[NEXT "Story Continued Here"] Vast snowdrifts have corniced out over the riverbank, and dropping 6 feet through an overhang and into the water could quickly set the day rolling downhill. So I sit a couple of yards from the edge, kick a crude trough in the snow as I move forward, and sluice into the water. Ice clots the guides after half a dozen casts. Dipping the rod under water to clear them becomes a self-defeating gesture-like scratching a mosquito bite, it gives temporary relief but inhe end only makes things worse. Eventually, I give up and cast a fixed length of line frozen to a fly rod that is now little more than a $500 cane pole. In between the convulsive, full-body shivers that pass for casting, I ponder the particular subspecies of madness that has driven me here, 900 miles from home, just shy of the Continental Divide, 6,800 feet up into the frozen no-when of the year.