I discovered the mystery behind Livingston, MT through the words of an old Jimmy Buffett song, which told stories of the town, one on a Saturday night…. So, the trip home would of course need to pass by Livingston, to see it for myself. Jimmy doesn’t sing about crappy places.. And, as it was meant to be, the path which connects the coast of southern california to the southwestern corner of Montana was a magical journey of its own. An as luck would have it, my Livingston Saturday night would happen on a Thursday, a sunny 75 degree Thursday in October....a cold day in hell by Montana standards...
Livingston sits just north of Yellowstone National Park, and was the gateway to the park in the early 1900s. The Northern Pacific rail line ran passenger service from the east, and an intricate maze of switching tracks, freight trains, and old stations still exist today. Calamity Jane spent 20 years in Livingston, and over the years, so did scores of elite easterners, European dignitaries, and 20th century movie stars.
I walked into Dan Baileys fly shop around noon, which he setup 75 years ago, in the heart of the American western river fishing scene. The guy behind the counter set me up with a license, flies, a good place to fish, hotel, and entertainment for the night, injecting stories of his drinking days in Gloucester, Mass along with his local advice.
Less than an hour into Montana, I was enamored…I have found me a home, as Jimmy put it so well...
Three doors down, I stroll into the Murray Hotel, a bit concerned about my appearance after 3 days fishing, sleeping in the back of a car, and no shower…my pants are dirty from thigh to ankle, face wind burned, faded orange ball cap, polarized costa del mar sunglasses nestled up top. I quickly realize that I am just another fly fishing bum looking for a room, and fall back into my rhythmn. A large woman behind the counter, seemingly expecting to see me roll through the front parlor to this late 1800s railroad hotel, greeted me with a smile. A sign hung over her head requesting that firearms be checked at the front desk. I looked up and down, twice, expecting to be asked to turn over my guns, but she launched into a story about scraping ice off her windshield in January, likely started by some small talk of mine, which I deeply regretted halfway through her mind numbingly boring story. I smiled, pretending to be genuinely interested, which paid off as she offered me a suite on the 4th floor, at a rock bottom price, and far above the Murray bar.
Directions to a walk able section of the Yellowstone were pretty simple. Simple enough for me to actually find it in one shot, which says a lot. As I slid into my waders, a film crew was wrapping up a shoot alongside the river, the sight of several movies, the most famous “A river runs through it”. A young woman, evidently in charge, quickly wrapped things up with the cameramen and jumped into her convertible Saab. This new class of Montana dwellers were not welcome by the old school locals, as I later learned. Livingston history was measured in pre or post “river runs thru it" time, a defining moment which marked the downfall of society as they knew it. I found it hard to see the before and after.
The river was incredibly fast and technical, wind channeled upstream, and runs moved quickly around boulders and thru deep cuts and pools. I stumbled over grapefruit sized river stones, one foot occasionally getting stuck in the mud of a cow pasture, running along my left side. I stopped a few hundred yards up the river, my gut telling me that I was on the verge of trespassing on some guys land. A half dozen cows lay in the shade just before me, slightly intimidating because of their pure mass, but showing no signs of movement. Slowly, I worked my way back down stream, floating a dry fly and nymph dropper, and frequently untangling wind knots worked up from the 20 know breeze breathing heavily across my right shoulder. A nice brook trout fell for the presentation, a strong fish living in a strong river. I brought him up to the bank, working the fly loose from his lip, and a local guide yelled something behind me, offered some kind of fist pump, and marched faster to the entry point upriver…I grinned, knowing I just reached some milestone in my fly-fishing life….
The wind quickly reached an unmanageable level, and I packed up. It was getting close to sunset anyway.
A hot shower, and a quick walk led me to the local chop house, cold Moose Drool beer, and the finest ribs west of the Mississippi. Afterward, I retired to the Murray bar, and ponied up beside a local couple, who gave me their spin on life in Livingston, a narration of the recent invasion of the hollyweird crowd, and insight on why they were uniquely positioned to attract some of the best upcoming bands traveling the US. Eventually they slid the conversation to me. An awkward silence followed my short explanation that I was driving between California and Massachusetts, the source of all democratic evil, as they put it.
I exited stage left before the band started up, or I got beat up.... 3000 miles to go by Saturday night. It was Thursday night, 930 pm, and I didn’t have my Tony Lamas on, or my jeans pressed tight….
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