There are times on the river when you are sure. From where I stood in the cold flowing water of the Provo River, I could see the water bend downstream and speed up before the bridge. Saw the rocks and white breaks beside gentle pools and midcurrents that hugged the bank walled with overgrowth. I knew that seam held fish. I was sure of it.
We drove along the Provo River looking for a good spot to stop and fish. From the passenger seat I caught glimpses of the water over the guard rail between the curves in the highway.
It had been too long since I made it to the river. I was at a new job with the airlines and had been living in Kansas City for about a year. It was high time for a fly fishing trip to re-cage. I set my mind on some good old fashioned, summer dry fly fishing in the Rocky Mountains.