The Ignorant Angler

Welcome to Wyoming.  Nothing like a little scenery to go with ones fishing.  Camping too.  Take a hike.  Just a few miles to stretch the old legs.  Get out in the wind.  Blow the stink off as my wife would say.





Best have a fishing license.  You never know when Mr. Warden will show up.  Riding a horse no less.   Maybe talk about fish and bears and stuff.  Then, just like any good cowpoke, he'll ride away.  What a great way to spend the summer.






Like mountains?  Well, there's lots of 'em.  Better have a camera.  Keep it handy, you'll want to take a picture every few steps or so.





Smell that?  It's fresh air.  Well, maybe with a little forest fire smoke thrown in.  Then there's the sweet smell of grouse whortleberry.  What's a whortleberry?  I'm glad you asked.  It's a member of the blueberry or huckleberry family.  They're small, but good eating.  Go good in pancakes too. Gotta be patient to pick the little buggers though.





This is high country, bro…

Horses, cows too, are an integral part of the western landscape.  So, it's pretty normal to run into them while one is out fishing.  Yesterday, I bumped into these two as they grazed on lush stream side grasses.  I've mentioned before that I'm not much of a horse person.  I do like to see them though.  Montana and horses go together like hot dogs and mustard (sorry, not ketchup).  So, when I crossed over to their side of the stream, they wandered over.  One intently nuzzled the pockets on my fishing vest.  I don't pack oats when I'm out fishing, so he had to settle for an ear scratch and a pat on the neck.

I never was much of a horse person.  I liked the idea of horses.  Riding them?  Screw it, I'd rather walk.  I know girls like 'em.  Me and my bony butt, not so much.  My knees never appreciated it either. Family jewels?  There was a time or two that I uttered a higher octave.
I once spent a summer employed by the Forest Service.  It was the best summer of my life. As a range wannabe, horses were part of the deal.  Uncle even tried to teach me how to throw a diamond hitch.  Thinking this to be my eventual calling, I bought a book.  Horse Packing in Pictures.  Great idea.  Kind of like painting by numbers.  My packing career never got past the looking at the pictures stage.  I gave it away to a friend who has horses and mules, and, who actually does some packing.
I once met a guy who resented being called a "cowboy."  He was a "horseman."  He had a cushy office job.  Really?  Poking around, I discovered that horses are said to respond to horseman, they react…