Dry fly

We were teenagers when we found the fly rods in the lodge at the bottom of the hill next to the Stillwater River.  The lodge sat across from the small trapper’s cabin.  Both remnants of generations gone, when the ranch we worked as children, brought men on horseback, hunting elk into the Beartooth Mountains.  The lodge held the treasures of that time.  Looking through the drab green packs and canvas tents and dusty boxes we found a tin fly box that brought life to the rods.  In it were the large, fluffy, feathered flies that became all we had, so they were all we fished.