Stranded in the Salt Lake City airport, spending an entire day in that familiar no man’s land known as a layover, I can only remember the send off that my favorite local pub gave me last night. The snow is flying – the first snow of the season. It started last night, a steady dumping of flakes completely covering the ground. Here in no man’s land, the snow is still falling. The sky is blank, a spotless white expanse. The only thing missing from this scene is the comfort derived from a hot plateful of Shepherd’s Pie, and the homespun cheer of a true blue Irish pub. Luck is not only for the Irish, and lucky for me, that is exactly what I enjoyed last night in Bozeman’s own neighborhood pub. ...

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