One More For The Road

[{"type":"text","text":"You gotta respect the guy for following the rules..."}]

One more for 6 29 23

Cowboy State Daily is Wyoming’s largest newspaper with Wyoming’s most experienced journalists. 

<title>One More For The Road: Thursday, June 29, 2023 | Cowboy State Daily</title>

You gotta respect the guy for following the rules...

One More For The Road: Thursday, June 29, 2023

 You gotta respect the guy for following the rules...

Headshot of Cowboy State Daily reporter, Dale Killingbeck

Dale Killingbeck

Wyoming Life

He was a collector of cars, coins, guns, clocks, rocks, friends and anything else that claimed his interest.

And if there wasn’t a garage on his property, he built one.

A year after the passing of Dale Corkill his widow, Patricia, and stepdaughter, Amanda Lake, are trying to find good homes for two of his four-wheeled possessions. 

He and Patricia closed on a house in Glenrock, sent three cars to its garage, and then he died of cancer at a Riverton hospice on May 21, 2025, a week before he was to move in.

Patricia Corkill said she did not realize how many cars her husband of 26 years owned at the time he died, but she pulled out a stack of titles she had to get transferred into her name.

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"}],"text":"He had them stored in various garages."}]

“It took half a day at the clerk’s office to get everything switched over,” she said. “Then I had to go back. You should have seen the no-smiley faces.”

She just sold his 1941 Chevy Master Deluxe to a man from Denver. Now there just remains a 1925 Model T Opera car and a 1931 Model A Ford with a rumble seat.

“The Opera car has this shade in the back and it would also have a vase,” Patricia said. “The driver or whoever could put a flower in it.”

She said the front seat looks like a couch and noted the cars then were built for smaller people than are typical today.

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"},{"type":"bold"}],"text":"Parade Car"}]

Lake said her stepdad would drive the Model T in parades in Dubois and Lander. His passenger had to pump a non-original water-filled squirt bottle with a hose attached to keep the little four-cylinder engine and radiator from overheating at the parade pace.

Patricia Corkill said when her husband bought the Model T, as well as the Model A, they were already restored. But he purchased other cars and equipment that would require his skills as a mechanic and electrical whiz.

Mostly, she believes her husband purchased the cars because he enjoyed history and old things.

The couple met at the Dave Johnston Power Plant, where Dale Corkill worked for more than 30 years as an instrument technician.

He was born in Lander and spent his high school years in Casper, graduating from Natrona County High School in the same class as the late Vice President Dick Cheney. 

“He liked him of course and Lynn also,” Patricia Corkill said. “We went to a class reunion and I got to shake hands with him. I didn’t wash my hand for a week.”

Afte Dale's retirement from PacificCorp, he spent three years working for Basin Electric.

Patricia said when she retired from the Dave Johnston Power Plant, he left the Wheatland job and they moved to a cabin he had owned for several years and spent the next 17 years in that region.

Dale knew all of the Bridger-Teton National Forest and Shoshone National Forest trails and sites of interest. He often acted as a guide for friends and others on snowmobile trips or four-wheeler excursions.

“I guess you could probably call him the original Airbnb person up on Union Pass taking care of people’s cabins and stuff for them,” Lake said. “Not everybody lives there year-round.”

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"},{"type":"bold"}],"text":"Skilled Mechanic"}]

Patricia Corkill said her husband was the type of guy who fixed nearly anything: Snowmobiles, four wheelers, older cars, tractors. She said he was raised in a one-bedroom house in Casper and his dad was a carpenter and mechanic.

After graduation from high school, Dale went to Casper College and graduated with a degree in electronics. Once at the Dave Johnston Power Plant in his later years he became a teacher for other operators and even after retirement would go back to put on classes, Patrica said.

Lake said he was always a man on the move working on equipment, fixing clocks, hunting rocks, or helping others.

Patricia said whenever they moved to a new home, if the property didn’t have a garage our outbuildings he built one.

The couple from 2017 to 2025 lived in Riverton and then planned to move back to Glenrock despite his illness.

“When we bought this place, he saw the garage and said ‘let’s buy it,’” Patricia said. “Before he even came into the house.”

Besides building garages, Dale loved to listen to older people tell their stories and was ready hand to help them with projects — helping one Douglas-area widow and friend with her estate after her husband died.

When the couple prepared to move from Riverton to Glenrock, it took two auctions to downsize from the all the collection of equipment, cars, rocks, clocks and other items.

