My flies are scattered and unorganized. The cork handle on my fly rod is black and worn. All of my clothes are covered in desert dust and sweat. My waders have thorns in them and my boots are falling apart. The windshield is cracked and the truck is littered with ashes, soda bottles, beef jerky bags and various crumbs and chips. Cash is low and gas is expensive, but I will never forget this trip through the west. We started out on a crystal clear stream that ran through the canyons. Nobody was there but us and the wild trout were plentiful. The hatches were many and we enjoyed several days of casting dry fly hopper patterns to the actively feeding trout. We then slept in some no name town somewhere in Wyoming or Utah. Can’t remember really and it doesn’t much matter. We arrived at the Green River and walked for miles. We knew that we had to do more than the average fly fisherman was willing to do. So, we bypassed all of the huge trout on the banks and kept heading up river. We hiked and hiked until the river was all ours. The crystal water winded through the red rock canyons and the pools were filled with trout. Dry fly was the preferred method and the trout were easily fooled. We covered tons of water. Cast, drift and move. I remember one trout in particular. It was a phenomenal experience. I walked downstream and noticed a huge boulder all the way across the river. The water was rising and I knew I had to wade a little ways out in order to make the perfect cast. So, I did. I managed my way to some soft water. I had to make a very long cast and I knew that I would not have much time to keep the drift going because of all the fast water between me and my targeted water. So I stripped off line and, without thinking too much, made the perfect double haul. My line slid perfectly through my guides and I watched the big grass hopper pattern land exactly where it needed to be. The fly drifted a total of 6 inches and Bang! A beautiful Brown Trout attacked the fly. He was on and I was into my backing. There was so much water and line between us. I had trouble walking back to shore while fighting the fish and the rising water. Somehow, I won both battles and landed the trout. I will always remember that fish when I think of the Green River. So, the next couple days found us in Jackson, Wyoming. The scenery was mind blowing and the Ancient Tetons will make any man feel small. We fished a spring creek and the Snake River Cuts were feeding in crystal clear water. They were not easily tricked and they would not fall for the big grass hopper patterns. Size 20 dries and droppers were the name of the game. We managed to hook some beautiful Snake River cuts in the spring creeks and also in the Snake River. The fly fishing was all it is cracked up to be and the landscape is even better. There is something magical about fly fishing for trout in crystal clear rivers that wind like serpents through ancient mountain ranges. Jagged peaks, purple storm clouds, blazing sun, golden and rainbow colored trout. The west coast of the United States certainly leaves a fly fisherman with nothing to be desired.