I was too excited to sleep so we hit the water early.
The day before I met the mother of the third generation to grow up on this magic stretch of the Madison River in Montana.
Her childhood memories of camping with the neighbor kids on the river’s edge feasting on the first catch of the open trout season reminded me of my own outdoor adventures and freedom as a child.
Her stories of picnics in Pickle Jar Meadow, sunrise at Frank’s Hole, and the beaver trapper who homesteaded this area filled my mind during the morning fish upstream.
As usual, the catch was smaller wild rainbows and browns in the three to six-inch range who fight like crocodiles.
Past due for a Montana Monster Fish I decided to experiment with a crazy long tippet rolling it out quietly on the water, delivering the tiny fly far beyond the end of the bright yellow fly line and thick leader.
The fly line spooks them but the tiny fly landing a few seconds later can trick the distracted fish.
The leader and lengthy tippet were much longer than the 7.5-foot rod I was using, but sometimes it works in pressured, end of summer waters.
It’s also a rig that rules out using a net to land a fish, especially waist-deep in big water currents. Ass far as I know, but I’m always open to learning if a full-timer is available.
This time I knew the name of Frank’s hole when I stripped and jigged a beetle across the confluence of the cabin side stream and the roaring Madison.
Frank and Joe could catch fish no matter the location or conditions and sounded a lot like my Dad and his best friend Jim.
Frank’s hole was just off the front yard and deck of the cabin he built in the 70’s. It’s a stunning view and the fishing hole name is a proper tribute to the man and his family legends.
I was daydreaming about that when the Madison Monster hit stripping line and skipping my heart as he torpedoed out of the water.
Muscle memory kicked in popping my rod tip up and line pressure tight yet responsive. I’d give him plenty of space to wear himself out and come in gently.
Steering him out of the weeds meant I had to stay in the middle of the strong, deep current where an experienced monster can throw a hook easily.
He fought like a machine and I reeled in line during his brief rests, but still had too much line out given how long he’d been on. Eyeing a possible path to shore I decided to try to sweep him across the current to land.
This strategy is my least favorite because it takes the fish out of water increasing the stress and potential for injury. It’s even rougher on the fish than lifting it out of the water to get a photo because fish thrash about in panic on land.
It’s hard to catch and release when you’ve maimed a fish in the catching process. For me, it’s too cruel just to have bragging rights or photos of the landing.
The river dance is normally more than enough for me, but I was past due for a monster catch and hooked deep in this fantastic challenge.
Fate twisted in favor of the fish when I turned toward shore tripping over a submerged boulder and crossing the tight line into my pole with a definitive SNAP.
Monster Fish 1. Cindy 0.
To add insult to injury my defeated slouch rolled me into the strong current filling my waders with ice cold water.
On the way down I snatched my phone from the open bib pocket, holding it triumphantly in the air while body surfing down the river.
I heard Rocky’s distant, sharp bark and shrill yelps just as I was pulling myself out of the water. Adrenaline slammed into my legs propelling me past cabins across Pickle Jar Meadow through the shoulder high 
thorny brambles over several downed logs and into the side stream calling for Rocky and getting no answer.
No yelps. No barks.
I spotted him slammed into a log jam scrambling to find purchase on the slippery logs.
Our eyes locked and he arched to leap toward me just as I held my hand up signaling STOP. WAIT.
I’d never catch him if he jumped into the fast current even though I was running like a mama bear through the river.
Years of training, our combined stubborn will, and plenty of help from Frank, Joe, my Dad, and all the guardian angels in this stretch held Rocky frozen in that perilous perch until I lunged the last few yards and bear hugged his chest.
We might be going down but we were going down together.
There was no easy way out of this mess. Direct access to the shore was totally blocked by decades of downed trees.
The current was too strong and water too deep 
for Rocky to wade. I’d have to carry him upstream through the current around the log jam to shore.
He’s 50 pounds and I’m not 29 anymore, but adrenaline, the force of will, and the power of love is an amazing combination.
We groaned at the same time and I laughed pulling ourselves up the steep bank and out of the water.
