Going west on Highway 50, I sympathized with those who named it "The Loneliest Road in America". I was lucky to see a traffic sign. But the isolating scores of pines and aspens inspired immense natural beauty- the reason I set out for.
I scouted the desolate road in search of a spot to set camp. One U-turn later and I found myself within the bounds of a national forest.
Magenta clouds blurring a rising moon. Red and blue mountains that seldom produce purple. Evening dew on my toes. One brook trout later and I was fast asleep in my seemingly luxurious Toyota.
In the early morning, I woke from its chill. Heaters on blast, I prepared to catch the sun's debut over the mountains.
Rising trout lured me to the water's edge and fog rolled across the calm, dark waters. The game was simple: Small flies, light tippet, and floaty presentations. Perfect for my three-weight, but my coiled leader didn't help.
Around the water and across the landscape were structures put to rest by time. This pocket of joy
seemed hidden from the rest of the countryside, indifferent to its exposure. But as the morning dew came through my socks, it was time to leave this getaway.
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