It never ceases to surprise me, the river. And it is, ironically, a familiar feeling - I am standing in that which is moving. It alters my sense of time. When the hour hand becomes shadows of overhead arms slinking across the brush beyond the bank, this is the passing of time. The repetitive taps of the second hand are snakes of grass standing out of the river, always dancing, always moving. As this water flows, in more ways than I can imagine, I am standing in the middle of it. My time is standing still even though the water pushes past me fast and I am aware of everything alive around me. Wading downstream with the current makes navigating the river easier in my opinion. The water pushes me forward but also offers resistance and it is a feeling that is hard to describe, like feeling gravity’s pull. Water finds the path of least resistance and uses it. Nature is a teacher and, on this day, I am thankfully living in the moment, in what seems to be the perfect moment.
I read the river and wade to the spots that look good for fish. Wading, it is such a strange word for what it actually is—navigating through a beautiful river bed full of hiding rocks that evokes a more romantic and softer sounding word. Wading is defined as “walking in or through water or something else that similarly impedes normal movement.” If this is so, then my life is a river. It is not life that impedes my natural movement, but stressors, situations, and whatever else I choose to get caught up in and let hamper my forward movement. Even going downstream and not having to fight against the current, I step clumsily until I find my balance among the movement of the water. It becomes so natural that I no longer think about walking, but concentrate on what is above water, the fly rod and the sun on my shoulders. My first casts are stiff and fall short, and I am glad that friends are upstream and is too engrossed in their own casting to notice mine. I stand still and focus solely on casting and then reeling in my popper so it realistically “pops” across the water.
Catching a fish always surprises me. Perhaps if I fished more, the surprise might dull, but I doubt it. Watching the end of my line disappear while simultaneously feeling the resistance on the line takes my breath away, lights up my face, and connects me with all those from years ago who fished for sustenance, for survival. After reeling in a spirited Small Mouth, I carefully hold it with my left hand and remove the hook from its lip with my right, glad it is an easy release. The second catch is not as smooth, for the fish nearly swallows the popper, the hook down by its gills. My fingers do not fit to get a hold on the lure, so after for help. One friend tells me I have to do it on my own, so I pick up the fish and try again, and still with no success, I am nervous. I hold the fish in the water and can feel it getting weaker. Starting to panic, I contemplate my next move, and just then, the fish wiggles right out of my hand while, at the same time, the hook mysteriously comes free, and the fish swims away.
I exhale relief but can see luck for what it is and know that the next cast and catch might prove another challenge and that the outcome is up to me. Again, more lessons for life; nature is such a teacher! My time is here on this river is for learning to see, to feel, to be. There are still hours gifted us, to spend that time as we wish, fishing, sitting on a warm rock out of the water, taking it all in—the troops of lilies guarding the banks and the songs of birds among the rippling water sounds. Knowing that there is a whole summer of this to enjoy makes me feel very blessed and very grateful.
