If you Duck hunt and spend time hunting from a Duck blind you know the mysterious language spoken by Duck Hunters. If not, you need to pay close attention. You may hear it spoken someday and will need to know its meaning. I
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My Mother was all of five feet tall one hundred twenty pounds and tough as a bag of hammers, with brilliant red hair and fair skin. Helen Francis Berigan was her maiden name and Irish as paddy’s pig and proud of it. She married my father at sixteen in Missoula, Montana and nine months to the day I was born.
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I’m getting old now, nearly 60, what’s left of my hair turned grey. This is a story of a love affair that came relatively late in my life. It’s not a cool story of gonzo fishing. It’s a love story, of the West and fishing the Bighorn.
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I’m standing thirty yards away from the river bank, in front of a beaver lodge. It’s the end of a straight run, just before a sharp, almost ninety-degree turn, so the river is pretty fast, but the bottom is gravel, and I can keep my footing. No boulders.
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