The section of the High Line Canal between the bridges at South Forest Street and South Holly in Denver is breathtaking. Literally breathtaking. It stinks.

At least that was the case as recently told to me by the people who live along that part of the canal. They were clamoring for me, Nick Newsprint, intrepid, citizen journalist for YourHub.com, to write an expose about the smelly, stagnant pools of green, algae flecked muck that had become the state of the canal since our drought stopped the flow of fresh water. They bombarded me with tales of how on hot nights the foul odor that wafted into their backyards had them contemplating a trip to the army surplus store for gas masks. The standing water was creating squadrons of mosquitoes as large as B-52 bombers, and the drone they produced flying in formation, made backyard conversation impossible. Some couples had resorted to using semaphore flags to converse as they barbequed.

They were desperate and I was just the type of crusading, hard charging, citizen journalist to handle such a hot potato story. I put on my Dan Rather model foreign correspondents trench coat, set my fedora on my head at a rakish angle, grabbed the trusty old Speed Graphic camera off the shelf and was on my way with visions of a Pulitzer Prize and accolades from my fellow ink stained wretches of the press dancing in my head. On my way out of the newsroom, I stopped by the desk of Velma, secret object of my affection, the peroxide blonde who not only kept the place humming but also made my heart do flip-flops. I told Velma that I was headed out on a dangerous assignment and to wish me luck. She looked up with those magnificent baby blues of hers; her brow furrowed in what was obviously a display of concern. "Don't drop the camera in the water. You do and you pay for the repairs." As I left the newsroom, I was practically floating on air at how much she cared about me.

I turned up my collar as I walked through the rain to the canal. It had been raining steadily for a few days. Raining hard enough to send small cars and poodles floating down the streets of South Denver.

I was almost to the bridge at South Forest when I heard the sound. The distinct sound of running water. A lot of running water. Actually, an enormous amount of running water. I was on the bridge now, looking upstream and down. The canal was a rushing torrent of water, not only washing away the stagnant, fetid ponds and erasing any remnant of putrid odor but also washing away my dream of snagging any prestigious writing award and winning a look of affection from Velma. The smell wasn't the only thing disappearing downstream. My newspaper career was floating away and fast, too. What could I do? Heck, I'd seen every version of "The Front Page" a million times. I was cut from the same cloth as those rowdy, reprobate newshounds. I could hint at some smell in the air. Sure, I could do that. I inhaled so deeply my shoes curled up. No use. The air was fresh and merely smelled of rain and I, after all, was a newspaper person through and through, and that meant no bending of the truth. For now, the story was on hold. Of course, if the rain kept up, I could maybe get a flood story out of it. I could wait here to see how far the water rises or until someone floats by needing me to rescue them. Yeah. That would work. I could see the headline now. Intrepid reporter single handedly saves flood victim. I'll wait. I have time. Until the next deadline, folks, that's -30-.

When undercover, Nick Newsprint sometimes uses the name Jim Syring.