I think his name is Mark. That’s what the embroidery on his jacket spells out anyway.

About an hour ago I was walking the streets of downtown Billings following the annual Zombie Walk when I happened on him, or shall I say, as he happened on me.

As I stood debating which street to take to catch up with the roving zombies Mark came up and asked about my lens and camera. After just a minute of conversation I knew the Zombies would have to wait.

Mark began recounting his three month fishing trip across the west this summer and how he thought I would’ve loved being there with him, shooting all that he was seeing. He told me of one night on the river how he was almost bitten by a rattler. He was casting his line out when he looked down and saw it, a small coil of a snake, arched and ready to strike. He was shocked to see it and immediately jumped back and couldn’t understand how he hadn’t heard its warning. He then saw that its rattler was stretched out slightly and in the water, being muffled. A close call, he says, if ever he’s had one.

It’s moments like this that I love. Even though I wasn’t on that trip with him, I could somewhat imagine a little bit of it now. I thought of evenings on the Stillwater, the sun fading, and where I first learned to flyfish. I could almost hear the water tumbling over rocks as it winds on down to the Yellowstone.

Thanks to meeting this complete stranger on the street today, I’m just that much more alive tonight.

After his cigarette, he headed back in to his waiting poker game and I walked on, looking for Zombies.