After a Friday evening casting flies across the gentle, clear waters of the Green River as ospreys soared overhead, Saturday with my family and friends I floated down the first stage of the Green River from Flaming Gorge dam to the prosaically-named Little Hole. We went through deceivingly-simple rapids that threatened, in one case, to sink us, all the while gazing up at the majestic red-rock cliffs.
My friend caught two beautiful german brown trout and that night I cooked them over coals with no more than a little white wine, lime slices, rock salt and pepper, the smoke rising up through the nearby pines beneath a night sky incandescent with stars. The freshness of the meat, its tenderness, was beyond words.
That we caught fish surprised me, given how the river was inundated with rafts of screaming teens and ebullient adults spraying each other with water guns. "Do ya think I'm a sexy beast?" one larger-than-life individual bellowed from a raft.
When we were unpacking our rafts at Little Hole, "sexy beast" was standing in front of a car, legs astraddle, hand on his hip. I couldn't work out what he was doing at first, or why the driver - presumably a friend of "sexy beast" - was repeatedly honking his horn while his female passenger stared fixedly ahead. It was only when "sexy beast" shifted position that I realised he was urinating on the car's fender.