It is a new day and I’m in the truck headed north. A dusting of snow reveals a fresh pair of moose tracks — a cow and her calf — dotted across the highway’s centerline, disappearing into the borrow pit’s tangle of willows. A roadkill coyote stretches her frozen paws to the sky. My thermos is full of coffee, the heater is cranked, and my shoulders are stiff after the previous day spent rowing, or “shoveling water,” as some colleagues call it — my hands on the oars, pulling them in a constant, rhythmic stroke against the current while the boat drifts its way down the shining conveyor belt of the Missouri River, where I make my living as a full-time fly-fishing guide.  Out my left window, the Rocky Mountain Front rises from the plains into a skyline of jagged sawtooth peaks. I’ll be up there in October, after the fishing season ends, leading clients on horseback hunts in the high country, where the wind gusts over sixty miles per hour and snowdrifts can swallow you whole. Welcome to the …