The diesel Volkswagen van chugged upward through the switchbacks as we climbed into the low-hanging clouds. Soon we couldn’t even see the rain-soaked green valley below, and our world became focused on the steep, rutted farm path in front of us. Occasionally, a group of cows blocked our progress, their bells clanging loudly in the stillness, and Ivan would creep forward to avoid pushing one off the edge. The end of the road was a saddle between two peaks, and when we hopped out, the air was damp and cold. As we donned fleece and rain gear, Sandy and I exchanged skeptical looks: Could there really be a trout-filled spring creek up here? Smiling as always, Ivan seemed undeterred by the conditions and disappeared over the far edge of the saddle, beckoning for us to follow.