Bulls Eye There was a good bank on the Missouri, just down from the dam above Craig, with caddis fluttering and trout rising. We’d waited all day for a hatch, any hatch, and all of a sudden it happened. We grabbed rods, pulled on the waders and raced for a gate that provides access to that prime section, only to find a trio of giant bulls blocking our way.
My father worked on a ranch, friends, too. I was trying to remember what they said about bulls being aggressive. In the spring or at the end of summer? This seemed important. I did suddenly recall that one of my friends had been pitched over a fence by a bull and now felt lucky to be alive. At least he’d escaped the mating ritual. Unfortunately, there was only one way to find out how aggressive those bulls on the banks of the Missouri might be. I said, “Yo, Kevin, I’ll give you five bucks if you’ll smack one of those bulls with the tip
of your fly rod.” Kevin’s approach was hesitant at best and I secretly wished I hadn’t forced the bet. Did I really want to see Kevin mauled by a bull, or worse, because I thought it would be amusing? That’s a lot of baggage to carry through the rest of your life. But I kept my mouth shut and watched the show.