'A SIMPLE, YET VIVID, ACCOUNT'

Two Medicine Lake and Rising Wolf Mountain

            "In the morning an early start was made, and evening found us away up on the Medicine River, where the first pines grow. The next noon we went into camp on the shores of the lake, our lodges being pitched in a grassy little bit of prairie on the north side. Back of us rose the long, high pine and quaking aspen ridge, which divides the deep valley from the plains. In front, across the lake, was a long cliff-topped mountain of gray sandstone, its slope densely forested with pines. The grand view was to the west. First, but three or four miles distant, a huge, heart-shaped, snow-patched mountain, which I named Rising Wolf, in honor of the greatest plainsman of us all, my friend Hugh Monroe. Beyond that, hemming in a vast amphitheater of lake and forest, rose more mountains, cliff-faced and needle-pointed, forming the divide of the great range. Rose and gold they were in the rising sun, jet-black when silhouetted against the evening sky. We never tired of gazing at them, their shifting colors, the fleecy clouds of a morning banding their splendid heights.

Blackfeet camping at Two Medicine Lake

            The campsite selected. Ashton and I jointed the rods he had brought out from the East, set reels, strung lines, and attached the moistened leaders and flies. Then we walked down to the outlet of the lake, only a hundred yards or so distant, followed by every one in our camp, including the children. I had talked about the pleasure of fly-fishing. The Indians were anxious to see this, to them, new phase of the white man's arts. Ashton made the first cast, and his artificial flies were the first that ever lit upon the waters of the Two Medicine. The response was generous. The placid water heaved and swirled with the rush of unsophisticated trout, and one big fellow, leaping clear from the depths, took the dropper with him in his descent. The women screamed. "Ah-hah-hai'!" the men exclaimed, clapping hand to mouth. "Strange are the ways of the white men. Their shrewdness has no end; they can do everything."

An older Schultz with
fly rod & stringer of fish in-hand

            The big trout made a good fight, as all good trout should do, and at last came to the surface on its side, exhausted. I slipped a landing net under it and lifted it out, and again there were exclamations of surprise from our audience, with many comments upon the success of it all, the taking of so large a fish with such delicate tackle. Trout we had in abundance, rolled in yellow cornmeal and fried to that delicate brown color and unsurpassed flavor which all true fisherman appreciate.
            Thus the days passed in peace and happiness."


            The above excerpt is from My Life As An Indian, one of my favorite books by one of my favorite writers, James Willard Schultz. It's a simple, yet vivid, account of a trip back into what is now Glacier National Park, in Montana, where the author and a close friend were the first to fly-fish the pristine waters of Two Medicine Lake. Though the story takes place sometime in the early 1880's, the adventure and romance the telling of it conjures up still speaks as clearly to the outdoorsman of today as it did when it was written more than one hundred years ago.

Apikuni talking over old times with his
old friend Bobtail Chief of the Bloods tribe  

            If'n the Good Lord's a willin', one of these days, this here coon's headin' to Montana to hike and fish and camp amongst them same mountains, and with me I'll be takin' a couple of ol' Apikuni's books to read by the fire of a night.

            "Who is Apikuni?", you say. Why... Schultz, of course. That's the name the Blackfoot Indians gave him when he married into the tribe, means 'Spotted Robe' or some such. Come on... you know... Apikuni, the white Indian?
            Good Lord! Where have you been? I thought ever'body knew who Apikuni was. Why, back in the day, boys and men alike eagerly awaited his latest stories to be published. They couldn't wait to get their hands on 'em. Through his stories, they could travel the Great Plains, hunt buffalo, venture into the mountains, and know the free life of the Blackfeet.
            Say the name still don't ring a bell? Well, I declare! Friend, what you need to do is get yourself a James Willard Schultz book and dive right in. I guarantee ya... you won't be disappointed!

Two Medicine Lake, Glacier National Park, Montana, USA

            "I will travel the well-worn trails, cast flies on famed waters, witness nature's breathtakin' beauty with awe and appreciation, and make my bed under the Heavens, brilliant with a blanket of stars; and late of an evenin', as the temperature starts to drop and the shadows grow long, then deepen, I will rest by the fire and recall the stories of the old ones." - Barry D. Jennings