Summer Reflections

Returning to the same spot year after year allows for routines to form, relationships to develop, and memories to be made—which is how Boris Fishman fell for the simple pleasures of Montana’s Flathead Lake.

- Boris Fishman

Oh, man, I’m jealous as hell,” the guy said, shaking his head, when I told him I’d be spending the Fourth of July weekend at Flathead Lake, in northwestern Montana. We were in Hamilton, at the southern end of the Bitterroot Valley—not exactly ugly country. The snow-crowned brows of the Sapphire Mountains (where you can pan yourself a sapphire in the tailings of the area’s numerous mines ) peered down at us through the window of the coffee shop where he was pulling my iced mocha. The man himself was heading to the Madison River, near West Yellowstone, a worldwide destination for fly-fishing.

But even in a state as naturally blessed as Montana, which has more than 3,000 lakes, Flathead has distinction. Not only because it runs longer than a marathon—it’s the largest freshwater natural lake west of the Mississippi— and ripples with water of gem-like translucence but because often it feels like so few people know about it. Of course, if the lake is little more than a drive-by for the swarm of travellers en route to Glacier National Park and White fish, the highend ski town just to the north, that’s just fine with the locals. When I rhapsodise about Flathead, they nod and smile patiently, then say, “Well, don’t tell people about it.”