Restless Waters: River's End

I sit there staring at a squall moving in. The cab smells of French fries, the windshield is steamed up in the corners. I roll down the window and hear the gentle ringing of rigging striking the masts of yachts in the harbor. The sound reminds me of the chiming of a buoy, rising and falling on the waves. Gulls cling to the light standards, hunkering down as the mist begins to fall. I watch the view of the bay turn blurry as water collects on the window. Leaning my head back, watching the running lights of late arrivals bob up and down, I think I feel the truck rocking gently on the sea.

Fog covers the valley, rising from the shiny, silver water to the tops of the giant redwoods along the banks. In the dim light, the land and the sky merge and the water pulling at my thighs gives me a slight feeling of vertigo, not unlike skiing in a snowstorm. The shades of gray rise and fall, and now and then I think I can sense the far bank. I hear the clunk of oars being shipped, but the sound seems to come from everywhere, and nowhere. I strip out several coils of amnesia, and begin working the line, faster and faster, then pushing away from shore, let fly.

The coils of lime-green monofilament shoot up the guides, first those in my hand, then those between my lips. The shroud swallows the fly, and I feel but do not see it break the water. Slowly, I let the rod swing back to shore, feeling the tapping of the hook on the bottom. Nothing happens, and shuddering, I step cautiously downstream. A few casts later a stiff, icy wind blows straight up the river. Then, it starts to rain in earnest. I get out, fishing my rain gear from the back of my vest. Time is precious, it might be an hour before the river swells and darkens.

Climbing past layers of fern, I slip along the trail winding through the massive trees. Despite the driving rain, popping on the river’s surface, the sound is muted in the woods. A carpet of needles and stringy bark softens my steps. Columns of two thousand year old trees line my passage. Soon, my own breathing is all I can hear. I come to a large creek winding down from a distant ridge. The water in the creek is as clear as polished silverware. Bluff rocks, charcoal covered with soft, wavy moss, rise up sharply on both sides. I stand there, wondering if I can make it past the neck, wondering if there is anything but plunge pools ahead. An hour later I turn back, stuck between sheer walls and high water, unable to plumb the depths beneath the foam.

Below an abandoned shack, a herd of Roosevelt Elk grazes a lush meadow separated from the main stem by a narrow row of second growth conifers. The rain softens, and the sky becomes textured again, discrete clouds identifiable against a canvas background. The river has risen a good foot, but retains a smoky-green shade. I unhook the General Practitioner from the rod, and standing at the top of a massive gravel bar, begin working the soft seam near shore.

About halfway down the run the line snugs up and I grunt in surprise. My hands shake, but I know it isn’t me. I clear the loop of line a split second before it wraps the rod butt, and the rod bends stiffly once, twice, then the reel whines. The line zips across the surface. Suddenly, way off to my left, way downstream, a magnificent steelhead flips upside down, crashing into the river on its back, the dark sink-tip line trailing like a ribbon. I take up as much slack as I can, as fast as I can do it, until the orange and black fly catches on the last guide at the rod tip.

A low hum, quite out of place on the river, catches my attention. I lost the signal in the storm, only static coming from the speakers. Groggy, I reach over, turning off the radio. Out there, past the harbor lights near the river’s end, the fish are gathering for their run. Rain pelting the roof, I pull an old army blanket around me, and drift away again with the water.

Text and photos Copyright 2003 by Gary Watt