The Sound of Water

Once I caught an eighteen inch brown trout on a small stream in northern Utah. It was opening day of the deer hunt. I went alone on purpose. I wore a red jacket so I would stand out. I didn't want to be mistaken as a deer standing in or near the stream by some excited or impaired hunter. When I caught the trout I held it up to the heavens and vocally exclaimed, "Can you believe this?" I don't know who I was talking to. Maybe I was talking to my own brain, or possibly it was a short prayer of sorts to God or Mother Nature. I stood their admiring the trout and listening to the sound of stream water.

On many lone excursions, I've noticed that there is an inner voice that explains to me what I see, what is going on with the stream environment, and why I find such simple pleasure catching trout on fly gear. For the most part, I have learned to block out the voice that tells me I'm wasting my time, that I should be involved with something more significant or more meaningful. In fact, I have found that for me, (and I'll assume others have found it), the total package that comes with fly fishing has enhanced my life, and brought a high degree of significance and meaning.

I'm not exactly sure how the story goes but my dad tells me that when I was about three he and my grandpa were fishing a river or stream. As they were fishing my dad says I went floating by head down past them. I don't know if it was my dad or my grandpa that pulled me out but one of them saved me. They could never figure out how I ended up in the water. I was too young to have any recollection of this event. I like to think I was so fascinated with the water and the sound of the river that I just jumped in trying to get the most of the experience.

Another story that is told is of my desire to enter the world. My parents and my mom's parents were up camping and riding horses up Logan Canyon near Beaver Creek (I'm pretty sure that is where they say they were). My mom was pregnant with me and while they were camping her water broke. They packed up and drove down to Ogden, Utah where I was born. They said I looked like a little shriveled and wrinkled old man when I was born. That is their story. I've added to it and decided that while in the womb, I could hear the gurgling of Beaver Creek and wanted to get out to take a peek at what to me was a very pleasant sound. To this day, the sound of running water, whether the rush of a large river or the gurgle of a small creek will turn my head. The sound is pleasant to my ears and the sight of water gets me thinking. I wrote a poem that is still rough but tells the story of my anxiousness to be near Beaver Creek.

 

Beaver Creek

 

Horsemen ride through canyon pines

on horses with hooves shod

in steel that strike rock.

 

Clear creek water fogs the meadow,

and blends with men's breath

then dissipates like summer cumulous clouds.

 

I hear the song of water

running free--running forever.

It calls to me: come mix your life with mine.

 

The next day my mother

gives birth.