They had a three-car garage, three sheds, and a big shop full of tools, cars, rocks and more.

“He was a man that loved history and enjoyed seeing it in the old gadgets,” Patricia said. “You have no idea how much stuff we had to get rid of because we were downsizing so much. It hurt him bad, but he knew that he was not able to take care of it anymore.”

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"},{"type":"bold"}],"text":"Rock Collection"}]

Patricia Corkill said her husband’s rock collection that included polished stones as well as just rocks made more money than the first auction that included equipment, tools and household items.

She retains some of the rocks they collected as well as other unique items such as lamps used in the Glenrock coal mines, a razor sharpener, and arrowheads from all over Wyoming.

Patricia said her husband loved going to auctions.

“You could show him something and he could tell you the story behind it,” Lake said.

Mother and daughter posted the last of Dale Corkill’s wheeled collection they want to sell on social media sites a couple weeks ago.

 features wooden spoked wheels, a throttle on the column, and a battery so there's no need to twist a crank to start it — though that’s available for back up. The red-bulb hood ornament/radiator cap apparently helps the driver keep his hands from getting burned when removing the cap.

Patricia Corkill said the engine on the Model T was replaced by a previous owner, so the number does not match the original title.

 features a winged bird in flight as its combination hood ornament and radiator cap, spoked rims, spare tires with Ford covers on both sides of the car, and a metal carry rack that folds out off the back behind the rumble seat. The little four-cylinder engine boasts 4,635 miles on its odometer.

The last time both cars were fired up and driven was during a parade three years ago.

“We just want to find good homes for them,” Patricia Corkill said.

Model T and mug 7 25 26

<title>Glenrock Widow Trying To Find Homes For Husband's 1925 Model T And 1931 Model A | Cowboy State Daily</title>

A Glenrock widow has stories to tell about her late husband who was a prolific collector of cars, rocks, clocks, guns, gadgets, and much more. A year after his death, she's still trying to "find good homes" for his 1925 Model T Opera car and 1931 Model A.

Glenrock Widow Trying To Find Homes For Husband's 1925 Model T And 1931 Model A

Headshot of Cowboy State Daily's business and tourism reporter, Renée Jean

Renée Jean

On a hot July afternoon at Frontier Park, two brothers sit side by side sharing a drink and decades of memories.

The Brewster brothers, John and Bill, are among Cheyenne Frontier Days longest-serving volunteers, starting in 1962 and 1959 — if you don’t count the years when they helped their dad, who was Indian Chairman at the time, 

“You remember dad on those Indian trips?” Bill asks with a chuckle.

“That doesn’t count,” John says, shaking his head. 

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"}],"text":"“When was that? ’51 to?” Bill says."}]

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"}],"text":"“It was ’50 to ’52,” John replies."}]

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"}],"text":"Or maybe it was until 1953, Bill suggests."}]

They decide John has volunteered 64 years, while Bill has 70 years in all. That’s 134 years between them — longer than Cheyenne Frontier Days has been around.

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"}],"text":"They laugh, as if at an inside joke. "}]

The math all done, time has a way of blurring together, the Brewster brothers told Cowboy State Daily with a laugh and a shrug. 

It’s been a time that’s full of story and family. 

“Do you remember when those cowboys from the ranch used to come by?” Bill asked John. “They were all World War I veterans. They’d come by and drink a little whiskey and smoke cigarettes in the living room, and some of them still rolled their own. You know just being around cow people is … I’ve been a cowboy all my life.“

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"}],"text":"“Me, not so much,” John interjected."}]

“That’s OK,” Bill said with a chuckle. “I’ve got a picture of you on a horse. Saw it the other day.”

It’s proof, if nothing else, that John belongs the same way Bill belongs, in Cheyenne Frontier Days' unofficial pop-up city of volunteers, doing all the unsung jobs that keep this historic event rolling smoothly along.

For all the flashy cowboys, arena lights and concerts, it’s volunteers like the Brewster brothers who have become the real soul of Cheyenne Frontier Days, and not just for the work they do. It’s the stories they carry inside their heads. 

They are a living archive of ranch hands, rodeo legends, and family moments that range from World War I cowboys to Indian trips with the likes of Princess Blue Water. 

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"},{"type":"bold"}],"text":"Fighting Custer"}]

“I’ve got to tell the story about Dad bringing the Indians down,” John said with a chuckle.

Bill nodded his head to say, “Yes, please do,” and his eyes had a twinkle.

