It would take more than Colonel Sanders to stop me from fishing, though -- he'd need help from the Hamburgler, Grimace, and possibly even the Fry Guys. None of those wimps were showing up, so things were looking pretty good for me. Since our campsite was nestled knees-to-knickers with the highway, I was even able to wake up early, stirred from my slumbers by the soothing screech of 18-wheelers using their engine brakes to scrape off speed for the upcoming hairpin turn at the tail end of the campground. Thank heavens for small favors, eh?

It was raining when I got up, but not too badly. Since it was fairly warm out, I decided that I wouldn't go to the trouble of unloading my waders from the dry bag strapped to Otto's roof. Too much trouble. My rugged constitution and warrior-like leg hair would keep me warm, anyway. Waders are for wimps. These were my thoughts.

Once my legs went numb, though, things improved mightily. I even stopped cursing my own stupidity and started to enjoy the fishing. Though we weren't on a particularly promising stretch of the Gallatin, the surrounding scenery was still lovely, particularly the low-lying clouds draping themselves over the pines. It was nice to see rain again after such a long time away. We are from the Pacific Northwest, you know.

My reprieve was short-lived, as I soon discovered that in addition to my waders, I had also neglected to bring my fishing vest. Did I mention that the trucks were coming by the campground all night, making sleep a bit of a challenge? After checking to make sure I was wearing pants (I was), I headed back to the van to get my vest so I could have some other flies to use. Whatever interest I had in fishing evaporated quickly, however, as my nose told me that the Wise and Caffeinated Kristanne had seen fit to whip up a pot of coffee. Now, let's see -- would I rather re-numb the legs which were just now regaining feeling or sit in the van with Kristanne and drink a cup of coffee while listening to the rain pitter-patter off Otto's roof? No contest.

After a restful morning, we called up the VW dealer in Salt Lake City and set up an appointment for Otto to have an oil change the following morning. We were also set up to get our mail at the Post Office there, so we headed out after a spell, bound for Mormon City, home of the Tabernacle Choir, the Bee Hive House, and for reasons that I absolutely cannot fathom, the World's First Kentucky Fried Chicken.

Say what? The World's First Kentucky Fried Chicken is in...Utah? Did the Colonel live in Salt Lake City? Was he a Mormon? Had he ever even been to Kentucky? It makes no sense, but that's kind of par for Salt Lake's course. We shook our heads confusedly and moved on.