Long before West Point and the "shitstorm," this was the place he and his Dad would come to in the fall. Just the two of them. Staying in a two bed cabin behind the Inn and working the pools, runs and rock gardens of the 31 miles of Fly Fishing Only stretch between Rock Creek and Soda Springs Dam. More than anywhere else, this felt like home, it had a permanence, rugged beauty and tradition, things that he needed in his life, things that were important.
Mike finished the last pull on his cigarette and looked up to see a white ribbon tied to a tree branch. Guys sometimes did this during the day to mark out a fishing spot so that they could come back and find it before the sun came up. He untied the ribbon, tucked it into the pocket of his jacket and stepped out into the water. The ledge was slick as it always was and the crunch of the cleats sounded reassuring but he hadn't felt his way through here since he fished with his old man before Iraq and his feet were a little unsure.