The yellow canyon and the Teton River with my Pals.

November 7, 2009
Many years ago, when I was a young boy, my mother would tell me about the breaking of the Teton Dam and how much damage had been caused. Caleb and Cory had decided to fly fish the Teton River with me, just below the remains of the old dam. They are always welcome fishing pals, due to the fact that they know how to fish and good conversations always ensue. The day turned out to be cold and rigid and the wind was much stronger in the canyon. I tied a sculpin to the end of my line and hoped for the best. Cory had borrowed one of my number eight leech patterns and had caught a twelve inch hybrid covered in dark algae growth; it was the unhealthiest looking trout I had ever seen. That had turned out to be the only catch of the whole trip to the canyon. I stood on the edge of the river admiring the beauty that God had created, and how it had hammered through the dam that man had made. What had been left of the dam were just the very edges of the wall, as well as some structures that now served no purpose, what was left was a ghost. We explored around in the golden canyon and rolled some boulders down the mountainside. While doing this we came upon a doe in the brush, she sprang off and looked back occasionally to see us and what we were doing. It embarrassed me to think that she might have been watching us the whole time, while we were tossing rocks down the mountain like yetis, wondering what the heck we were thinking. There is a loud and obnoxious excitement that comes over a man when a large rock is rolled down a mountain, and the boy deep down inside comes out of hiding.