by David Joy
I leaned against the largest rock, the smooth stone cool through my T-shirt and vest, then took out a fly box full of gray Goddard Caddisflies that I’d tied to match the dissipating hatch. After running line through the guides, I knotted a couple onto the tippet. Flies still danced across the smoky surface, but most of the caddis had vanished quickly into the trees.
Trout still came up, taking the few bugs that remained, but I found it hard to believe that what I’d seen had happened. Perhaps I’d dreamed it all. The moment had come and gone so quickly that I’d barely had time to fully grasp the revelation, to nearly hold it in my hand. That brief glimpse was a dandelion seed that landed for an instant in my mind, but the wind had taken it away as I tried to focus. That seems to be the way revelation comes—there one second and gone the next.
The big trout leapt from the same spot again, this time contorting its body as it slapped back through the surface. Closer now, I could see that it was the giant brown. The fish solidified the events that had taken place, but it didn’t matter. I’d learned what the river had to teach and for that I was thankful.
I stepped into the stream, the current sweeping around my boots as I stood on a sunken slab of granite. The flies dangling from my rod were mirror images of the few caddisflies that remained, but I could not find it in myself to make the cast to the brown. I was too connected at that point, far too attached to the place to disturb it. So I just stood there and watched.
I am a man defined by fish, a fisherman who has begun to grow gills, whose name is written in water. I wanted nothing more than to see what the world was like from beneath the current, to gaze up at tiny bodies silhouetted by the sun. I wanted to break the surface like the trout, gain a perspective of the dry world for a moment, and then return to the wet. I was blessed to have found the place where I truly belonged but cursed to know it was a place I could never fully join. I had to accept my humanity but would spend my entire life trying to get as close to the river as I could.
I knew as long as I could hear the sound of water, I could find my way home. I stared at the river in front of me, the pool curving around the bend, the trout still mouthing ripples, but I didn’t make a cast. I’d seen what I was meant to see, and it was beautiful. I turned downstream and looked at the water stretched out in front of me. Time to move farther downriver, I thought. Miles of water I’d yet to wade meandered through the valley. I walked away from the tailout to find the next hole on the river and had no doubt, when I arrived at that place, I’d know it.
David Joy
DAVID JOY was born in Charlotte, North Carolina, and quickly demonstrated a fascination with fishing and writing. He earned a Bachelor's degree in literature and a Master's degree in professional writing from Western Carolina University. He is currently a columnist and staff writer for the Crossroads Chronicle in Cashiers, North Carolina. Joy lives in Cullowhee, North Carolina, where the rich Appalchian culture and landscapte feed his crativity.