“Dad was Indian Sheriff, and they used to bring the Indians down in open trucks from Pine Ridge,” John said.

“They were just bobtail cattle trucks,” Bill added with a laugh.

“There were two who would ride with my father in a car,” John said. “They were Princess Blue Water, Rose Ecoffey and Joseph High Eagle. He was the last surviving combatant in the Custer massacre. He was 15 when he fought Custer.”

High Eagle would often try, in a mixture of sign language and Oglala Sioux, to tell the Brewster brothers’ dad about the fight.

“Rosie’s in the middle,” John said. “And Dad’s driving.”

“No, no,” Bill said. “I’m sitting right behind High Eagle, and she’s sitting right next to me in the back seat. And he starts in with sign language, and maybe Oglala too, talking about the Custer massacre, trying to tell my dad about it.”

Except, he claims that the Indians just had arrows, which the Brewster brothers believe to be false.

“They had rifles better than we had,” Bill said. “They had all Winchesters and we had our Henrys. We had single shots.”

The conversation at the time was making their dad uncomfortable, John recalled. 

“Dad kind of gave this look, like, ‘Really?’ ” John said with a chuckle. “And Rose said, ‘You’re safe. He likes you.’”

Ecoffey was an amazing woman, Bill added. “She was blind in one eye,” he said.

John and Bill have both personally heard her tell the story of how she came to slap the Prince of Wales. 

Blue Water was 7 years old, according to family legends, and told Queen Victoria her people would bow to no one.

“She told us they had been introduced at the court of Queen Victoria, and she said, 'I only bow to the president,’” John said. “And Edward the Eighth was standing there and he laughed.”

Ecoffey had thought he was laughing at her in that moment.

“So she slapped him, and he laughed all the harder,” John said. “And she said, ‘When we got back to the hotel, let me tell you what my father did to me!' She got into trouble for that.”

Ecoffey frequently visited the Brewster family whenever she was in town.

“She and my mother were great friends,” Bill said, wrapping one finger around another. “They were close. They’d come to the house and they’d bring a couple cartons of cigarettes and sit around the garden to smoke. They’d all be in costume.”

Bill still has a photo of Princess Blue Water sitting in the garden with other members of the tribe such as Charlie Red Cloud, Frank Afraid of Horse and Levi Sitting Hawk.

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"},{"type":"bold"}],"text":"It’s A Family Tradition"}]

Stories like that might not show up in a rodeo program, but they’re part of the living memory Cheyenne Frontier Days’ longtime volunteers have built around the event in the process of volunteering year-in, year-out.

For people like the Brewster brothers, Cheyenne Frontier Days isn’t just another event on the calendar. It’s the main event.

Pulling on a pair of cowboy boots and slapping on a cowboy hat to help run the rodeo in Cheyenne was simply what you did in the summer when you lived in Cheyenne — for generations running.

“It’s just part of life,” John said. “It’s part of summer. As far back as I remember, our mother was a member of a ranch family and our grandfather was on the Frontier Days parade in the '20s, so it’s family here, it really is.”

“Our dad rode a caisson in the arena here with the Black Horse Battery,” Bill said. “That was a wagon behind the horses and attached to that was a cannon.”

Over the years, the Brewster brothers have quietly done just about every job a volunteer can do. Bill started out driving parade wagons and later shifted to the carriage ranks, then worked around the chutes, and even recited the Cowboys’ Prayer on the last Saturday of Frontier Days.

“That’s on the final Saturday,” John said. “The rodeo stops. They read all the names of the volunteers, cowboys, anybody involved with ranching that has passed away, and then they recite the Cowboys’ Prayer, and Bill would do that.”

“I’m only the fifth guy who ever did it,” Bill added. “Well, there’ve been a couple in between. I’m not going to be doing it this year, I’ll do it again next year.”

John spent time doing the “car count” in the early 1960s, tallying up license plates by state so the announcer could tell the crowd how many people had come from which state. Then he moved into parades and contract acts, helping juggle wagons, floats, queens, VIPs and the Grand Entry. 

These days, he hammers out the entire parade lineup, and he’s the guy behind the 10-gauge blank cannon that booms to officially start the parade.

Between them, they’ve stitched together a lifetime of jobs that rarely make headlines, but are still essential to keeping the Daddy of ‘em All on track. To them, it’s just another summer in Cheyenne, but it means the world to an event that’s celebrating 130 years of rodeo. 

