A father-son rafting trip on Montana’s Blackfoot River ties conservation and stewardship to family values and lifelong memories.

It was 75 degrees in the shade of the pines, and the Big Sky was powder-blue as we threw gear into the 14-foot raft floating in the Blackfoot River.

Anyone who’s done an overnight rafting trip knows that “work now, play later” is the mantra. My hopes were that this would be one of many lessons imparted on my seven-year-old son, Jackson.

My brother Ryan had secured permits for reservation-only, float-in-campsites, and we’d planned a three-day, two-night trip on the Blackfoot River in western Montana. As locals to the area, the river isn’t an exotic destination for us, but one with serious significance and an almost sacred mystique.

It was mid-June, and thanks to spring snow and rain, the river was flowing higher than we’d expected. From the steep boat ramp that slides to the belly of the river, the water was emerald green, slightly off color and dropping, perfect flyfishing conditions. Golden stones and salmon flies fluttered in the air after launching from river-bank willows.

The Blackfoot River flows 130 miles from the Continental Divide to its confluence with the Clark Fork near Missoula. Undammed and rich with wild trout, it’s known as Montana’s “Family River” for its role in local angling, boating, and community life – though the watershed faces mining legacies, development pressure, wildfire, and low streamflows. 

TRCP has long worked with local partners to conserve habitat and protect hunting and fishing access in the Blackfoot Valley. Through the BLM’s Missoula Resource Management Plan, TRCP helped secure Backcountry Conservation Areas that balance habitat protection, access, and recreation across the corridor. TRCP also supports the River Runs Through It Act, a community-driven, 25-years-in-the-making proposal to protect the Upper Blackfoot and Monture Creek while advancing habitat conservation, access, forest restoration, and wildfire reduction. 

These efforts complement the ongoing Lolo National Forest Plan Revision, which will set the long-term framework for watershed health, wildlife habitat, recreation, and forest resilience – together supporting the clean water, fish habitat, and access that define the Blackfoot. 

My son was well acquainted with this place, he’d camped on the riverbanks, fished, and swam here every year of his seven revolutions around the sun. He knew it was grizzly bear country, and he knew it held trout that would rise to a dry fly.

I think of my boy as a freestone river, at moments: a roaring torrent. At other times he’s an old soul, like a river’s ancient stones, quiet and contemplative. On this trip I’d hoped he’d see there’s something special about sharing a life alongside moving water. Maybe I’m a hopeless romantic and wishfully thinking.

We pushed off and rowed into a whitewater section, immediately dodging rocks and running small waves trains. Water surged over the bow and soaked the crew as I pointed the raft into the current’s V-pattern. My brother got to fishing immediately, a golden-stone pattern with a tungsten jig-head nymph tied below. While I rowed the boat into position and moaned about the weight of all the gear, he cast his rig into pocket water that lined the banks, surely trout would be holding there, avoiding the fast current. He hooked up on a nice brown. The fish dove then leapt into the air parallel to the boat, we all gasped and cheered. He fought the fish well and kept him on through several wave trains, but the rapid section and varying currents caused him to lose the connection, the fish came off as we exited the last drop pool.

Our first night’s camp was only a few miles from the put-in, so we took our time, fished and swam. Fishing was slower than expected, though massive, orange-bellied salmon flies hovered all around us. the Blackfoot is renowned for this hatch and trout love to gorge themselves on the Cheeto-sized snack. Catching a fast-rising trout on a large-foam dry fly, drifted and twitched on the bank is one of my favorite eats. When the fish weren’t taking the fly, we’d sit back and watch as the many species of birds swooped in and nabbed the swarming salmon flies. Western tanagers, swallows, yellow warblers, and goldfinches presented themselves and snatched the stoneflies from the air. To our surprise the seldom heralded American Robin was perhaps the best hunter of the large aerial insect, he’d dart out, hover and inhale the bugs with precision and grace, rarely missing, like a prize fighter effortlessly landing a jab.

As we floated, I thought of how the Salish, Pend d’Oreille, and Blackfeet, tribes must have looked on this river. Norman Maclean, his father and brother Paul fished these holes, some of them the exact spots described in his famous novella, A River Runs Through It. 

