We were wet and must have looked stranded. The barber working in the window waved our crew into his parlor. The gentleman bending strings on a 1928 Gibson banjo didn’t look up from his position in the middle of the room. He was playing “Foggy Mountain Breakdown.” The shop walls were covered with old newspaper clippings and the back of the room resembled a bluegrass emporium, with stacks of guitar, banjo and mandolin cases. A shrine of instruments hung along the back wall. None of the patrons spoke a word until the picker successfully melted everyone’s face with his instrument’s unique twang.

“Mikey, you keep sounding better and better,” someone said and then the focus in the room shifted and we were fielding questions.

“Where y’all from?”

“Montana and North Carolina.”

“Well ain’t that somethin’. What y’all doing out here in the rain?”

“Fishing.”

“Fishing!? For what?”

“Musky.”

“Musky?”

“Yes, sir. And so far, we’ve gotten our ass kicked by the weather and the fish.”…

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