The story I’d like to try to tell begins in the late 80s, though it doesn’t really. It really starts before that, with a wild boy in Clifton Forge, the major settings being the Jackson and Cowpasture Rivers. Or, maybe it should start even earlier, on a mid-spring day in 1942—an exciting one, I’m sure, for a hunting and fishing family. Truth be told, the story should probably start, as any person’s should, well before their first day. But chasing that tale won’t get me where I