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Funny thing about rivers, they capture you.
Somehow, the predator (that would be us, as
fly anglers) when on the river, sometimes become
the prey, lured in and totally caught up in the
river's net of beauty, power and mystery. Some
rivers are subtle in their allure, others bold
and outright obvious about it.
I was reminded of that once in NC, on the Nanatahala
River, where I fished alone on a trout stream for
the first time. The mountains rose above me on
either side, alive in the fire of fall, and the
river flowed beneath me, around me, and somehow,
through me. My tears fell like rain, and they
fell into the waters that were the river, and
somehow, when they met those waters, seemed so
much smaller, so much more insignificant, and
less important.
They washed away like the river washed away my
troubles, and left nothing but the river and me.
It was a good feeling. I have always known that
rivers held power, since the first day I sat upon
the banks of the Indian River, alone, pondering
the mysteries of life. Every question I asked,
the river answered. That river and I became the
best of friends, I was always there for it and
it for me. Somewhere, right now, a part of my soul
is still out there on it, wading in it, sitting
beside it, learning it, loving it, fishing it and
becoming it. Most of all, part of me is still there
listening for the answers.
I rode in the Banana Boat, Jan's big yellow boat with
him, and saw how the St. John's River transformed him
from a 60 year old man to a young man again. Everything
about him was different when he was on that river. I
could see him as he was 30 years ago, my age, and young
and strong and free and wild. I listened to his stories,
learning the history of the river, and knew that he knew
how I felt about my river. Whenever I was on the river
with Jan, it was always as if we were back in time, and
it was the magic of the river that made such time travel
possible.
There are ghosts on that river, and when I am out there
amongst the reeds and cattails, riding along at breakneck
speed around the many turns, I catch a glimpse of them
here and there. I know then, that the river has held a
spell over some people for as long as it has flowed. The
Branford River in Connecticut still holds me spellbound.
I sat upon its banks on a big rock with a man that I
shared something special with for a time. The hills
rose up above us, the leaves fell silently down upon
us like rain and the sunlight shone down on us, but
barely, as it was filtered by the forest around us.
It started slowly, a flicker in the sunlight that was
a bug. It fluttered in and out of a ray of light that
fought its way through the trees and lay upon the river.
Soon there were more, then hundreds, then thousands,
surrounding us, everywhere, shining in the light that
was the sun, but only barely, as if it were but my
imagination, and they were tiny pixies flitting around
the river. Then, as soon as it began, it was over,
leaving me to wonder if it ever really was.
The Savage River captured a piece of me as I laid on a
large boulder on its banks and listened to dusk set,
watching as the waxwings came out from their hiding
places and fed on rising insects. I listened to night
settle in, barely breathing, not wanting to miss
anything that a sigh might cover up. I made a cast
into the darkness, and with it caught my first
smallmouth bass. I fished the confluence that was
made where it joined with another, smaller, unnamed
creek and actually managed to get a trout to rise to
my fly, although I missed it. I watched a deer struggle
across it in dusk's fading light, and somehow felt as
if I was home and not 1100 miles away from it.
The Big Qualicum River captured my heart and soul as
easily as I caught my first salmon from its waters. I
stood in its waters, an alien, and yet somehow conquered
it in a small way. It gave up its secrets and its fish
and it gave them willingly and graciously. When it was
over, it rose higher upon my body and showed me its
strength, its power, and that it was not a river to be
reckoned with. It nearly knocked me off my feet with its
power. It certainly swept me off my feet with its beauty
and grace.
The Oyster River flowed its way into my heart...another
artery supplying the vital fluids required by my soul
to continue on. I waded out into its current and stood
there in the middle of it, as if defying it, daring it
to sweep me away. I fished it with a vengeance, and it
gave up nothing. I got lost out there that day. As I
stood there in the midst of its raw power and force, I
found myself at home again, on the flats, wading out
towards a tailing redfish, stalking it, already making
it mine in my head. I stood there, in the middle of a
northern river, headlong into the current, casting like
a crazed woman who needed more. 80 feet, 90 feet, then
finally 100, out in long even tight loops over its water,
only to have it washed back to me.
I did some of my finest casting out upon its waters. My
friend looked over at me when I came out of the trance I
was in with a look of confusion, wonderment and a hint of
understanding. I suppose that at some time in his life, he
has been homesick as well.
There is a river in Nicaragua where one can get lost in
the jungle beat. The pounding of your heart becomes the
beating of long ago drums and the screaming of the reel
becomes the screaming of a woman, screaming her song while
dancing around the fire with such energy, and those sparks
from the fire land upon your arms and you reach down and
slap them, only mosquitoes after all. There is magic at
work, there, and you can see that woman although she isn't
really there.
There is the San Joaquin River delta in California, upon
which I caught my first king salmon on the flyrod, witnessed
by a man who proposed over my line control. It's a place
where you can see the Sierra, the White mountains in the
east that brings the sun and Mt. Diablo (The Devil Mountain)
in the west that brings the darkness and there is something
powerful about that. Those deep waters hold more than large
fish, they hold secrets.
I don't know if it is true about all roads leading to Rome
or not, but I am certain now, that somehow, in some way,
all rivers lead to home. ~ Tam
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