Confidently, we returned to the trail head. Broke out some rods and up the trail we went. It was a considerably longer hike than the hike of the previous day, but eventually we found ourselves looking down into a deep narrow canyon still being carved out by another fast flowing crystal clear stream at the bottom. As steep as the canyon walls were, we were still able to traverse down to the water and once again, after a few hours of catching Brookies, realized that this was not the Cutthroat stream either.
That night, we drove back to the fly shop for a repeating of the directions. I needed more beer anyway. The directions were a lot different than the previous telling and to this day we know no better now than we did then where the loss in translation occurred. Later, over a few beers, we were able to accept that there was some kind of a breakdown in communication and determined that pointing fingers was not helpful in determining where the actual breakdown occurred and that we were out of beer again.