Parked at the trailhead, I cautiously watched the sky through a windshield interrupted by intermittent wiper blades. For now, just rain. No thunder. No lightning. Just rain.
I was out of excuses. If I wanted to catch a greenback cutthroat trout, the old decommissioned roadbed climbing off into the distance was my way in. Against a slate gray sky, the lack of afternoon shadows made it seem later than it really was, and I think my brain was telling me I might be cutting it close. I looked at the clock in the dash. Three o'clock.
With a noodle that managed a C+ in college algebra, I did some quick math. Three o'clock now... it's at least an hour to the creek... I'll probably fish for four hours, and then I've got an hour or more out ... Nine o'clock. Maybe later. It'll be tight--the late-summer sun in the high country retreats behind fourteeners without much notice.
To hell with it, I thought. I'm fishing.