One summer, my wife, Kelley, and I devoted a few days to fishing some of less-pressured stretches of Montana’s famed Gallatin River. While the public access points were stacked with Bozeman and Big Sky traffic, a bit of walking and wading often found us a quiet place on the river. One of those places still held the remnants of a modest channel. Its flows were slowed to a crawl by the summer sun, and its thread-bare riffles babbled softly into two deep pools.
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