The Wind, The River and Trout

"A trout is a moment of beauty known only to those who seek it."

~by Arnold Gingrich~

Shhh....listen. Can you hear that? Silence. Silence broken only by the heart-breakingly sweet song of the bluebird. The wind chimes hang at attention, not so much as a breath of wind to sway them into a gentle song. And now a vesper sparrow sings, a crow caws far away, a pair of geese fly over, so low you can hear their wings paddling against the sky, and then silence once again. The wind that has batterd and roared at us for days and days has settled or moved on and all is quiet in it's wake.

Trout season opens today. The fly rods hanging on the wall will be dusted and made ready for a trip to the river late this afternoon. We had been invited to a poetry soiree to hob-knob with local literati but it's opening day of trout season and the poetry of running river, gracefully arching fly line and the dance of a dry fly on the water calls to us in a stronger voice. 

We will be with the river this evening, standing thigh deep or better in cold running water, adjusting our stance as the current pulls gravel from under our feet and pushes against our calves. Our lines will draw large ovals in the air above our heads or roll out in great circles to lay gently upon the water. Our flies will skitter across the riffles or, as in Mike's case, mine the water below the surface hoping to tease a trout up from the depths. Mostly we are there to fish. Mostly we are there to be with the river. Mostly we are there to be healed by the waters.

Tonight, it is predicted to be calm. We won't have to worry about the wind sending great tangles of line hurtling towards our ears. We will stand below tall pine lined ridges in the warm golden sunlight of the evening watching for a hatch and trying to "match the hatch" with something from our fly boxes. Warblers will distract as they swing out like a pendulum to grab a gnat, midge or with luck a moth. The pungent scent of balm of gilead will drift across and mingle with the cool, sweet smell of running water. Maybe there will be a beaver or, like last year, maybe a deer will walk up the river towards one of us. We may even be fortunate enough to see an otter! And maybe, just maybe, if the planets align and the stars are with us...there will be trout.

"In my family, there was no clear division between religion and fly fishing."

~by Norman Maclean, A River Runs Through It, 1976

Peace and see you at church.

Karen