The vast sky spread across the landscape in a brilliant, cloudless blue, the perfect foil for the rolling fields of gold and the dark green pine trees dotting the rocky hills. Not even the red dirt devils blowing over my clean car dimmed my mood. I was out of the office for a change and it felt good.  Angostura Reservoir had been created in the 1940s by trapping the Cheyenne River in a small, sleepy canyon. The man-made lake is surrounded by soft sand beaches, rock and dirt cliffs, and a mix of deciduous and pine trees. The water is warm, considering the elevation, and very clean, fluctuating between murky in the shallow spots and a dazzling silver-aqua where it drops off to seventy-five feet. Once the water trickles back over the dam, the river resumes its natural course. I’d been camping at the lake at least once a summer during my high school years. The majority of my time had been spent lying on the beach, working on my tan and drinking cheap beer. And if Kevin and I were lucky enough to hook up with people who had a boat, we hadn’t spent time messing with poles, lines, bait and the like.
