The River

I step into the river near the bank where my campsite. The waders are old and I feel where the creases slowly leach the mountain river in, water so cold it burns. I pull line from the spool and the fishing rod tip twitches far above me, more eager than I. At the end of the line I tied a fly I made this past winter. It is silver wire, a crayon blue feather, and black thread. It is a fat, juicy fly, fit for only the largest of trout.

The woods are quiet, the river whispers, and the sun has risen to find me. I stop for a moment and store the memory then cast a perfect throw, the tip whipping through the air.

The fly is thrown into a bend where an oak sits underwater. I know there are fish in there. My father brought me here when I was my son's age, and we spent many afternoons swimming, hiding, tracking, and wondering. Now I am my father's age and my son sits in his mother's home with his phone.

“Isn’t that cold?” my father asked me one gray day as I swam the bend. My teeth chattered back a smile. I had no fat under my pale skin, the muscles long and thin. The cold was a personal dare at first, but it quickly turned to a bragging point. I was stronger than most, I would tell myself. It was a lie, but I knew I could outlast my dad.

I pull back the fly to see the feather is holding well and I recast, again with precision. God how I wished I could have cast so well when it mattered.

“You OK?” my father would ask without looking at me. In waders too big I stood near the shore, rod in one hand, tangled line in the other.

“I’m fine,” I would shout back. I didn’t need to shout, but I didn’t know it then. Voices carry over water like lies at a Baptist funeral. I hated this. Alone in the woods with only my father and these damn fish and a tent too small for the two of us. It was a ritual for him every summer. It was torture for me. There were no friends, no girls, and no TV. Just talk. And sleeping on the ground and cold damp mornings and the fire pit and the smell of smoke. And the beer. That wasn’t so bad actually. I was allowed one beer a night under the order of never telling mom. At fourteen he raised it to two. At seventeen he let me have a shot of Jameson. After that trip we never returned. I was working for money for college and he was working on his secretary.

I reel back and cast out again, thinking about my first year of college. I moved into a dorm and my mother moved into an apartment. The alcohol my father had given me on those camping trips gave my mother the advantage in court. Not my proudest moment.

The fly sits in an eddy and spins slowly. I know there is a trophy down there, watching, wondering if it is a trick. It is mocking me and I can hear the fish ask me if I am proud of ratting out my father. I am not. I dance the fly back and forth to the same spot, teasing the water, the ripples quickly carried away in the current. No nibble. No curious fish testing the surface.

I reel back the line and clip the fly off with snips I dig from pockets that hold tools from my grandfather. I remember his words: “Take care of your tools like you take care of your relationships.” I was a kid. I didn’t know what he meant. Hanging off my vest is a fly my father made. One of the last before he died. I tie it on and cast it out. It flies crooked, hooking to the right and snags in a branch. I curse. I curse dad, not my cast.

I tighten the line and snap the rod back three times before the hook tears free. I reel it back to assess the damage to find it in good shape. I cast again, this time hitting my mark.

My son was nine when I asked him if he was interested in camping. I was told by the judge he was not interested.

There is icy water pooling at my feet in these old boots, but I am not concerned. The leak is slow. I cast again, the fly landing perfectly. I snap back and set it into the same spot. It is a rhythm, a slow dance, alone and at peace. Snapping back and dropping that fly back into the water, a small circle expands out where it touches. I tease it there. I snap it back and send the fly through the air. This is a perfect cast.

The bite is solid as the trout breaks the water and I pull to sink the hook. It must know I have him. I reel in the extra line as I let him play it out a little. I want him relaxed, but not so that he tangles in that log. I walk towards him as I pull the net I have lashed to my belt, but my legs are heavy. Too heavy. It’s like they are glued to the stone floor of the river. I look around, stunned at my predicament. The trout pulls on my line and bends the rod, pointing down.

I look to the shore where my camp is set, light smoke drifts from the fire pit. I stand in the river, my legs locked in place by the weight of the water that has collected in my father’s waders. Is this one last punishment?

I start to reel in the fish, harder and faster than I had wanted to, but the hook is solid and the trout fights, breaching the surface in a mad-dash to escape. It is a big fish. The biggest I’ve seen in this river. Its colors shimmer in the sunlight, the rainbow glistening across its side. I am mesmerized by the sight, forgetting my legs. I am proud.

My legs are anchored in the riverbed but I reach with the net, the rod slipping from my hand. I have the trout, the line tangled around my arm as I pull the net close. My knees collapse under the weight and the river is at my chin. My father’s fly is hooked deep the fish’s lips. From my jacket I pull a pair of needle nose pliers and unhook the fish. It swims free from the net, then circles back. I am underwater, watching it swim away. I breach the surface to gulp air. I wonder if I am panicking.

I look to the shore, but it is so far away. I was hoping I would see my dad. My feet can’t find purchase on the rocks below, and the current is pushing harder than I could imagine. My father’s old waders are now acting as sails, catching the current that doesn’t stop or sleep. It just eats. Eats the rock into sand, the logs into pulp. And me.

I take out my grandfather's folding knife. I am scared, and my fingers shake as I open the blade. I run the knife across the strap of the waders to free myself, but it is dull.

My lungs begin to burn.