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.
I was twenty-two years old when I put the chapel spires of the USAF Academy in my rearview mirror for the last time, pointed my burgundy Volvo North, fly rod sticking out the window, and set out for the Rocky Mountains with my best friend in trail formation.