As long as I’ve fly-fished, I’ve logged my experiences in a black-and-red hardcover journal. The entries date to the early 1970s. My thinking at the time was strictly utilitarian. The recording of data would be a handy reminder if I ventured back to fish an area again. I didn’t realize that one day the journals would provide more than simple river notes about fly patterns and tippet strength. The handwritten entries would open an unlikely portal back to a time of unencumbered idealism.
Out on the paved road at the turnoff, midway between Saratoga and Walcott Junction, Wyoming, a sign indicated the historic Overland Trail, where deep wagon ruts could still be seen in many places. My fishing buddy Coz swung the barbed wire gate open as I drove onto a dirt two-track in my 1956 Chevy pickup. I slid Jimmy Buffett’s soundtrack to the movie Rancho Deluxe into the 8-track player. A rustlers daydream, thoughts of jail, dust clouds rising, tearing down the trail.
The rounded hump known as Elk Mountain loomed on the northeastern horizon. Hawks turned hopeful circles in the sky. Without four-wheel drive, the 10 miles of twisting forks through vast rolling sagebrush hills, barbwire gates, unmarked roads and teeth-rattling potholes was no joke. We had no map. The topography reminded me of the old television show Wild Kingdom, with Marlin Perkins out in the veld of Africa’s Serengeti plains.
A small herd of pronghorn, referred to colloquially as speedgoats, began to casually lope in parallel. I stomped the accelerator to race them, and as if on cue, their powerful hindquarters straightened out, showering dirt around the sage. Just like a game of chicken, they turned on the jets as they made a mad dash to cross at the last second in front of my truck. With my hands clenching the wheel, we eventually made our way down the rugged two-track as the last light of day vanished. When I turned off the
