It's been a while since I put fly in water. A while by
my standards.
The southwestern corner of Virginia has been experiencing a
drought that's run on since early September. And once the smallmouth fishing
slowed in October and trout fishing would have theoretically taken over,
streamflows bottomed out. So, for lack of ideal opportunity, I yielded to my
duties to academics, to my freshmen residents, and to writing, disheartened by the environmental condition, and chivalrous towards
the fish in their stressed state.
Dare I say, it's been the better part of a month since
I've strung up my four weight and felt the chill of mountain water and the slime
of a wild trout on my hands. A sharp contrast to my summer's industry, fishing
darn near every day, pausing to hear what carries me in the mountains, and
fulfilling passion as often. Despite the weight of final exams mashing pedal to
metal and the oncoming roller coaster of the holiday season, time has slowed to
a crawl, like the flat, meandering trudge of the South Fork of the Holston
creeping through defoliating hollows. I’ve grown less tolerant of daily
disturbances. Life, through my eyes, is less rich without the regular return to
nature.
It's been nearly a month and in that time there have
been several deadlines. Several deadlines that were not met clacking excitedly
away at the computer, eyes still sparkling, translating the majesty of brook
trout and a mountain stream explored over the weekend, or the sense of
accomplishment at duping a sex-crazed brown from the South Fork into tearing
into a streamer before class. In these periods of real-time inspirational
drought, I dive into reflection, focus on a memorable or defining moment, and
celebrate it. For what means bounty without shortage?
It's been...24 days since I last set foot in my home
water, but today I'm breaking the streak. Such a hiatus constitutes an
emergency, and I have to tend to it, regardless of reward. I've long been proud
of my ability to adjust to different angling situations, and have regarded time
on the water as a powerful exercise in realignment and realized identity. After
all, what means a singing stream without the whisper of drought?
The water is cold, despite its level, as I slosh my
way upstream through the familiar vein that slices through thousands of acres
of national forest land. The sun pulls the barren forms of hardwoods over its
face. My mind expands into the hills and then sounds inward like the rapidly
branching plot of a soul-striking novel. I am home again.
The usual riffles and runs are choked, empty and
exposed, but the deeper holes retain promise. A small black stonefly nymph dropped
quietly at the head of a large aqueous bowl rouses the spirit of a wild rainbow
typical of this stream.
Mine is roused, too. It's been a while.
In that time, we, the American people, elected a new
head of state. There were struggles before him—against the movement for federal
land transfer, for action on climate change, for a healthy transition to a more
sustainable future—but they were catalyzed by a statesman who believed in such
things. The newly elected has made clear his intentions of slamming shut that
policy window, with interest in coal and oil over the health of the Earth,
favoring impolitic lust for capital over survival. Progress is always hard.
Sometimes it’s harder. But what is a movement without opposition? Passion without
test?
It is admittedly difficult to maintain hope in light
of these events, standing in the stagnant nature of autumn-thus-far in the
Southeast. In a puddle of a river once coursing. In 70 degrees in November. In
a drought egged on by the hottest summer on record. Watching the fall brown
trout season evaporate, and the story potential of my favorite season squandered.
Such stressors even the river can’t save me from, and so my stimulus-starved
mind rages, hungry for action. I could give up. But I can’t.
It’ll be a while—that much I’m sure of. Winter,
probably, before the return of seasonal rainfall, and the restoration of a
healthy fishing pattern and flow of stories to write. Four years, at least,
before the majority of representative government stands faithfully on the side
of the Earth and the rivers and streams that support the sporting lifestyle we live.
The water will rise, once again, and the fishing, the writing, the fighting will be easier. But integrity keeps on when the going gets tough. So in the meantime, I’ll be at the river, persisting, waiting. For what means victory without struggle? □
The water will rise, once again, and the fishing, the writing, the fighting will be easier. But integrity keeps on when the going gets tough. So in the meantime, I’ll be at the river, persisting, waiting. For what means victory without struggle?
*Originally published in the Rural Virginian
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