John and Bill Brewster 20260721 131233 7 23 26

<title>The Brewster Brothers: 134 Years Of Cheyenne Frontier Days In Two Cowboy Hats | Cowboy State Daily</title>

Cheyenne Frontier Days has 2,700 volunteers, many of them multigenerational. Among them are the Brewster brothers, who have 134 years of volunteering between them. "Our grandfather was on the Frontier Days parade in the '20s, so it’s family here.”

The Brewster Brothers: 134 Years Of Cheyenne Frontier Days In Two Cowboy Hats

Welsch mug

Jeff Welsch

Outdoors

A few hundred yards downstream, after 70 miles of twists and turns and memories and restoration of a base human spirit, a white pickup truck appeared beyond the vertical lip of a canyon wall on river right and disappeared swiftly behind another tower of rock on the left.

Almost in unison, 22 hearts — one for each first-time floater on the revered emerald gem that is central Idaho’s Middle Fork of the Salmon River, including and especially mine — sank.

The truck harkened an inevitability we all understood and accepted, but still dreaded as this jarring reality loomed ever larger each day.

We were plying the last stretch of the crown jewel of America’s wild rivers and, in my case, closing the book on an elusive spiritual pursuit 40 years in the making.

An odyssey that began six days earlier with a backcountry flight into a dirt airstrip was now a few half-hearted oar strokes from takeout at busy Cache Bar, after a left turn and one more mighty rapid on the Main Salmon River.

Silence engulfed us, save for the ever-fainter roar of the last of the Middle Fork’s 100-plus rapids, the chirp of chukars pecking at bugs on a boulder-strewn shore, and the goodbye echoes of wind whispering off canyon walls that towered above us like granite cathedrals.

Our bearded and tanned trip leader Murph, no stranger to this moment and its emotional swings, swiveled his head toward the four other yellow rafts and read our collective minds like a seasoned therapist.

“Welcome,” he announced, “to the most depressing place on Earth.”

Murph himself was wrestling with those emotions, as he’d conceded he would when he first gripped his oars at the Indian Creek launch site in the heart of America’s largest contiguous wilderness area.

He pirouetted his raft 180 degrees and pointed it upstream, putting the growing vehicle traffic out of sight if not out of mind, and we all followed suit. We gazed one final time up the waters we’d covered, contemplating a landscape unmatched in the Lower 48 states.

Even the group’s six 11-to-14-year-old kids, who’d spent the morning playfully smacking the water’s surface with paddles and gleefully celebrating drenching descents through rapids with foreboding names such as Devil’s Tooth and Foreplay and House of Rocks, solemnly rested those same paddles across their knees.

No heart was at once more melancholy and yet full as the one belonging to the second-oldest member of the expedition.

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"}],"text":"Mine."}]

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"},{"type":"bold"}],"text":"Unaltered For Millennia"}]

The Middle Fork of the Salmon is born at the confluence of gin-clear Marsh and Bear Valley creeks on the eastern edge of the Sawtooth Mountains. The river carves a serpentine chasm through the craggy Idaho Batholith and, climactically, Impassable Canyon, the third deepest gorge in North America.

Its waters plunge an average of 30 feet per mile, producing nearly continuous rapids over its 104 miles.

Its flow, unaltered for millennia, is regulated purely and solely by Mother Nature — no dams, no agricultural pumps, no diversions, no community water systems, no wastewater effluent, no rip-rap and no spans save for a handful of suspension bridges for foot and equine trail traffic.

The trout fishing is world-class, the hot springs restorative, the rapids exhilarating as well as 

 with one notable and intensely personal exception 

To safeguard the Middle Fork’s fragile integrity, a scant seven launches per day are allowed between commercial and private trips. The odds of the average citizen winning the Middle Fork lottery are about 1 in 55, with 20,000 applicants vying for roughly 350 slots each year.

President Jimmy Carter wasn’t encumbered by such long odds in August 1978 when he floated the Middle Fork, along the way instilling in his wife, Roslyn, a passion for fly-fishing. Two years later he would sign the Central Idaho Wilderness Act into law, the name soon to change to Frank Church-River of No Return Wilderness.

“I think if I had to pick out the three or four best days of my life in politics, it was the time I spent going down the Salmon River by raft two summers ago. This was a delightful trip,” Carter said at the 1980 signing. “The River of No Return, encompassing the Middle Fork of the Salmon River, is indeed one of our nation’s treasures.”

