I Walk Alone

The metal cleats dig into the asphalt. Metallic grinding—a kind of bright sound—changes tone when I challenge it by stepping on the painted white line of the road. River water still purges from my boots with each step along my path. Like when I was a kid at the pool, leaving wet footprints along the concrete deck, I’m now being followed by my boot prints along this road…so maybe not alone.

Earlier up river, I paused at the sight of movement. Startled, I froze to gather more information before I reacted. It was close—next thicket close—and under 20 feet, and well after sunset. This is a tight canyon that abstracts sunlight, often misleading human time and forcibly convincing me to function off nature time, which now is “critter time” or “feeding time.” I’m not alone.

Both parties seemingly caught each other’s attention, and we engaged in “action-reaction.” A primitive, yet very understanding way to gather information: friend or foe, I eat you or you eat me? Both on high alert, we began to figure each other out. What seemed like a lengthy pause in our individual experiences now thrust us together until I heard a splash. He was fleeing, bolting across the river. A beautiful young buck in velvet, and trailing behind, his doe. I made my way to the bank to reveal myself as they paused in safety across the river. We all shared a gaze. Now alone.

Earlier, coming into the canyon, the radio dropped to zero reception. Window cracked to hear the wind, so I didn’t feel alone. Finding my empty turnout, I was glad to be alone.

After rigging up and scurrying down the trail, I was elated to see little disturbance from other people since my last visit—that made me smile. Not selfishly, but respectfully, for this spot. It’s like all the others around here, but for this moment, I’m its tenant. The water is gin clear, and the cobble shines with its eclectic colors as my cleats dig in. My mind goes to double-checking the rig, with curiosity and faith in fly selection. A salmon fly haphazardly buzzes past my head, ungracefully undecided on its route. Is this the sign? I wait for others to confirm, because one is a theory, two is a statement, and three is a movement. But nothing follows this now-deemed random act. A week ago, in another watershed, my son and I collected the husks of these off the rocks. He was so pleased by the quantity—a fleeting five-year-old moment, but still trophies from the river.

My decision to stick with what I have rigged resonates to move forward. Ripping out several yards of line off the reel and letting the current take it downstream, I catch a glimpse of the view. I’m awestruck, frozen in a heavy gaze. Both sides of the canyon come down tight to the river, sprinkled with wise old Ponderosa and a few cottonwood, while craggy walls reach skyward. I’m actually taken by the view, so taken that I have to look away to gain a fresh look back again. Yes, it’s true—the view is real, and it’s staring back at me.

The downstream drift pulls tight to remind me what I actually came to do. A nice water load sets up, and lifting the rod tip while tugging a bit of line sets the launch in motion. Inside seam is the target, at the back of the run—almost too far back for my tendency. The next fast section starts off my right shoulder. But I’ve learned something about this spot, and apparently the fish hold here. So I drift through, changing my mend from loop up to loop down, correcting constantly to maintain a perfect dead drift.

The hen commits right at the line of the fast section, and I tether her with my rod. Resistance, but not enough pressure to force her down the next section. Patience persists to convincing action for a healthy run upstream. Off my left shoulder in calmer water, I clamp down and direct her to my net. As fluid as the drift and take are, the release is as calm and quick.

One more look at this breathtaking view downstream to validate that this is not, in fact, a hallucination. Before I move on to the next section, gratitude comes over me: one cast, one fish—thank you.

Fish on