I’ve always liked to present the image of a hearty fellow who wears rough-hewn clothes and drives a dirty SUV, hunts birds, and prefers fishing to all other activities. However, I’ve never cared for what is called camp food in the outdoor community. I recall an expedition to the borders of Yellowstone Park in the early 1970s with my friend Guy de la Valdène and a number of Livingston sportsmen. While the others were out for early-season elk, Guy and I fly-fished Suce Creek. It was visually interesting fishing because the others, who were on horseback, were trying to drive a herd of elk out of the park so they could be shot legally. This was a fresh insight into western life. However, dinner was something called Bob’s Campfire Chili, a wretched potage of hamburger, chunks of tomato big as a baby fish, literally pounds of chopped celery, kidney beans, and scarcely any seasoning. We did fake eating like they do in the movies, pretended whiskey was food, and took over the cooking chores the next day.
A nutritional scholar studying northern Plains foodways would come up with a slender volume indeed. Fine cuisine assumes a certain amount of leisure and money. I’m not on a high horse; everyone gets to eat what he wants. In the Sandhills of Nebraska, I didn’t shrink back from the Nuts and Gizzards $3.95 special of deep-fried calf testicles and chicken gizzards, which were fine when covered by a pink sheen of Tabasco. This proves I’m a normal guy. In addition to having your own garden, the miracle of Montana food is offered by Federal Express and United Parcel Service. The world’s food supplies are available on an overnight basis. Only moments ago, I opened a cooler containing three fresh abalone and some loins of albacore tuna sent by a predatory friend in California.
I’m lucky enough to work hard the rest of the year and fish for fifty to sixty days in the warmer months with my friend and guide Danny Lahren. We float the Big Hole, the Missouri, but mostly the Yellowstone. As others have noted, a life outdoors encourages the appetite. For coronary reasons I avoid the classic Montana breakfast of side pork or chicken-fried steak with eggs, potatoes, and cream gravy, though I admit to loving it. I trade the rowing chores with Danny because I’m the usual neurotic writer and like the soothing, somewhat autistic rhythm of rowing. Also, you get to eat more with impunity.
But what to eat? When fishing the Big Hole or the Missouri, we detour to the Front Street Market in Butte, a very good delicatessen, and curiously the closest at hand. The owner, Jim Yakawich, prepares us a huge sandwich on ciabatta bread that includes provolone, mortadella, and salami. We add Italian vinaigrette, onion, and roasted peppers in the boat just before eating to avoid the sandwich becoming soggy—few sportsmen are hearty enough to eat a wet sandwich. If the weather is cool enough, we pack along a Côtes du Rhône for the late afternoon. Frankly, alcohol in more than scant amounts is contraindicated in fly-fishing. Leaders become tangled and fish are misstruck, so the wine is usually saved for the last half hour of the day’s fishing.
For our Yellowstone floats I order supplies from Zingerman’s in Ann Arbor, Michigan, arguably the best all-around delicatessen in America, with a grand array of the world’s cheeses, especially French and English. Equally important are gift packages from Mario Batali in New York City and his father, Armandino, in Seattle. From this father and son pair I receive a dozen different artisanal salamis, lamb and duck prosciutto, as well as the sacred guanciale for the evening pasta course. There are also chunks of lardo taken from the neck fat of pigs fed only on milk and cream and fruit in the glorious last months of their lives, not less glorious than our own in my opinion.
Frankly, though, food is rarely on my mind during the hours of actual fishing, and my purge from the cultural detritus (a euphemism) that my profession often buries me in and that drives me to all the comparative solitude I can muster. Fishing requires a magnum level of attention that is curiously restorative rather than exhausting. We carry the new Sibley bird book and binoculars. and identifying birds is the only break in our concentration. We can chat about food, wine, or women but not about politics.
When our more exotic food supplies run short, we pick up fried chicken and coleslaw from Albertsons. Until lately, I’d scorned this fried chicken, but to my surprise I have found it quite good. One must order the dark meat assortment, as wise heads have determined that the ubiquitous “skinless, boneless, chicken breasts” have sapped the moral vigor of America. Generally speaking, both the mammalian and the avian species are careful about what they eat. Junk food is junk, and you can’t let down your guard when fishing.