CUTTHROAT CAFE

Ron called December 14, out of the blue, to say he’d booked us a guide for two days in Colorado, starting the 20th. That kind of spontaneity wasn’t like him, or me, so I figured I’d better join him. I found a flight from San Francisco that matched up with Ron’s from Indianapolis. We both arrived in Denver a bit after 9 p.m., picked up a rental car, and headed southwest on highways 70 and 285 to Bailey, a hardscrabble town of a few shacks, eateries, liquor store, and a gas station. It was also home to Bailey Lodge, where we were staying.

Along the way we stopped at a Safeway that looked closed, but wasn’t. We were the only ones in sight, so we briefly contemplated walking out with our groceries. Arriving at the lodge around midnight, our headlights lit up a note on the window that said “Mead #6.” We let ourselves in and, after a meal of potato chips, cold chicken, and some shitty local beer, we spent a couple hours catching up, then hit the sack around 2:30.

Seven a.m. wakeup and our first day on the river with “Captain” Mike, our guide. Normally, an honorific like “captain” would seem pompous for a western guide. But Mike spends several months of the year in Florida, guiding for tarpon out of his own boat, so we’ll let that stand. Our destination was a private two-mile stretch of the North Fork of the South Platte. Not a very big stream in December; about 20 feet across and not more than