CHECKLIST → FLY LIKE AN EAGLE → ADAMS

The next morning, Jimmy spent his first full day fly-fishing on the Snake River with his guide—Travis, or Trav as the locals called him.

Trav was sizing Jimmy up.

He needed to know how freely he could talk with his guest.

Eventually, they started talking politics.

Trav was testing him.

Jimmy had a rule when discussing politics.

He always gave fair warning.

“I’m a Republican.”

“I bleed red, white, and blue.”

Trav laughed.

“Good.”

“You look like some liberal artist from New York.”

Jimmy laughed.

Trav was a Republican too.

That settled that.

Trav said the Snake was unusually clear for this time of year.

“You got lucky.”

Lucky indeed.

His first time fly-fishing, Jimmy caught several nice-sized trout.

“Not bad for a beginner,” Trav said.

Around midday, Trav pulled the boat onto a quiet stretch of riverbank.

“Keep an eye out for moose.”

They ate deli sandwiches by the river.

Then Jimmy jumped into the Snake.

The water was shockingly cold.

He didn’t stay in long.

It was majestic.

Jimmy watched a bald eagle snatch a large trout from the river and soar into the sky.

It was only then that Jimmy appreciated the classic rock lyrics of Steve Miller Band’s “Fly Like an Eagle.”

If America was still in a revolution, Wyoming was the solution.

· · ·

The following day Jimmy drove through Grand Teton and Yellowstone National Parks.

The Amangani Resort had loaned him a complimentary new BMW 7 Series for the day.

Well, there goes my cover. No better way to scream tourist.

As Jimmy drove along US Route 191, the Tetons grew larger in the distance.

He couldn’t help but think of one of his favorite American photographers.

Ansel Adams.

His 1942 photograph The Tetons and the Snake River had helped turn this landscape into an American icon.

Black and white. Dark foreground. Snow-streaked peaks. The Snake River bending through the valley toward the mountains.

Adams had photographed it from what became known as Snake River Overlook.

Jimmy had seen the photograph countless times.

Now he was driving into it.

When he eventually approached the gate at Yellowstone National Park, the ranger asked, “How many?”

Not thinking—his mind still mesmerized from driving through the Tetons—Jimmy looked in the back seat.

“Just me.”

They both laughed.

“Here’s a map. Enjoy.”

· · ·

Enjoy was an understatement.

Jimmy had been driving for hours, but time seemed to be nonexistent.

As a kid he read Ranger Rick.

Now he was witnessing it in real life.

A grizzly walking briskly through a field of tall grass in the distance, disappearing into the brush—perhaps on a hunt.

Then there was the herd of bison blocking the road.

A ranger waved him through slowly and for good reason.

One bull protecting a calf looked almost as long as the BMW 7 Series.

And how could he ever forget Old Faithful?

Jimmy watched the geyser blow while eating a chocolate-and-vanilla soft-serve ice cream cone.

He thought about the vision it took to preserve a place like this.

On March 1, 1872, President Ulysses S. Grant signed the law establishing Yellowstone as the world’s first national park.

This is America, he thought.

How beautiful.

Definitely worth defending.

· · ·

After two days exploring the wild—from eagles to bison to grizzlies and geysers—Jimmy thought about the early American pioneers who had traveled west through the razor’s edge and into the unknown.

They had to be resilient.

Big Sur was powerful in its own right, but this was next-level energy.

Jimmy had waited fifteen years to see Wyoming.

The Snake River.

The Tetons.

Yellowstone.

He thought he had finally seen it.

■ ■ ■