A Montana Journal, ca July, 2023 We left when there was still no shadows. Them Bitterroots was dark and spread out wide and weighty against western sky as we rid north through valley. Making way to the Hells Gate, old mister sun had by then found his way to preordained perch. Me and ol’ Black Tahoe, my trusted steed, was aiming this day to cross them high Rockies out of St. Regis and push over to the border, then deep into them Idaho panhandle territories. They’s a cold and comely river in them tall mountains, name of the St. Joe, that runs tight along trail for a hundred mile, leading to a small logging town called St. Maries. I had heard tell that river was holding plenty of Westslope Cutthroats and I planned to take me some with golden stone, yellow sally, adams, haze or prince. I had not traveled these territories afore, but as I knowed the Great Creator was present with me on this trail and present also where I was heading, I was not fearful of what be ahead. Riding ea...