2 entries tagged: wyoming

Fishy

July 18th

I spent 6 hours on the Green River today learning to fly fish. In reality, what I learned was how to hook myself with a fly and how delicious chicken fingers are. Seriously. Chicken fingers dipped in ranch? Why am I just learning about this now?

Trout for dinner

Trout for dinner

Trout for dinner

Trout for dinner \Trout for dinner

Trout for dinner

Trout for dinner

Trout for dinner

Trout for dinner

Trout for dinner

MOOOOOOOSE!

MOOSE!

Trout for dinner

Trout for dinner

Trout for dinner

Trout for dinner

Trout for dinner

I’m having gaspacho, but this little swimmer will also be served for dinner — one of half a dozen caught today. German brown and rainbow trout were bountiful. If you’ve never been invited fly fishing and suddenly the opportunity bobs your way, suck it up and go. Fight your city girl instincts, throw on a giant hat and a good attitude and be prepared to have your inner Laura Ingalls Wilder come out in full French braided glory. The water, the snow-capped mountains, the wild flowers in a thousand colors, the bald eagles, osprey and red hawks swooping from giant, riverside cottonwood, the bright blue sky dotted by wispy white coulds — all sublime. Gutting the fish? Not my cup of tea, but thankfully I can hide behind a wussy camera like I did for most of the day, observing and enjoying in my own way.

Salty’s family has absorbed me into their crew, adding me to their mix of activities with such kindness. Today I found myself alone with Lainey — la mama de Salty — listening to her talk about her daughter, their family and so desperately missing my own I batted away a sea of salty tears. There is absolutely no doubt that I am one of the most blessed when it comes to sincere friendships. I’ll absolutely never forget the gracious hospitality this family has extended me this week. I look forward to returning the favor with gusto, and perhaps a bit of fish I caught.

~K

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Happy Hippie, Journal, Travel
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This One Goes Out to Salty

July 16th

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Never a fan of cliches, this post kinda kills me. That said, the difference between Polly Pocket at Thomas the Train was apparently clear when Adam, I and the gang came upon a rather complex logging operation in the mountains. Where I was bored and ready to immediately move along, Adam was drooling at the machinery, pointing at each giant forest beast and calling out their names.

Essentially I was twirling my hair and snapping my gum in the seat next to him. Silly machines. Silly boys.

So, Salty — what are the names of these forest killers again?

~K

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Happy Hippie, Journal, Travel
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