Last Times
Most of us experience a number of last times
throughout our lifetimes. All of them
are important as they signal something we are moving from and transitioning
to. Many times, we are aware of a last
time, but we can’t possibly appreciate its impact until we have the chance to
reflect back on it; such as walking through those high school doors for the last
time. The challenge is that many times
we don’t know that what we are experiencing is a last time. If we knew that this was the last hug, or the
last smile, how much more would we have invested of ourselves in that moment?
The last times with loved ones are always the most
impactful. But, there are other last
times that others, even others very close to us, may not recognize, or may even
find trivial, that internally have a profound impact on us. And perhaps the most difficult last times, are
those that we ourselves have to consciously participate in deciding that they are
a last time. I am grappling with such a
decision right now.
I have been stream fishing for trout for nearly 60
years. My brother-in-law Ron first
showed me how to fish for trout on a little stream that trickles its way
through the farm fields and pastures near Oconto Falls. The stream was a big part of his own childhood,
because it crossed the road just a few hundred yards from where he grew up. No doubt that he had taken hundreds of brook
trout from that stream over the years.
I can still easily picture in my mind the first time I
watched, probably with mouth agape, as a foot-long brook trout flashed out from
an undercut stream bank to grab the nightcrawler that was hiding my hook. I remember the pure electric charge as my Shakespeare
Wonderod arced deeply and throbbed as the trout fought fiercely until I could finally hoist him into the tall grass of the
streambank. That moment was the moment
that trout fishing became not merely an activity I participated in, but part of
my nature – a deep part of who I am.
Cold, clear, singing water runs through my veins as much as blood
does.
Earlier this week I ended the trout season as I have
for ten years or so on some of my favorite waters in the Driftless region of
southwest Wisconsin. The river is not
wide – perhaps 10 to 15 feet in most places.
But it seems that a hungry native brown trout waits in each deep run and
hole. In 2017, I caught the biggest
inland trout of my life in this river, a brown trout of 20.5 inches. In 2018, there was a significant flashflood
in this stretch that left behind 2-3 feet of silt and mud. The river has been healing itself since then
and there are a number of stretches where the current has swept the mud away,
once more exposing the gravel bottom.
Even before that flood there was the double challenge
at several spots where the water was too deep to wade, and the stream banks
were very steep. So, while you have to
get out of the stream to walk around the too-deep hole, the almost-vertical
banks make it very difficult to do so.
Nowadays the calculation must also include an artificial hip, a replaced
knee, a back with a slightly-compressed lower disc, and hair that is getting
thinner and grayer. What I found this
year was that, while I did manage to crawl up the bank when necessary, it is getting
harder to get upright again. And the jungle-thick,
chest high patches of stinging nettles quickly wore out my stamina, and one
time even caused a hard fall. In short,
the stream wore me out. And that doesn’t
even bring into account the mile-long walk back to where I parked the truck. I’m sure that it didn’t help that the weather
was unusually hot for September. But, in
years past I would have eaten my lunch and driven to a second stream that I
would fish until suppertime. This year I
had to admit that fishing a second stream would be foolish. I had to call it a day.
Before I left, I walked over and looked down the
tractor lane that provides walk-in access to this river. You can see all the way to where the lane
slopes down to the river. Thankfully
there are other streams and rivers in this region that are easier to fish, but
that doesn’t change the reality that I faced as I gazed down that lane. This, I knew in my heart, would be the last
time I fished this particular stretch of this particular river. With the decision made, all that was left was
to climb into the cab of my truck, start the engine, and pull away. I did just once glance in the review mirror,
but the dust cloud from the gravel road already obscured the view.
His Peace <><
Deacon Dan
Comments
Post a Comment