Such a pitiful throw. I watched my boot wobble above Mono Creek, then— in what seemed like real-life slow-mo—bounce against a rock and flip into the rushing current. Gone, gone, gone. Barefoot on the bank, I screamed, cursing my idiocy for tossing my boots instead of carrying them across in the wading shoes lent by my new friend, Doug Crispin. My life flashed before my eyes there on Mono Creek, days from anywhere. But then, someone was crashing through the creekside foliage.