The fly rods sat idle, leaned up against a tree. Thunder rumbled in the distance, somewhere over the mountains. The rain beat down on the tarps, as we huddled underneath.

Chauncey nodded to the west “Looks like it’s going to settle in like this for awhile.”

I turned, poked my head out from under the tarp, looked at the dark grey skies where the mountains should’ve been and sighed.

“Fifteen two, fifteen four and a pair is six. Pass the whiskey”