A quarter mile upstream of our camp we came onto a massive fir tree that had fallen across the river, a large watermaster, (a personal raft-like watercraft with an open bottom), was pinned under the log and being yanked around like a rag doll, abandoned. A sobering image and a reminder that there’s no place for complacency out here and that safety was the number one priority. Another rafter floated past us, chasing both of his oars downstream after another sort of mishap. In passing he told us the sunken boat’s captain was able to crawl out and shimmy the tree trunk to shore, we were relieved to hear he was ok.

As we drifted towards camp you could see mountain tops through the pines. Ryan pointed out a spot.

“You see those mountains back there, Jackson? That’s where your dad killed the mule deer buck you have hanging in your kitchen.”

We pulled into our first campsite; jagged purple Precambrian belt rock climbed from the river bottom and jutted out into an opening like an ancient iron gateway. The camp was small but sandy, with perfect landings for the tent and cook station.

“Work now, play later.” Ryan shouted.

We set up our tents and the cook table, swam, and threw the frisbee around before getting back to fishing. My son gripped his Echo Gecko flyrod like a baseball bat, his left hand on the fighting-butt, two-handed casting like a steelhead fisherman loading a Spey rod. He launched a golden stone fly into the soft water seam just off the main current. A nice sized rainbow trout rose from the depths, vertically took the fly and turned; Jackson set the hook and pinned him.

“Get the net, Daddy!” He shouted.

But the net was back at camp, sitting in the raft. After managing two runs from the hot rainbow, he pulled it close to shore but as I reached out, it bolted, jumped, and came off in a silver flash. He was dejected but encouraged that he could do it again.

We chatted with kayakers and rafters that floated by camp and welcomed an old friend who had waded up to our station, fishing with her friend, hooting and hollering the whole way upstream. My brother showed Jackson how to split wood with a hatchet, ignite a Bic lighter, and stack kindling to make fire for us to roast marshmallows.

The next morning, we pushed off and into a slower stretch with little to no rapids but good fishing. The dry fly action was slow, but we managed to catch a couple small westslope cutthroats, reddish pink to tawny-yellow and green, a diminishing spot pattern from tail to nose laid out like black stones scattered on a sandy shoal.

We floated into our camp for the second night, clearly marked by a lone pillar of rock protruding from the water, a bonsai looking juniper perched on top with a goose nest at its base, eggshells still in it. Thick sandbar willows on the bank parted into a small birth that gave way to the campground. We walked in and were surprised it opened into a massively wide and sandy pine flat with scattered ponderosas.

My son found a petrified shell at the base of a tree, he was proud of it, and we hypothesized it was from an ancient freshwater clam, 15,000 years old, that lived at the bottom of the prehistoric Glacial Lake Missoula.

We watched the half-light of the canyon fade at sunset and the river turned black like the glossy blue-steel on a deer rifle’s barrel. Foam lines carried cream-colored mayflies into the darkness. Before we retired, we loaded the cook station and food into the state sanctioned steel bear box to prevent any wondering bruins from being distracted.

“Work now, play later.” I mumbled.

In the morning, we had seven miles to float to the takeout and hoped we wouldn’t face a strong headwind.

“We’ll push, no fishing, just get down and out,” Ryan said.

Five minutes after we pushed off, and Ryan was fishing. The wind was minimal, and we enjoyed the biggest wave train and rapid section of the float, at these levels the fast-moving water was fun and just big enough for some excitement.

“Good job, Daddy!” Jackson shouted as I rowed the boat through the predicable whitewater.

The last hours of the float were slow fishing again, though Ryan did bring one gorgeous cutthroat to hand. We sat in more silence and enjoyed the red and yellow cliff faces, the distant mountains, and noted the bald eagle, kingfisher, osprey, and mallards. We landed at our take-out and got to work unloading the raft.

“Work now, play later.” We all repeated the mantra.

The heat of the truck on the drive home only helped to exacerbate my drowsiness. We recounted the fish we’d caught, the ones we’d lost and made plans for our next adventure together.

I was grateful to spend time with my brother and son on our family river. I’d wanted to give Jackson the playbook for getting after it and the lifestyle that’s possible here. I hoped this trip would be foundational for him and that by rafting through the canyon, he too would strive to steward and conserve this river. Regardless, the young boy soaked it all in, his eyes were wide on several occasions, and he echoed our sentiment.

“This is a special place.”

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