A place on the river

About 8 miles west of the little store the guy with the funny last name burnt down for the insurance money, and 25 miles or so east of the East Gate of Yellowstone Park, is where I fish. I walk down the dirt road from my cabin in the late evening, and either fish with flies or with live terrestrials I've caught and put in a little jam jar. I can't tell you the name of the river; it's sworn me to secrecy.

 My river, northwest Wyoming, 7:20 p.m. August, 19, 2017. 

My river, northwest Wyoming, 7:20 p.m. August, 19, 2017.