Even the Colorado River of the Grand Canyon, for all its aura and remoteness, is bookended by dams, its flows dictated by the demands and whims of far-flung water users.

The Middle Fork is as pure as the driven snows that blanket its upper reaches and feed it, along with the dozens of creeks that sustain and nurture it.

The mere utterance of the words “Middle Fork” move riverkeepers worldwide to genuflect.

A Middle Fork descent became a vision quest for me a few years after Carter’s visit, when as a 20-something Idaho journalist and budding river enthusiast I was struck by the local reverence for it.

Grown man-card-carrying, beef-eating Idaho men admitted to weeping at the sight of those same anti-climactic trucks and boat trailers.

While awaiting my turn, I rafted and kayaked many of the West’s great whitewater rivers — Idaho’s Main Salmon, Lower Salmon, South Fork of the Payette, South Fork of the Boise, and even the impossibly elusive Selway with its single launch per day; Oregon’s Rogue, Deschutes, McKenzie and Illinois; the Alberton Gorge section on Montana’s Clark Fork; and my splashy introduction to rafting at age 22 in Lunch Counter and the Big Kahuna rapids on Wyoming’s Snake — measuring each against a vision of the Middle Fork adventure certain to come.

Yet year after year, hope gave way to futility.

The lottery sneered at my every annual application. Speed dials in hopes of a rare cancellation were fruitless. Invitations from the friends who’d occasionally struck Middle Fork gold were always ill-timed.

And, of course, there were those all-consuming daily demands such as parenting and work.

Compromising my chances, for many years testosteronal stubbornness prohibited me from even considering one of the commercial trips, which I derided as for soft East and West Coast elitists.

Over time, I’d begun to concede in the twilight of my own serpentine journey that my dream would always be just that, and that any Middle Fork floats would be relegated to vicarious YouTube fantasies.

Then, for the Christmas of my 66th year, my wife, Sherry, herself once a river rat who’d said “yes” to our engagement on one Rogue River descent and “yes” to matrimony at the same remote lodge on the same day a year later, handed a laptop computer displaying an invoice to my son Matt, whose eyes knowingly widened.

“Do you think he’d like this?” she asked with an impish grin.

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"}],"text":"Matt nodded vigorously."}]

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"}],"text":"He nodded even more emphatically."}]

Matt handed me the computer and my eyes moistened as I saw the words: Middle Fork Adventures.

After 40 years, I’d finally won the Middle Fork lottery.

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"},{"type":"bold"}],"text":"No Outside World Access"}]

On July 15, after the short flight from Stanley to Indian Creek, I wandered down the launch ramp. For the first time, I dipped a sandal into the waters of a stream I’d touched only with my eyes from 30,000 feet.

“Holy waters,” I said to a guide I’d just met, and he nodded with a smile.

For the next six days, we would have no access to the outside world, save for the seven-person crew’s emergency satellite phone and a brief stop at a pastoral lodge and hunting camp called Loon Creek Ranch.

It is one of several guest ranches and busy airstrips grandfathered into “The Church”, a counter-intuitive concession nevertheless necessary to persuade politicians that this national treasure merited protections under The Wilderness Act of 1964.

At Loon Creek, Starlink made Apple Pay and thus the purchase of huckleberry ice cream possible in a tiny white “store” with mule-deer antlers above the door, across a yard from the horses and pack mules in a nearby corral.

Cell phones were otherwise of no use except for time, photos/video and satellite mapping until they inevitably died.

For the 22 of us, the dopamine urge to doom scroll on social media each morning left our fingertips with surprising ease the moment we took off from Stanley and banked across the flanks of the Sawtooths. Early pining for World Cup results also tapered quickly.

A lanky 14-year-old boy from Seattle, paddling alongside Matt in an inflatable kayak, or “ducky”, offered that his baseball team was in the state playoffs.

“But I’d rather be here,” he said, his parents beaming later when the sentiment was relayed to them.

Day after day, we navigated rapids, hiked to Sheepeater pictographs, soaked in hot springs, drank straight from cold springs, caught wild cutthroat trout, climbed to waterfalls, poked around abandoned cabins once inhabited by crusty hermits, admired bighorn sheep and bald eagles and mule deer, and sat contemplatively in the mist of a cool grotto surrounded by 500-foot walls.

And from dawn to dusk, in our rafts and on our hikes and at lunch stops and around the campfire, we engaged in a lost art.

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"}],"text":"We talked."}]

An eclectic group from each corner of the country and varied walks of life converged and, for a week, we became family.

