I’ve lost count on how many times we’ve driven down that road. The kids are usually asleep in the back seat, and I’m gazing out the window, silently taking in the majestic beauty of the Rocky Mountains, hoping to spy an animal on the rocks. The Husband drives us along the winding, curvy road, glancing at the river every chance he can. It’s the avid fly fisherman in him that’s itching to throw on his waders. The urge seems to be as strong as any drug addiction.