It took forty years, and then some. I'd read about it. Thought about it. Driven by it. Shot elk in the nearby mountains. Regarded the flotillas of angler laden drift boats. But fished it?
I planned to hike up Beartrap Canyon on the lower Madison, but didn't stop. I kept on driving, all the way to Three Dollar Bridge.
The upper Madison is, as they say, one big riffle.
And it contains fish.
After all of the years, they missed me.