TO PEOPLE who fish and hunt in the West, the greater Yellowstone region and its legendary rivers are no secret. The stretch of territory between Bozeman and Red Lodge is home to some of the most celebrated outdoor writers, artists, and assorted fishing “gurus” in the world. Rusty knows most of them, and they know him. He refers to the notables as the “princes of merriment,” but not with disdain. Anyone who would move to south-central Montana for the fishing, or the wide-open country, deserves his respect. But Rusty simply is not interested in status or fame.

“Notoriety doesn’t do that much for you in Montana, except maybe impress some of the buckle bunnies down at the bars in Livingston,” he says.

Rusty’s biggest brush with fame came in 1994, when he was featured as Fly Rod & Reel magazine’s guide of the year, an accolade that he says only prompted higher expectations from clients, and made several of his local friends “want to put rocks in his waders.”

Rusty is typical of the non-glory seeker who has seen and done more than he cares to let on. Like the small town barber who you learn won a medal of honor piloting planes in World War II, it is an ironic revelation to know that one of the very best fly-fishermen in this legendary region happens to run a small woodworking shop on a back street in Bozeman.

AFTER DAYS on the river, we enjoy sitting with Rusty in the din of his wood shop, amidst smells of cut pine and turpentine. Rusty gently winds an old Hardy Lightweight reel, shows us boxes of original, hand-tied flies, and recounts story after eloquent story from his time on the water. Nail-biting flights from Dillingham straight into blue northers, hacking out makeshift runways in the Alaskan bush, holding ground against “pissed off, straight-charging bears,” and torrents of “tundra mosquitoes” so nasty, he says, they lick the Muskol off your skin, then bite you.

He could go on for hours if not for one subject: people. It is one of the few times his wry smile and laughter subsides. Dealing with people is the toughest part of the job, Rusty says. The narrow confines of the boat, endless small talk, individuals who truly do not care about the experience, all take their toll on Rusty.

“Bears are the least of my worries,” he says. “A guide’s life is tough. I bet the divorce rate is 10 times higher among river guides than it is for doctors or cops. You can only yell 'strike' so many times before you get a brain aneurysm.”

On the water, he does his best to listen, instruct, and connect with clients, regardless of the circumstances. His job is to get you into fish. No excuses. And he probably works harder at it than anybody we have ever seen. All he asks is that the people waving the fly rods focus on the task at hand. There are days, however, that “even God can’t help.”

“Every now and then, I get these southern, type-A assholes in my boat, and all they want to do is talk about football,” he describes. “Finally, I say, ‘Look, I know a little bit about fishing, a little about hunting, and I focus on my lady friend. Organized gladiator sports don’t interest me at all.’”

SO MANY people, says Rusty, could care less about the fish. When speaking of the way Pacific salmon, West Coast steelhead, and Alaskan leopard rainbows have been — and still are — treated, Rusty becomes visibly upset. The Alaskan rainbows, an increasingly rare and irreplaceable species, are an especially painful subject. Adorned with blood red flanks and gill covers, white-tipped fins, and thousands of irregular black spots, leopard rainbows often live to be 15 or 20 years old, having adapted to the short Alaskan growing season. Three-foot fish, when they existed, may have been older than that.

“These are magnificent, post-glacial creatures, some of the most beautiful animals in the world, and many are dying right in front of the camera.”

Rusty grimaces at the thought of these great rainbows routinely being killed for trophy mounts or bragging rights. It is hard to stomach, he says, how the game was, and still is, played.

“It’s supposed to be about conservation, but I can tell you when you have a guide scratching and clawing to make a living, and a person with more money than God on an ego trip, the rules change. Two C-notes equal a dead fish.”

Rusty lights up with a grin, however, when he explains how the rainbows caught on his watch always found their way back to the water unharmed.

“I made it real clear that those trout needed to stay in the water for viewing only. That way, there was no need to worry about an accidental discharge from a .44.”

RUSTY does have his own favorite photograph. It captures the highlight of his guiding career. There is a big fish in the frame, of course, but what is really important is the expression of the woman holding the fish.

He was working out of Mission Lodge and was assigned to a husband-wife team from the Midwest. As soon as their float plane taxied to the tundra, the other anglers (including the woman’s husband), made a mad dash toward the salmon-choked runs they had spotted on their approach. “I guess that means you’re stuck with me,” the woman told Rusty.

She moved slowly because of Parkinson’s disease. Glancing at her old, second-hand rod, Rusty rigged his own with a small egg fly and had her cast it through a nearby riffle he suspected of holding a few rainbows. She was a good, experienced angler who understood how to cast and drift flies, but her body would not cooperate any longer. The disease had made her arms and hands shake to the point of continually moving her fly under the water. Even the most aggressive fish would not be interested in her offering.

Confronted with this seemingly impossible situation, Rusty had the woman dunk the end of her rod into the river after she made her casts. He knew the power of the current could absorb the trembling effects, allowing for a natural drift through the run. Minutes later, the woman hooked, fought, and eventually landed a heavily-spotted 30-inch Alaskan rainbow trout. It was the fish of the trip.