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"},{"type":"bold"}],"text":"Entering The Cheese Grater"}]

On the penultimate day, just a few hundred yards from our final camp at Otter Bar, I plopped into a ducky for the final time and followed Matt into a Class III rapid called Cliffside that’s notorious for “munching” inflatable kayaks.

Its name comes from the bony cliff on the left known as “Cheese Grater Wall”. As fate would have it, the rapid is most challenging at the present and otherwise ideal flow of 2.5 feet; it’s easier to skirt at higher water in the spring and slows to a relative trickle later in the summer.

“I have seen more botched runs and wall crashes in this rapid than any other,” wrote Matt Leidecker in “Middle Fork of the Salmon River: A Comprehensive Guide”, as if he knew before I did that I would indeed one day float this river.

I deftly navigated the first wave, riding its crest like a cork, then instantly knew my fate was sealed when a side wave surged off Cheese Grater, pushed the nose of my ducky hard right, and left me helplessly parallel to another wave that upended me into the maelstrom.

Down I went, gashing my shin on a submerged rock, before eventually emerging between waves long enough to claim a single hurried breath. Down I went again only to re-emerge moments later in time to gasp for another breath between waves and see I was in a headlong rush toward the Grater.

I raised my hands, briefly flashed on whether a ledge might suck me underneath the wall, pushed off and was summoned into the depths a final time. Upon my third emergence I managed two breaths and spied calmer water a few smaller waves ahead.

“Are you OK?” Murph shouted from his rescue raft, shifting from first responder back to boat captain. “Just stay calm.”

I nodded, and moments later another guide pulled me by my life jacket into the back of an oar raft, shaken but otherwise unbruised except for my shin and my ego.

“Welcome to the Salmon River Swim Team,” Taylor said with a grin once he knew I hadn’t inhaled a pint of Middle Fork Pale Ale. “It’s an exclusive club. We’ve all been there.”

My penance came that night in what guides call “booty beer.” I had to announce around the campfire what I did wrong (listened to the guides tee-hee), what I’d do different (not follow Matt tee-hee) and what I’d learned (people were legit scared when my yellow helmet twice vanished into the depths) before a rite of passage required me to guzzle a 12-ounce Pabst Blue Ribbon from toe to heel out of my river sandal.

It was, fittingly perhaps, the first time I’d ever flipped either a raft or so-called IK, giving me a kinship with this river unlike any other. The Middle Fork had taken something from me while at the same time giving something back.

The next morning, as we reached the confluence of the Middle Fork and Main Salmon, we grudgingly turned our rafts back toward the transition zone and what our culture curiously calls “the real world.”

“Thank you, Middle Fork!” Murph yelled one last time, looking over his shoulder up the canyon and saluting the restorative powers of the river and its wildness.

From the back of an oar boat, Matt and I watched an eagle talon a trout from the depths before we stood and held tight for a final bucking bronc ride through Class IV Cramer Creek Rapid.

As we sat back down on the tube, the ramp at Cache Bar and its throngs of milling people inching ever closer across a placid emerald gem, Matt turned and put his arm around my shoulder.

“Well,” he said, “you finally made it.”

Yes, I finally made it, and my heart, though still tinged with melancholy and a sense of loss that still has me off-balance as I write, was full at long last. 

Middle Fork rafts

<title>Getting Access To Float The Middle Fork Of The Salmon River Is Like Winning The Lottery | Cowboy State Daily</title>

One of the most difficult rivers to gain access to float is the pristine Middle Fork of the Salmon River. The odds are 1 in 55, with 20,000 applicants vying for 350 slots each year. After trying for 40 years, Cowboy State Daily's Jeff Welsch won the lottery

Getting Access To Float The Middle Fork Of The Salmon River Is Like Winning The Lottery

Anna-Louise Jackson

Business & Tourism

Business

With clear skies and temperatures flirting with 90 degrees, it’s a perfect weekend to enjoy a private island on Montana’s Flathead Lake. 

The only problem is you’ll still need $72 million to snatch it off the market.

While a lot has changed in the past four years, that’s not the case for 

 for Cromwell Island, a 350-acre island that’s home to an unfinished 45,000-square-foot French-style villa described as “reminiscent of Versailles” on the west side of the lake.

It's been four years without a buyer for Montana’s most expensive luxury estate, a 350-acre private island with a huge unfinished 45,000-square-foot villa. The $72 million property also features a boat dock that can accommodate a 70-foot yacht.

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