The guests of honor never showed up for their party last weekend.

Pteronarcys californica, better known as salmonflies to their fans, were absent for the most part on the Madison River, despite some hints that they would make an appearance.

There were scattered sightings, a bug crossing the campground road or one awkwardly crashing into an angler's hat, but the main salmonfly entourage never made an appearance.

Anglers certainly turned out in anticipation of the event, gathered like headline-hungry paparazzi along the river's edge -- a hatch of beige-clad bipods in waders. But those looking for salmonflies were sadly disappointed.

The big bugs, which can measure 1 to 2 inches in length, are especially loved by bumbling anglers like me because they make catching big fish on a dry fly so much easier. Trout love the protein-filled meal after nibbling on midges all winter -- similar to the difference between dining on skinny little hors d'oeuvres or a nice thick steak.

I like the hatch because I can actually see the fly on the water without squinting. Heck, even old dudes with Coke-bottle glasses can see these flies. And casting with delicacy is not necessary since the big, awkward bugs often hit the water with a splat.

River intelligence from local fly shops said that scattered bugs had shown up last week. They'd also put in an appearance on the Big Hole River, famed for its big salmonfly hatch.

But when buckets of spring rain soaked the ground like it did last week, rivers rose and turned the color of tea mixed with milk, certainly not dry-fly fishing conditions. That meant anglers still searching for the hatch had only one option -- the lower Madison River.

The lower Madison is prime because it's a tailwater fishery, below a dam. Since the dam's outflows are controlled, the river doesn't fluctuate as much with runoff and generally stays fairly clear. That's key for dry-fly fishermen.

It was just such a quest for clear water this past weekend that prompted me to drive through the Ireland-green countryside -- past the Beartooth and Absaroka mountain ranges, glistening with a bright white coat of snow. Past verdant farm fields where tan-colored deer and antelope stood out starkly against the belly-high grasses. So much beautiful country to cruise past -- the Crazy Mountains, over the Bozeman Pass and on through the lush Gallatin Valley -- before reaching the Madison River's Bear Trap Canyon where I met an old friend from Helena.

Judging from the full camping sites and parking lots at the boat launches and trailheads, a lot of other people had the same idea. After spending an hour searching for a campsite, we finally drove to the canyon trailhead on the south side of the river, loaded our packs with food, waders, fishing gear and water, and hiked about two miles into the rugged, steep canyon. A short distance in, the canyon is designated wilderness, an area managed by the Bureau of Land Management.

With its exposed layers of wrinkled gneiss cliffs, the canyon feels more ancient than its surrounding environs. The pink and black-hued rippling rock walls seem to gaze down sternly on anglers, as if scrutinizing or scoffing at the fishermen's casting ability.

It's interesting that near the trailhead, where anglers are more concentrated, they tolerate closer contact with other anglers. The farther up you walk, however, it can be dangerous to assume a similar ''distance tolerance'' applies. Wade into the water within 30 yards of a fellow angler upstream and you'll get a single-finger salute or a four-letter swear word tossed your way.

Once suited up for fishing in neoprene waders and felt-soled boots, I realized that over the winter I'd lost my river legs. As soon as I stepped onto the smooth, slippery rocks, I almost went for a swim. While I waded, the current's steady, pulsing push on my legs quickly wore me out. The cold water added to the discomfort, acting like a coolant chilling the blood rushing through my femoral arteries.

Every now and then, the wind would roar through like someone had just opened the door on a blast furnace. The top of the river's waves were spread like spit downstream. The water turned dark. The gusts raised heck with my casts, which were pretty sorry to begin with.

Although the salmonflies never showed up, caddis were out in droves. Hundreds of them hovered over and next to bank-side brush in a cloud of brown, mottled movement. A greedy red-winged black bird sat atop a juniper tree flitting from branch to branch as it gorged on the quarter-inch-long bugs.

At the end of the day, my friend and I shuffled back to the trailhead, dehydrated and sunburned, yet happy that we would return to our campsite for a quiet night around the campfire, looking forward to a cool drink and some dinner. Unfortunately, a posse of young adults had poached our campsite while we'd been fishing. Rather than raise a ruckus, we got our money back for the site and pitched a tent next to a dusty road busy with traffic. The campsite wasn't ideal, but it was free and there weren't a lot of options at 7:30 on a Saturday night.

Sitting around the campfire, finally rehydrated and fed, I mused about the day's fishing. Despite the salmonfly's no-show, I still managed to catch one nice brown trout on an elk-hair caddis. The fish fought hard, a brute despite its 17-inch length.

All those miles, all that work and only one nice fish -- it's a good thing I don't measure a trip's success based on the amount of fish I catch. For me, it's about the whole experience -- right? At least that's the thought with which I comforted myself as I turned to warm my fanny by the fire.

Brett French can be reached at french@billingsgazette.com or at 657-1387.