A column by Rob Holtzinger

The pair of August days Billy and I had waded the Touchet River in old tennis shoes, starting by the baseball-softball fields of Dayton High School and exiting the stream just before the Main Street bridge, seems more like a couple months passed, than the half year of days gone by.

Fond of walking down the gravel bar in the middle of the river, ankle deep, Billy, my twelve-year-old son and I, cast to the deeper water, ironically right off the bank, holes swirl two to three feet deep, shaded by trees and shrubbery that provide cooling for the rainbow trout holding...