Welcome to Home of the Brave, I'm Scott Carrier.

One time in the springtime, I was fishing in the Bitterroot Mountains in Western Montana.

I was walking through a meadow by a stream, a gentle day of blue sky and white clouds,

a couple of deer flies following me but not attacking just hanging out.

I looked down and I saw a mushroom, three inches in diameter, brown and purple growing up out of a cow pie. I pulled it, turned it over, took a

big whiff, and my stomach tightened into a knot, so a cybin, no doubt about it, so I ate it.

Some time later I was standing at the base of a mountain.

The sun was beating down and I was sweating profusely. I didn't know where I was or how I got there, but I still felt very much at home.

Then, suddenly, like out of nowhere, I realized I was surrounded by prairie dogs and they were all barking at me.

I'd wandered into their territory, invaded their space, and they were angry.

They were attacking me.

In my chemically altered mind, I saw their barking chirps coming at me as red water balloons,

a self-enclosed sonic bullets that traveled silently until they exploded

on impact with my body.

I was being hit from all sides.

Fish! I yelled at them. I'm here for fish. But they remained relentless and cruel in their

attack. I waved my flyrod trying to pierce or puncture the balloons, but to no avail.

So I ran for it as fast as I could go.

I ran and ran down to the cottonwood trees along the stream, where I slowed my racing heart by staring at the gleaming tip of my fly.

Then I unclipped the fly from the rod and held it between my fingers, studying the water, eager to take my revenge upon the animal kingdom.

Today, on Home of the Brave, I'm going to play stories that come from springtime.

That time when the flowers come out on the fruit trees and there's new hope in the air.

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