A monstrous splash disrupted the otherwise predictable rumble of the river. I turned from the water in front of me to where I thought my buddy Chris stood a hundred yards away.
I couldn’t see squat. It was a little after 2 a.m and raining just enough to be annoying. Chris and I had driven from Idaho Falls to the Missouri River in Montana, stopping at the Henry’s Fork and Beaverhead rivers along the way. We’d chewed up enough miles to wear me out...
