In what’s rapidly becoming an annual tradition, I spent a chunk of this past summer on the road with my buddy Mac. We made a Canadian trip that followed hot on the heels of a few stellar days I spent on Idaho’s Henry’s Fork, and amid all the truck time, weaving back and forth between our temporary base of operations in British Columbia and the half dozen rivers we explored, we had plenty of time to b.s.
Our ongoing conversation was circuitous, rambling over flies and rods and fish - the Westslope Cutt, we both decided, is a hell of a trout, and may be, in it’s own way, as handsome a fish as you’ll ever run across - along with politics, religion, the economy, women, marriage, wilderness and any number of other subjects that seemed germane at the time. We always tied things back into fly fishing, though, and buried in there amid all his other thoughts, Mac mentioned that the thing he missed most about working on the Henry’s Fork, where he and I once guided, was the camaraderie.