Near the end of my first day spent fishing Montana’s Madison River, I could see lenticular clouds stacking on the distant peaks. This could only mean one thing: a fall storm would hit within 48 hours.
The next day I rolled out of bed at Lone Mountain Ranch in Big Sky. I had a private cabin, and the fire in the stove was dying. As its last embers faded, I slid on waders and took a pull of coffee from a thermos that a flannel-clad ranch-hand delivered to my porch at 5:30 a.m. Then I geared up.