Like most teenagers, I had a number of posters up in my room. Along with Michael Jordan soaring towards a slam dunk and the Nirvana smiley-face, I had one from Sage fly rods. In lighting conditions that emulated sepia tones, an angler stood on the banks of a winding river. The water wove through a meadow as massive mountain peaks rose up in the background. Lying in bed at night, imagining myself in that scene was just as fantastical as being able to dunk a basketball.
Living in the east, accessing big, remote, wild water is the exception. There are rivers that meet two, or even all three of those qualifiers, but they are a precious few. Out west, the list of rivers that fit this bill is endless. At least that is the way it can seem to a young man used to mountain creeks and slow, warm water rivers.
It wasn’t a big destination trip that finally took me out west. My then-girlfriend’s, soon to be fiancé’s (now wife’s) family lives in Greeley, Colorado. They saw the aforementioned progression coming into focus, so off we went so I could visit the hinterland.
And I was given permission to bring a fly rod.
