At the far east end of the Ochoco Mountains, a stretch of mudbanks flanked Deep Creek, winding in lazy loops across the little valley framed by copper pillars of ponderosa pine. Overhead, nighthawks tumbled in the darkening sky.

I waded along the creek in my sandals, flyrod in hand, casting for trout. On the far side of the mudbank, I could see the concentric ripples of fish rising in large pool. I thought, oh, what’s a little mud? But after ten steps I was up to my knees and sinking fast.