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Month: February 2017

Twelve: Red-shirt cutthroat

When I first visited Wyoming’s breathtaking expanses of sky, sagebrush, pine woods, and splashes of cars and junk strewn around trailers like exploded bombs, I lived in a brick room at the university in Laramie. I’d have never had known about Wyoming from my concrete and baked-clay cell. It had…

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Nine: Trout by the pound

As soon O’Kelley and I turned into Bennett Spring State Park, we were in a foreign land. We had gone to the park with great hopes, having heard accounts of the place’s beauty, tales of strong trout jumping from the spring river at well-cast dry flies, and of the relaxing…

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Eight: Uncle Phil’s “trout”

My Uncle Phil is the world’s worst fisherman. His fishing is nearly always a production closer to moving into a new house or conquering a continent than taking in a breeze. He carries three or four rods of differing lengths and two heavy tackle boxes. After he’s baited, strung, checked,…

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