Most people think guiding slows down in the winter and life gets quiet. That’s only half true. The trips stop, but the work doesn’t. Winter in Montana is long, cold, and dark, and after 120-plus days of guiding, I’m ready for a different direction for a while. The river gets a break, and so do I. But the rod shop doesn’t.
While I’m getting my hands back into rod wrapping and finishing work, Dusty is basically married to the factory. He spends more time there than most folks spend at home. Designing tapers, rolling blanks, tweaking mandrels, adjusting materials—everything that goes into making sure our rods fish the way we want them to. He’s balancing family, fishing when he can, and running the technical side of Livingston Rod Company all winter long. It’s a lot, and he handles it better than anyone I’ve ever seen.
My winter looks a little different. Once the ice builds up on the Yellowstone and the wind in Paradise Valley gets sharp enough to cut through a parka, I step away from guiding and step into the finishing side of the business. Wrapping guides, fitting reel seats, smoothing grips, checking details—this is the time I get to slow down and actually build something with my hands.
There’s a rhythm to it. The shop lights hum, snow stacks up outside, and the whole valley feels like it’s holding its breath. You put on some music, make a pot of coffee, and settle into the work. Winter is when each rod becomes its own project, its own personality. I finish the rods Dusty brings out of the factory, and even after all these years, I still get a kick out of seeing a raw blank slowly turn into something that’ll be on the Yellowstone come June.
That’s the part people don’t always see, the two sides of the company working together in the off-season. Dusty handles the deep technical stuff, the design, the building of the blank from scratch. I get to bring those blanks to life. When the guiding season starts back up, some of those rods end up in my boat. Others get shipped to folks who’ve been waiting all winter. And every time I hand a client a rod I wrapped myself, there’s a little extra pride in it.
Winter can be rough here. Cold. Windy. Long stretches without seeing the ground. But knowing that each rod we finish now will be part of someone’s summer on the water makes it worth it. And when the first real warm day hits and the ice pulls off the banks, I’m always excited to switch gears again—back to early mornings, long floats, and the next guiding season.
That’s the cycle. Guide hard all summer. Build rods all winter. Fish when you can. Repeat. I wouldn’t trade it.