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I sometimes enjoy being alone, the robins working the back yard in the last light, my clothes wet from the river. Gladly and sadly thankful for my luck and worried with guilt about others working where I thought I would be. I know now not to dwell too long on the matter.
I would not sit at this table wet if I were not alone, but I am and I have my choice of dinner and entertainment. I choose fish, black beans and vegetables, cold barley soup, and a book.
The river, waist deep, is like a tranquil oasis of solitude and hum. Energy pours forth in its natural place, life infused inside working the circle of life. My target is smallmouth. On a ultra light combo they will fight you like a shark in larger waters and I let them, and then consider the mountain of hubris in defeating them only to return them to their home.
Where I was raised, the men that fired rifles also pursued all of the outdoor game. I am lucky to have been raised near water. The small streams and tributaries made for lots of trap lines, and it was a special event for a kid to stay up all night with their dad and a lantern, catfish lines pulling with a tug as a monster of the deep was coaxed in with chicken liver. My grandfather was on several of the islands in the Pacific, but I hope that some of his best memories were standing with me in the river. Mine are.
I have an old tattered book that I was given in 7th grade and I like to read it each year as the summer nights grow long. It is a great escape from the sometime 3 hours it takes me to drive 40 miles to my home. The entire book is an American classic, but it is the last paragraph that stays with me.
<span style="font-style: italic">"Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world's greatest flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs.
I am haunted by waters."</span>
-Norman Maclean
