Now and then when I’m fishing weird, unhealthy vibes cruise the airwaves making a mess of things. This is, fortunately, an uncommon occurrence, but when the uncomfortable feeling starts runnin’ round my head I’ve learned, finally, to pay attention. The hard-wired, white hot zaps that tell me a Grizzly is on the prowl in my vicinity is not what I’m talking about here, though I sure as hell heed these. The action of concern feels like someone creepy, evil is on the stalk, like there’s nasty hunting going on and I’m the prey. This stream in the above shot is a beautiful, small delight to fish for some quite large Yellowstone cutthroat. Yet, on this fall afternoon everything seemed wrong, out of focus, jumpy. The fish weren’t out and about, and neither were the birds or deer. The woods were too damn quiet. “Enough,” I thought and packed things in. On the way back to the Suburban I paused at a campground bulletin board. A sign with large black lettering announced that until further notice the place was closed. No reason given. A photocopy picturing a man was tacked up next to this. The words beneath the picture said the guy was in his late twenties, 5-9, 185 and in good shape. Also one list item. He’d been missing for two weeks. If anyone knew anything about his where abouts they were instructed to contact the county sheriff. No one seemed to have any idea what had happened to him. The hair on my neck prickled a bit and I looked quickly looked around. Nothing, but I was out of there in a hurry all the same. Last thing I wanted was to be up on that bulletin board keeping the guy company.