Up on the Lower Owens River, just past the cement plant, is the fishing dog grave. More than fishing, I love dogs-especially those that enjoy adventure as much as I. Looking at the old rod seats, wading boots, and dog toys left as offerings, I wondered about all the amazing stories that could be told if one could listen. For as much as any religion has its sacred places, I knew this was spot a cathedral to the bond of fishermen and their K-9 friends.

Under the warmth of a winter sun, I enjoyed a nice Sierra Nevada Pale Ale and paid homage to those loyal beasts that had stood alongside their human friends. Mayflies lifted from the cold flowing river like miniature white doves reaching for the azure skies. Only the gurgle of the flowing water stirred the silence and provided an appropriate soundtrack for the place.

It was a good day.