I fell in love with journalism, fully and undeniably, while being threatened with bodily harm in a bar in Troy Montana. It was the kind of dive that, growing up in North Idaho, I thought I knew well. Elk racks stapled to the walls, a saddle, perhaps never used, in a corner. Newspaper clippings of hard-nosed men standing next to dead animals. Bud Light and Miller Hi Life posters slowly peeling downward, the humidity of a thousand drunks over a thousand nights loosening it all. Pool tabs and a juxebox. Cigarette smoke pooled above it all, haze upon haze.