Newt

We bounced through the sagebrush and over rocks on what Newt promised was a road but there was no visible indication to prove his claim. The old yellow Jeep managed to cling tightly to the side-hill as we neared the West Fork headwaters. Lunch was a can of Dinty-Moore stew; we would be through fishing in time to catch a bite of dinner in Kamas on our way home. The fish were small, quick and alert to any intrusion from outsiders. Newt worked down stream while I sat on the bank trying to entice a large cutthroat that patrolled the deep hole. It had been what seemed like an hour when I decided to retrieve my line. I had a snag. Try as I might, I couldn't get it loose. Then suddenly it moved upstream. I had the fish on my line. I must have made a lot of noise because Newt soon broke through the willows and seeing my plight, set aside his pole and with a net prepared to help me land the trout. After several minutes and many attempts to get the fish to where we could slip him in the net, we finally landed him.