I traced a map of rivers in my mind as the sounds of dying rang in my ears. I wanted to catch fish—to stand in moving water, to focus my attention solely on one task; to have my mind taken away. Jim Harrison said fly-fishing removes the weight of what we are not. I begged it to remove the weight of what we are. My nine-year old son had just died; murdered by his mother (my wife). He stopped breathing as I held him in my arms. A therapist told me I needed to do things that made me happy.
No shit. Fly-fishing became my therapy. The rivers were my therapists. I spoke to them, shed buckets of tears into their water, talked to the fish and the sky and the canyon walls. And to my son. Yet somehow still managed to marvel at the beauty of the mountains and canyon walls and the clear, cold water.
Each river helped ease the pain incrementally but there was no respite. It was if a huge stone was pushing down on my chest every day. I did what I could but the pressure of overwhelming sadness made me weary. It threatened to absorb me.
A year into it, I was standing in another new river, catching the biggest fish of my life. A meadow gave way to a narrow, steep canyon. I ventured in briefly, caught fish, but wanted to see more. I asked around and was told it wasn’t good down there—you’ll either break your ankle or get bit by a rattlesnake, was the advice proffered. The next day I drove down a little double track dirt road, walked to the edge of the canyon and found my river. Today it feels like remembering the time you met your soul mate.
The little canyon carved by my river has become the one place I find solace. Here I flirt with being at peace. Content, buoyant even in solitude. This river allowed me to be alone again. It gave me pause and context. It gives me a reason to do this.
I make camp on top of the canyon, my sleeping bag within view of the river. Falling asleep to sounds of water rushing over rocks. I awake to the call of the canyon wren. In the evenings, I sit on the edge of the canyon and watch as the light is slowly drawn from the sky. I feel power flowing from and through the canyon. It is a power we as humans, do not hold. There is effortlessness and fluidity that our lives never attain. A freedom I inhale without caution. It allows me to remember as much as it allows me to forget.
My vantage point affords views of fish rising to eat bugs just below in the soft water. Being impetuous, I often grab my fly rod and walk down the craggy trail and try to catch just one fish before it becomes so dark you can only hear the fish rise. When I’m fortunate enough to get my one fish, I pull the fly from his mouth, say ‘thank you’ and release him into the darkening night. I walk back to camp solemnly but pleased and filled with a calm I cannot define. I believe it is the feeling of life.
There is a resident owl living in the canyon. I welcome his calls as the light fades or in the middle of the night, as I lie awake looking at the flamboyant sky. Last fall, as I was fishing near sunset, he followed me up the canyon flying to the next perch across the canyon, calling out as he watched. We called back and forth to one another for an hour. The canyon felt alive and I was connected to it.
The canyon is only a few hundred yards from a small road, but this is in the middle of the middle of nowhere. Typically from sundown to sunup, I will see no cars. I have spent entire days fishing in the canyon and not seen another person. The vistas are generous, almost endless—stark, often monochromatic, void of human nuisance allowing your mind to dig itself deeply into your thoughts.
I often parcel my time between looking at the river- up canyon and down, along with the sweeping, harsh visage of the land above the canyon. The wind pushes my mind west across the naked hills and into the abrupt, dark mountains far away. Distances I could only fully comprehend by walking through them. Details I could only see on my hands and knees.
Looking into the canyon is like a sneak-peak into the middle of the earth. The earth unzipped to reveal the black and brown rock. The sunlight angles and moves, illuminating textures and forms differently each moment. But most of all, there is the water— stretches of soft, still water and pools whose depths I can only guess. The slow pools are interrupted by perfect runs. Some rushing, some flowing gently along with small, chaotic pockets created by random boulders—all of these spots hold fish. Big, strong, fish. It’s small water, to be sure. I can cast across its width at just about any spot. But it provides wondrous trout habitat.
This small stretch of river has become my refuge. It’s raw beauty and offering of solitude hold a singular place in my life. My mind drifts to this place when I am far away, calmed by the idea of the water moving effortless down canyon. I smile thinking of the owl perched on a pinyon pine overlooking the river. The river asks nothing of me but has given me everything.