There’s moving water here, though it’s not easy to see, even when standing up close in the tall grasses. Trout swim in good numbers as they hide beneath undercut banks, clumps of willow, or hold out in the open seams of miniscule current sipping small mayflies, grasshoppers, and errant ants. A gargantuan specimen in this water would extend to perhaps eleven inches, twelve if truth were not an important factor. This little Montana stream hangs out where wild horses roam, narrow, twisted roads designed by madmen cling to cliffs, and Yellowstone cutthroat are considering a comeback in a rancher’s ponds nearby. A few yards to the north is Crow land, off limits to all but tribal members and the ghost of Chief Plenty Coups. Signs demark the line between the people’s ancients ways and the encroachment of a modern world. Tiny streams like this one draw my attention as quickly and strongly as do rivers that hold large browns or in the northwest part of the state, bull trout. Having the mind of a child and no adult supervision has its advantages, like fishing for down-sized brook trout with a five-foot, two-weight rod and drifting back to childhood when any running water, a can of worms, and a fishing pole equated to magic, adventure, and freedom.