresh tree falls force the creek to bend away from the hillside. Rolling water carves away the earth and lays bare the rocks — these stones of time, as Maclean puts it. And when water cuts into a neighboring channel, previously dry for centuries, new river banks are undercut and fresh roots exposed . . .

What do you think?

Be part of the Troutbitten community of ideas.
Be helpful. And be nice.


  1. I made one trip there in August. It snowed the first day and warmed gradually as the vacation progressed. What sites! Three grizzlies on the banks of the Lamar River delaying our fishing that morning for nearly an hour before ambling back into the foothills. Buffalo, coyotes, wolves from afar and huge black Mormon Beetles, all breathtaking to a guy from Pennsylvania. Montana has what we lack, but we lack for nothing. Our Pennsylvania offers a unique spectacle of its own.

  2. Love it!


  4. Sounds like a great trip! Can’t go wrong, fishing with Dad. Thanks for sharing.

  5. The nut didn’t fall far from the tree, you look like your old man!


Submit a Comment

Your email address will not be published.

Recent Articles

Pin It on Pinterest