Bill Haviland describes his favorite fishing hole north of his hometown of Deer Lodge, Montana.
My childhood friend William Kelsey Haviland, no longer walking among us, wrote his thoughts on fishing a few years back. It’s worth sharing, if no other reason than to hear Bill’s voice one last time, much as we heard Norman Mclean speak of the ghostly water as he ended “A River Runs Through It.” Bill describes his favorite fishing hole north of our hometown of Deer Lodge, Montana. He died in the summer of 2014 when complications from diabetes stole his eyesight, stilled his legs, silenced his heart. In his essay, he speaks of Bob, another childhood friend who died of leukemia at age 30. And so the river runs over rocks from the basement of time.
By Bill Haviland
I fished the Blackfoot downstream of the bridge that crosses the river coming off Beck Hill. The river closed to fishing after noon because of low water and high temperatures. The Little Blackfoot seems to stay cool because of the many springs feeding it along its banks.
I crawled under two barbed wire fences, one between the road and railroad tracks, and one between the railroad and river. Old fences are loose enough to get under. I walked downriver through the tall cottonwoods.