“The pilot ran over with a camera once we landed the fish,” Rusty recalls, with emotions resurfacing in his voice. “We were both holding this giant fish, tears streaming down both of our faces, smiling ear to ear.”

He pauses, then adds with grace, “She’s one of the few people I’ve had on the river almost touch God.”

THE MORNING of our second day is only slightly less windy. Rusty decides to give the Yellowstone another try. We start with a short float, then anchor beside a deep, sweeping run. Rusty wants to nymph the tailout. He grabs a rod and hikes downstream, occasionally turning over rocks in search of insect life.

Several minutes later, he is casting narrow loops of line deep into the wind and run. We just watch. Rusty uses an old Scott 7-weight Powerply rod. He says most new rods simply reinforce poor casting habits and cause sore elbows. At present, it is hard to disagree with his logic because he is pounding casts into the farthest reaches of the riffle, three times farther than us. It is an amazing sight, watching this diminutive silhouette double-hauling an entire fly line into a solid headwind.

We feel invited to a lesson. Rusty says the trick of a fly cast is the backcast. Legendary distance caster Steve Rajeff once taught Rusty that an angler should approach the backcast with the same effort and motion as throwing a drink in someone’s face. Accelerate with purpose.

He lets loose a cast that unfurls the entire fly line, straightens the leader, and drops a weighted nymph into the middle of the Yellowstone.

“Sometimes I like to take a look at my backing knot,” he grins.

PRESSING downstream, Rusty scans a series of wide, shallow runs with Quint-like conviction. Soon, his eyes are diverted and locked on an iron irrigation pipe, sucking gallons of river, then shooting the water over fields that will become a housing development and planned golf course. He does not try to hide his disgust. We ask what the new golf course will be called.

“Another travesty,” he grumbles.

The battle over water in the west is not new. The farmers of Montana’s eastern plains have used the Yellowstone’s water to irrigate fields of wheat and alfalfa for the better part of the century. Ranchers, in turn, depend on the grain to feed their cattle throughout the long, unforgiving winters. Debating the economic viability of the wheat farmer, or those who run cattle in this harsh and dry climate, however, is not high on Rusty’s list of things to do. The rancher and farmer, he says, are here to stay. And they will take as much water as they need. Conservation groups and developers are locked in a battle for second place.

The fact that the Yellowstone has endured in a natural state throughout the past century and a half despite constant and often severe draw-offs is a testimony to its character. Still, it troubles Rusty to witness the river being violated. Maybe what bothers him most is the apparent inequity with which water rights and usage are determined in the new western economy. The ranchers and farmers got to the water first, and we just pay for it, says Rusty. First come, first serve.

“Karl Marx would roll over in his grave and say, ‘Wow, that’s pretty cool,’ if he knew what the western cattlemen get in terms of water and subsidies in Montana.”

SOME of the most ardent critics of the western cattleman and his practices are the naturalists. Ranchers and naturalists (environmentalists with a “hands off” approach) have disagreed over river and adjacent land use for years. Ranchers put the river and their land to work, damming, diverting, grazing, and irrigating; naturalists would like to see the rivers returned to their unrestrained, free-flowing forms, and watersheds liberated from human development and alteration. It is easy to see why these two groups do not get along.

A living irony of their ideological rift can be found in the north end of Paradise Valley. Several decades ago, ranching families with acreage along the Yellowstone channeled and collected the natural flows of cold water springs in their pastures. What resulted was the incidental formation of some of the purest trout habitat in the world — Armstrong, DePuy’s, and Nelson’s spring creeks. Armstrong and DePuy’s flow on the west side of the river, through the O’Hair and DePuy’s ranches; Nelson’s is a shorter stretch on the Yellowstone’s east side.

All of this water is now prime trout habitat, and considered vital spawning grounds for migrating brown, rainbow, and cutthroat trout from the big river. The creeks are also home to hundreds of species of birds and river-born insects, whose hatches make for legendary dry-fly fishing. Anglers from throughout the world flock to these little creeks, sometimes planning trips years in advance, reserving the right to knock on Mrs. DePuy’s or Mrs. O’Hair’s door early in the morning to ante up a $75 rod fee. What they receive in return is the right to try their luck with some of the toughest trout in Montana.

During the spring of 1996, a catastrophic “flood of the century” occurred when a runoff-fed Yellowstone jumped its banks and washed over and into Armstrong and DePuy’s spring creeks, tearing through embankments, earthen dams, culverts, and in effect, according to the naturalists, returning the landscape to its natural state. There was heated debate in Livingston regarding the future and restoration of the creeks, and more than a few people wanted to see the Yellowstone’s new west bank left as is. But more than a million dollars later, and through the tireless bank and in-stream restorations of the O’Hairs and DePuys, the spring creeks were reclaimed. Many ardent fly-fishers, and even dyed-in-the-wool conservationists, did not complain.

Rusty Vorous is one of those. Though he saw both sides of the issue, he recognized the unique value of the fishery. Perhaps he needs it, because it is in the tight bends of the spring creeks, one of the sport’s most technically-challenging theaters, that Rusty shows his true mastery as an angler’s guide.

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