The winding dirt road led to a cattle guard, followed by a break in the fence. Through the break in the fence was a trail and at the end of the trail was a river. This particular river held brown trout, and when a streamer swung through the current with the perfect blend of speed, depth, and the right amount of movement, a brown trout ate it with conviction. After a few fleeting hours it was over. Back up the trail, through the hole in the fence, and up the winding dirt road, River X faded into the rearview mirror.
It’s been weeks since I walked down that trail and stood on the banks of the river, but I can still see the mountains, smell the sage, and feel the line come tight on a fish like it was yesterday.