I Walk Alone

The metal cleats dig into the asphalt, grinding against it with a bright metallic sound that changes tone when I step on the painted white line of the road. River water still seeps from my boots with each step. Like when I was a kid at the pool, leaving wet footprints along the concrete deck, I’m now leaving boot prints along this road… so maybe I’m not entirely alone.

Earlier upriver, I paused at a movement. Startled, I froze to gather more information before reacting. Something was close—less than 20 feet away, just beyond the next thicket, and it was already after sunset. This tight canyon often abstracts sunlight, confusing human sense of time and forcing me to function on nature’s clock, or what I now call “critter time” or “feeding time.” I’m not alone.

Both of us seemed to notice each other at the same time, and we engaged in a cautious “action-reaction.” A primitive but effective way to determine friend or foe: do I eat you, or do you eat me? Both of us on high alert, we began to size each other up. After what felt like a long pause, a splash broke the tension. The buck bolted across the river, his doe following closely behind. I approached the bank slowly, revealing myself, and we shared a moment of mutual recognition before they moved on. Now, I was alone.

Earlier, coming into the canyon, the radio had dropped to zero reception. With the window cracked to hear the wind, I didn’t feel completely alone. Finding my empty turnout, I was glad to be by myself.

After rigging up, I scurried down the trail, pleased to see little disturbance from other visitors since my last visit. That made me smile—not selfishly, but out of respect for this spot. Like many others around here, this place felt mine for the moment. The water was gin-clear, and the cobbles shone with their eclectic colors as my cleats dug in. I double-checked my rig with curiosity and confidence. Just then, a salmonfly buzzed haphazardly past my head, ungraceful and indecisive on its route. Was this a sign? I waited for confirmation, because one is a theory, two is a statement, and three is a movement. Nothing followed this random act. A week ago, in another watershed, my son and I had collected the husks of these insects from the rocks. He had been thrilled by the bounty—a fleeting five-year-old moment, but still trophies from the river.

I decided to stick with my rig. I let several yards of line pull downstream and caught a glimpse of the canyon. I was awestruck. Both sides of the canyon pressed tightly against the river, dotted with old ponderosa pines and a few cottonwoods, while craggy walls rose skyward. I had to look away to absorb it all before returning my gaze. Yes, it was real, and it was breathtaking.

The downstream drift reminded me why I was here. I lifted the rod tip and tugged a bit of line, setting the cast in motion. My target was the seam at the back of the run, almost further back than I usually aim. The fast section started off my right shoulder, but I knew the fish held here. I drifted through, adjusting my mend constantly from loop up to loop down to maintain a perfect dead drift.

The hen committed right at the fast-water seam, and I guided her with my rod. There was resistance, but not enough to force her down the next section. Patience paid off, coaxing her on a healthy run upstream. Off my left shoulder, in calmer water, I directed her to my net. The take was fluid, and the release just as smooth.

I took one last look at the breathtaking view downstream to remind myself this was no hallucination. Before moving on, gratitude washed over me—one cast, one fish, thank you.

Fish on.