I promised a fly-fishing friend I wouldn’t write about this section of river. Hopefully he won’t find out. Past the tiny town of Saratoga, the riverside scenery changes from ranch bottomland to the high-plains desert (the same high-plains desert you’ll see in the Miracle Mile) that distracts me so. But here there are no water flow fluctuations and there are hatches to pay attention to and dry flies to select. So I should have no excuse; yet I do. The wind. It never seems to stop here. I cock the tip of the rod back and I’m fighting an invisible force. The line gets all tangled and the hook disappears into my vest. I want to disappear into a Saratoga bar, but the guide tells me this might be my best chance at catching something. We continue floating along.

A few hours later I am better in tune with the wind. I’ve even gotten a few fish to rise to a yellow mayfly but I wasn’t then able to seal the deal. Finally, with darkness coming in I announce my last cast. And I get something. It’d be a nice ending to the story if it was a fish, but I can’t twist the truth that much. I can say it was a trophy log though.