I've never really come to grips with the real estate I can somehow manage to cover while I fish, especially in the backcountry where I can't just hop on the road when I'm done and walk back to the truck in a matter of a few minutes.
Out in the wild, everything's relative. Time. Distance. Weather.
It's as if I enter a time warp. Minutes become hours. A day dies a quick, painless death when I'm armed with a fly rod. A stream's meanders can stretch for miles before I snap back to reality and realize that I'm a long ways from where I started.