It was a late-May night in Alpine, Wyoming, sleet fell hard from the sky, my tent was soaked from the previous night, and my sleeping bag's zipper did not work -- cold air streamed in as if pushed by an Arctic wind. A motel night, for sure. All my fishing partner, Mike, and I wanted was to slip into a cheap motel and gather a few hours of shuteye without taking a severe hit in the pocketbook.
