A utumn in Montana finds most anglers hunkered down in a riffle, fishing streamers with big rods for spawning browns. Naked cottonwood limbs rattle overhead in a cool breeze.
Pheasants cackle from the brush.
The subdued browns, golds, and grays of the highlands are accented by a fresh dusting of snow. A stoic angler stands hunched forward, applying with gloved hands a death grip to the cork handle of his rod, hoping for that arm-wrenching jolt of a trophy brown trout. It's work, but sometimes it pays off. But during autumn, at the tailouts of big riffles and at the edges of the weed-lined banks, something else goes on. One of the season's most predictable hatches is under way, ignored by the few anglers on the river.