Rocky squirreled beneath the brush but it took me forever to work myself through the tangle of thorns I had torn past in seconds earlier.
Exhausted, winded, and grateful I crouched at the top of the slope with my hands on my knees when I saw something that caught my breath, “Are you kidding me? ”
The labyrinth.
I hadn’t noticed it in Pickle Jar Meadow but the day before Chris told me about the years she and her kids would collect and place rocks carefully creating their family labyrinth.
She had texted me 
before I hit the river to let me know she left a gift for me in the labyrinth center.
I had no idea I’d be in a state of absolute grace when I got there. No idea the first steps on level ground would land Rocky and me in front of this sacred space.
Sloshing in my freezing, waterlogged waders around that labyrinth immersed in the gift of the miracles of this day I was mindful of little more than grace.
Snuggled in a warm, soft blanket back at the cabin devouring homemade rosemary pear preserves, I am gratefully mindful that life doesn’t get any better than this.
Two weeks in downtown Minneapolis can suck the last drop out of a gal like me. I travel the rough back roads of this country solo and rarely feel vulnerable, afraid, or exposed. But a lot of time in most cities is draining. San Francisco, Montreal, and Istanbul are the exceptions.
hikes along the downtown Nature trails infused Rocky and me. The festivals, museums, music, and food reflect an appreciation of high talent and passion. I’m grateful for the hospitality the fine staff at Town Suites on 2ndStreet offered Rocky and me.
state parks are within an hour drive of the city. The flooding of St. Croix created an awesome canoe ride on a sunny Sunday.
I knew what I needed and why. I didn’t know what state or national forest would answer my call for a cold, mountain creek with deep forest shade and enough flat space to set up camp. Frequent rain is a bonus.
Firing up my orienteering brain, GPS, and the Forest Service’s off road maps we set off to find our next hermitage in the woods. But the answer to my call for a mountain peak and valley creek took me far beyond even Subaru’s impressive off grid GPS coverage. The paper map led me to blockades of private land, cut timber, and herds of cattle common in today’s national forests.
One deep breath disabled the brain and my open, willing heart took the lead focusing with gratitude on the cool, moist breeze, towering spruce, green rolling meadows, and distant granite peaks. Each turn on the ATV trail offered more than I had planned or prepared for. What did it matter if there was no creek?
A delighted laugh flew from my heart as I rounded a bend. A small clearing created when diseased trees were removed nurtured a new meadow
I couldn’t overthink camp set up because there was only one possible, perfect option. Shade for the camper, space for the shower/bathroom, 
stumps and cut timber for tables and chairs. The meadow was just right for optimum solar collection and a small deer trail led to the creek. I quickly assembled a basic camp and slept deeply to the sound of running water.
Over coffee a curious bumblebee with an odd flight pattern feasted on purple flowers by my chair. He might have a limping flight but was not lacking in strength and agility I noticed lighting incense and settling into meditation.
He was gone when I came back to physical awareness but returned often. His visits correlated with each new item I set up in camp. The two awnings, bathroom tent, a tablecloth over stumps to create a kitchen seemed to draw him like an inspector. He would hitch a ride on my feet, arms or hands.
I would too! I thought watching him crash land on the kitchen counter and crawl onto the raw veggies to nap.
Bee arrived with a hard landing on the map and danced in circles along the winding map trail markings. Between dances he slept, so still the only sign of life was the light reflecting in his eyes. So bees sleep with eyes open?
By the third morning he had let go of gathering nectar in the meadow, preferring to stay snuggled in the altar bustling with a community of spiders, honeybees, beetles and ants. Extravert aye? I mused as I broke my “don’t kill the wildflowers” cardinal rule and placed his favorite purple flower next to him on the altar. He perked up and fed for hours between naps. I tucked him in that night with visions of angelic hives, prayers for peace, and a deep appreciation for his quiet companionship.
Seemed fitting. Like Elijah, Bee reminded me to be bit more mindful of daily manna in the wilderness that defy life or death polarities. This elusive, often fleeting awareness deeply restores a vibrant, healthy, happy harmony in every part of me and has since I was a girl living in the woods with creeks and ponds.