Miles away.

The cool, crisp wind blows on my warm, sunburned face. High above the peaks of the Rocky Mountains, the warm glow of the sun creates shadows that fall behind the large Aspen trees like toothpicks scattered on a dirt floor. Above my head an eagle, with its wingspan fluttering in the current as it circles the tree tops, soars in the distance. Birds sing and chirp at one another as ripples on the blue lake float peacefully towards my feet submerged in the cool, clear, river water.

My orange fly line whips behind my head, the tiny handmade fly following the arc of my line as it passes my brow. The river is flowing slowly, and although it is murky from the runoff of the peaks in the Continental Divide, it slowly streams past my feet and invites me to wade in deeper. The air is clean and crisp and my breath seems at ease. Everything slows down into a dream-like trance.

"F*ck you! Untie me, you a**hole! You're only doing this because..."

"Because you're drunk and mean"

"I am not," is slurred from the bearded, crusty mouth.

In front of me sits reality. Black shoes, untied and knotted, have been slipped on over multiple layers of socks and plastic grocery sacks. The uncoordinated colors of the stained socks carry pieces of feces and vomit from nights before. Multiple pairs of waxy jeans, encrusted in dirt and grime, are secured at the waistline by an oversized, woven brown belt. Its tag end dangles from the loose knot at waistline down to the groin. Under the heavy, black sweatshirt rests a couple of undershirts. Soiled patches, like half moons, show evidence of dripping sweat rings turned white over time. A bearded chin, with various street artifact embedded deep within, attempts to overgrow and overtake the pot-marked, scarred face.

"I'm (slur) kill you! You (slur) (slur) man. I am not (slur) (slur) detox! I'm gonna (slur) (slur)."

I lean my head down.

And open my eyes. The green leaves whistle in the breeze and small mayflies chase each other on the surface of the water. My orange fly line floats slowly down the river like Huck Finn's homemade raft on the great Mississippi. At the very tip, laced to the hair-thin tippet, floats my handmade fly. It's white parachute wings bobbing up and down with every bump in the current. It nearly floats out of site, and with no bite witnessed, I reel the line, and the fly, back towards the rocky bank I'm standing on. Another attempt will shortly be made.

"I was in Vietnam. I'm a SEAL!" slurs more lies from the aging face in front of me.

"I can kill you with one hand," he threatens as the pungent odor of digested alcohol wafts from his chapped lips.

"Talk to me, you a**hole! I'm sick and you have to take care of me."

"You're not sick. You're drunk. And you're wasting my..."

I stop midsentence. I almost took the bait. Like that fish in the river, he casted his trap and dangled it in front of me. I swam near and was enticed by the colorful language, ready to bite and stoop down to his level and start exchanging profanities. I nibbled and quickly realized what it was, a trap.

He was too late to set the hook and my mind, again, resumed wandering.

I'm sitting right next to him, but I am miles away.