To call this Day 2 is actually a misnomer. I went fishing
last Sunday, last Friday AND this morning. Last Sunday, I went alone. Last
Friday, my friend, let’s call him Jason, and I turned another friend (he can
get a name if he comes again) onto fly fishing and this morning… well this
morning was breathtaking.
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| View from the Banks 1- 645am |
I woke up at 550am, a little groggy. Tea doesn’t give a
hangover, but hanging out until midnight certainly makes an early wake-up call the
more difficult. Picked up Jason, coffee at Sheetz (interesting gas station,
Sheetz), make a right on Shiloh Rd, go down to the dark canyon. The sun had not
yet graced us with its presence. This made wearing my wet shorts from Friday,
which had not yet dried, a rather chilling experience. Wading with knee high
rubber boots at 645 am, in a damp canyon, still wearing wet shorts, was
likewise problematic.
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| View from the Banks 2- 645 am also |
Jason and I went straight for a spot we found Friday. We
knew there were trout there, and we observed the smooth surface water,
disturbed occasionally by the current creating small whirlpools. There is no
guarantee that there would be fish there, but the width of the stream and its
relative remoteness make it a great place to warm up casting. I saw some
feeding yesterday just below the surface water, so I take out a wet fly (ants
work well) and tie it to my rod. I practice my roll cast to avoid losing my fly
in the thickets behind me. The surface water breaches, and my ant disappears. I
tighten my rod… too early, the fly pops right out, and I lost my fish.
I spent the rest of the trip (until 945am, and my typical American
breakfast) thinking about the sunrise slowly lighting up the canyon, about my
breath becoming less and less visible, and it suddenly dawned on me that I
could not feel my feet. Jason described
his feet as comfortably numb… mine weren’t comfortable, just numb.
We hit the second spot we really wanted to fish after two
hours. I didn’t think there would be many bites. The fish were cruising counter
current (you could see them, there may have been thirty or forty), and I had
learned many years, at Sommedieue, that trout that does this is oxygenating and
not feeding. I was not hopeful. We came back, “broucouille, comme on le dit
dans le Bouchonois,” but in good spirits.
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| Fra Lorenzo |
Jason keeps saying that being out on the river is a
meditative experience. And he is absolutely correct. I am not fishing to catch
a fish (I can go buy a trout at the local market, more sustainable). I am
casting, understanding a river, its cycles, the nature around it, absorbing the
beauty of my surroundings, enjoying the simplicity of pleasure (mind you that
simplicity costs at least 400$ to get started…): a sunray warming the air, the
dew dispelling from above the river, and most importantly, the company of other
fishermen.
I was reflecting on something the Dalai Lama said (not
Made-in-Taiwan… reference for my francophone friends). He was asked by a
psychologist:
-Are you ever lonely?
-No
The psychologist was taken aback. The Dalai Lama’s answer
hinged on brotherhoods: you can find company if you look just a little. Today,
on the river, Jason and I were asked by two other fishermen about flies used,
bites, gave us advice. Total strangers… I had never seen them before, and I
doubt that I ever will see them again. But we will always be in the same company.
I began to think more. A quote from Anthony Grafton’s book on the footnote came
to mind: “Prefatory notes evoke a Republic of Letters, in which the writer
claims membership. In fact they often describe something much more tenuous, the
group of those who the author wishes had read his work, offered him references,
or at least given him the time of day (p.7).” In a way, my work allows me to
claim membership in a group of people: graduate students, scholars of my
department, scholars in my field, scholars past, and scholars future. And of
course, my friends, my family.
And then, it dawned on me. I miss Jessica tremendously, but
I have not been alone a second since the breakup. And for that I am grateful.
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