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Imagine feeling most of the bones in your torso breaking using a sterile, ragged, SNAP while the sinew linking them is torn apart with a dreadful POP! Imagine the pain whilst bleeding internally for hours, lying in a twisted metal coffin. You have to presume that help won't arrive in time to save your life. Now imagine, what could you do? I had been excited when, at the middle of Fall, which can be fishing year, my cousin Jerad asked me if I'd like to go fishing with him and his brother Justin. I immediately replied that I would, and if Jerad came to pick me up the three of us piled up into his small Dodge pick-up and led for Cow Camp. Cow Camp is in which our Grandpa grew up. His father homesteaded roughly forty yards on the North Slope of Black Mesa into ranch. He built a cabin and let out his cows on the pasture. Every Fall grandpa and his dad joined the other cowboys to round up the cows and then to type them through new. Some of the other cowboys remained at the cabin and over the years it was known as "Cow Camp". Now, however, it's turned into "Hunting Camp", "Fishing Camp", and sometimes, if Mick, Jerad's daddy, allows his cows spat there, it's called "Cow Camp" once more. We were headed there to "Fishing Camp" along with our imaginations have been working overtime bringing to mind pictures of those massive Brown trout that appear against the rivers to spawn. We were all jabbering hysterically and gambling who would catch the most fish as we pulled off of the black top onto the Crystal Creek Access Road. Our parents had cautioned us about little trucks, gravel streets, and how dangerous the roads could be. We presumed this was their worried parent side, however, and barely gave the warning heed. We did not understand exactly how wrong we were going to become. The road had...