The water was glass and the rising trout were raindrops thrown against it during a storm. The fish ate seemingly at random, ignoring my fly completely. I’d been in this situation too many times to count, and I was beginning to think I’d never get the hang of this whole fly fishing thing.

Despite the increased focus on and effort devoted to native fish conservation these days, the mountain whitefish is often overlooked or maligned. Whitefish, like trout, are members of the salmon family. They are native to many of the same storied waters as our beloved trout — Rocky Mountain rivers like the Madison, Snake, and Green. And they’ve lived alongside cutthroat and bull trout for centuries. Whitefish are often the first species to struggle in the face of declining water quality.

Europeans first set foot in South America sometime in the late 15th century, but it wasn’t until 1870 that Kaieteur Falls in Guyana were documented by non-native explorers. The falls are enormous. In fact, the 741-foot drop from top to base makes Kaieteur Falls the tallest single-drop waterfall in the world. Indigenous peoples knew of the waterfall for centuries, if not millennia. It features prominently in local folklore. These days, there’s an international airport less than a mile from the head of the Kaieteur Falls.

Three years is, in the context of space and time, a blip. Even in the context of a human life, three years isn’t much time at all.

For $120, I could get two nights at Flaming Gorge Resort, two dinners topped with the best blackberry cobbler I’ve found, and an entire weekend mostly to myself on Utah’s portion of the Green River. This was a few years ago, back when I was more broke than I am now, but with far fewer responsibilities and more time to devote to fishing. And this deal was only available when the resort started offering offseason pricing. I couldn’t afford to be around when the fishing — and the weather — was at its peak.

The creek looked like something pulled out of a wilderness designer’s catalogue. It snaked through a sweeping meadow valley, each turn revealing deep undercut banks and plenty of hiding spots for trout. Rocks peppered about half the runs, giving me a mix of pools, riffles, and pocket water, in which I knew were cutthroat eager to smack a dry fly.

Within a minute of leaving the truck, I regretted the extra layers I’d added at the last second. Sure, it was cold, but the snow was waist deep. The exertion of moving through the landscape warmed me up plenty. More than necessary, probably, since I felt my extra layers trapping too much moisture against my skin. But I wasn’t about to head back to the truck and change.