I have wanted to write this story for almost two months now. It has been the apprehension that my words will fail to do justice to the scenes I found myself in that has kept me from writing.But the desire to relive the experience in my mind has grown stronger than my apprehension so I will try to put in words the beauty I have seen.
There are moments in fishing, and I believe particularly in fly-fishing, when the fish play the supporting role as the setting itself takes center stage. It was late August on the Jackson River.I had come to fly-fish a river I had heard and read about many times, a river described as a classic western trout stream tucked into the mountains of Virginia. I came dreaming of the Jackson’s trout having no idea it was the Jackson itself that would become dreamlike.
The sky was powder blue and the sun bright on the water creating long streaks of shimmering light reflecting back to their source. A light breeze blew as lofty white clouds moved steadily across sky. The river was wide and flowed with the determination of a force on a journey. It would not be rushed but neither would it ease its flow to accommodate those who would step from the shore to enter its realm. The grasses and trees that lined the bank were thick and healthy with rich hues of dark and light green. The mountains reached above the tree line in the distance looking down on the scene with approval. Their rounded off peaks stood like sentries keeping guard both upstream and down. The river was king.
For long casts and small flies the Jackson would yield its bounty. Rainbow trout painted with nature’s silver, brown, pink, and purple were brought to net, brought to hand, photographed and returned to the water. Late afternoon slid seamlessly into evening. The sun set behind the mountains and the clouds turned a rose like pink as if to remind the trout that they too have colors of a rainbow. As daylight faded the half-light of dusk fell over the land and the once lofty clouds descended upon the river in a mystical mix of fog and mist. And the river rolled on.
As the mist and fog floated around me I was captivated by the beauty of it all. My line was in the water but I wasn’t catching fish. I didn’t need to catch fish. It was no longer about the fishing. It was bigger than the fishing. It was bigger than the fish. It was about the fog, the mist, the half-light fading to darkness. It was about the stillness, the river flowing through it all, flowing through me, and God’s spirit all around, thick as the fog, strong as the river, filling my heart, filling my soul.
copyright 2009 Rick Ridpath
