I have been having some trouble with my onboard Onan generator. Call me a blond, but when the thing is haywire enough not to stop priming on its own, I have to wonder where the gas is going. Danger. Danger. Calls to Onan had produced offers of a repair date after I was back in Canada. But one resourceful certified Onan technician called to say he had a job in Meeker and could look at the generator before. Jubilation. He spotted the problem, an internal computer gone south, and made a sacred promise to order the part and bring it to Meeker next week when he had to go to a job in Steamboat Springs. Too bad for whoever wanted the maple syrup, as I gave it to him. I love this man.
Fishing guides would have been cheated out of there own, if Roger Trout had not been a guide In one of America’s richest trout rivers. the White. We went upstream, to a babbling part of the river that was the meeting waters of a few branches. The water was cold. The footing difficult. He pushed me onward in my red icebreaker skirt. A demanding guide. I have never measured the success of a fishing trip by the number of fish caught, but his trade relies on ensuring clients catch them. And catch them I did— six or seven jewell like trouts which swam happily back for more, and a pair of big ones slipped away, Of course, the biggest fish got away. But this one stayed for the photo op, in all his glistening, sparkly glory. I wish I could have sauteed one in a bit of butter, not so much a sportsman as a foodie.
It was too hot to sit around so I jumped behind the wheel of my trusty pickup and rode westward to Soldier Hollow, following through on a forced affair with the open road. Deer, elk and antelope traverse this route at night, much better in broad daylight, at ninety five degrees, than smashing in the front of a perfectly good pickup truck with wild game.
Everyone is Soldier Hollow bound, for the big show.