More than a half-century ago John D. MacDonald of Travis McGee fame wrote a novel titled Wine of the Dreamers about a dismal time “when Earthmen dreamed their dreams, laid plans to travel beyond their own planet, the Watchers stepped in–for escape from Earth was the dream that must be destroyed.” Well, looking from my hiding place beneath my bed, .357 magnum firmly clutched in my right hand, TV remote in the other, I can often see the need to dream myself off the planet these days, too. But then comes a stoned October day on the Yellowstone fishing a side channel above Indian Fort. A small Joe’s Hopper cast above an overhanging cottonwood of stately dimensions, a gentle glide over a slight depression in the golden gravels, and “Zing,” a nice rainbow flashes beneath the sun and for a brief time all seems right with the world. That’s the power of fly fishing: The pursuit’s ability to transport me far beyond my self-indulgent concerns with the mundane aspects of the day-to-day. To hell with the Watchers.