River of Life

Last evening I went fishing for the first time this year. Normally by the end of May I would have gone a number of times, so this is highly unusual, though not inconsistent with my spiritual drought. For me there is a strong connection between fishing and spirituality. The act of fishing, the setting, the water itself, and the physical touching of these rarely-seen creatures all contribute to an immensely healing and nourishing experience. I have missed fishing more than I realized.

I am writing from our cabin in Ashe County, NC, so the easiest place to wet a line from here is in the South Fork of the New River, which is reputed to be the second oldest river on Earth after the Nile. The drought of the last two years has been hard on the river. At one point last summer it had dwindled to a fraction of its normal flow, and the water was so shallow that some kind of river-weed grew and almost choked whole stretches. It was too low to float, too low to fish, and kind of sad to behold.

But this spring the rains have been bountiful, and for the first time in two years all of western NC is out of drought. It's been six weeks since we've been up here, and it is incredible the feeling of life everywhere -- it's hard to adequately describe how green everything is. But the effect of the spring rains on the river is most impressive. All but the biggest rocks are covered, and water runs from bank to bank with an energy and vibrancy I'd forgotten. The water is not as clear as it was during the drought, but clear enough to be pretty.

As I parked my car along Cox Road, I could feel the moist cool air and hear the low murmur of the river as I looked for a place to begin. The place I selected was not the one I had in mind when I left the cabin, but it seemed inviting. Why not try a few casts there? I tossed a gold Panther Martin spinner out in the current and reeled it back slowly. On the second cast, I hooked up with a small but feisty redeye bass -- they have the body of a bream and the head of a smallmouth bass, with blood-red eyes.

I thanked God for this fish. It has been my practice for some time now to offer thanks for the first fish I catch, because that first fish means that today I will not be skunked. Each fish is a gift, and even the little ones are fun. This one struck like a ton of bricks, and it wasn't until I had him almost all the way in that I realized he was only maybe eight inches long.

I can still remember the first time it occurred to me to give thanks in that special moment after the first catch. I was standing in the middle of Helton Creek on a chilly morning, having just caught a nice trout. Remembering that St. Peter was a fisherman, I also recalled how the Lord after His resurrection had directed Peter and the other disciples (who had been skunked the previous night) to cast their net over the right side of the boat, and how they caught 153 large fish. Right in the middle of the creek I said a prayer of thanks, and have been doing it ever since. Interestingly I can count on one hand the number of times since then that I've been skunked.

Fishing reconnects me to both the earth and to God in a mysterious way. Part of it is that all my thoughts and cares seem to travel down the line into the water, where they dissipate harmlessly. My mind is amazingly blank when I fish -- somehow the low-intensity thought process of fishing expands to fill my brain pan. Once my mind is no longer preoccupied with worry and care, my senses are filled by visual beauty, gentle sounds, earthy smells and the tactile sense of the rod in my hand and the earth under my feet. The rod becomes a living thing, or like a divining rod telling me where the fish are. After a hookup, the rod is electric with the connection between me and the fish and the unique vibrations of a fish on the line.

Moving on from my first spot, I got another strong strike and a solid hookup. Playing the fish in the current, I could tell this one was bigger. What kind of fish would it be? That's part of the mystery, especially in the river. Would it be another redeye, or maybe a smallmouth, or even a nice trout? Though "officially" there are no trout in the South Fork, you do catch them occasionally -- either refugees from a trout-water tributary or perhaps one that just lives in a deep dark pool near a chilly spring in the bottom of the river.

Alas, this one was a hornyhead. The first time I caught a hornyhead it was alarming, because these chubs can get to be a pound or so, and they look like some kind of radioactive mutant with their spiky bump on the forehead. They will also talk to you sometimes, like catfish will, with a deep throaty er-er-er sound. This was a fine specimen, as hornyheads go, and he put up a noble fight. I threw him back, as I did with all the fish I caught this day.

Normally I don't count how many fish I catch. In fact I intentionally try to forget. that way it gives you lots of honest leeway when conveying to friends and family how you did that day. You can say, "quite a few" or "ten or twelve" or "it must have been about twenty, but I wasn't counting", and you'll be covered. Because you really don't know. But last night I caught five -- two redeye bass, two bream, and Mr. Hornyhead.

By this time the shadows stretched all the way across the river, and the evening quiet had descended upon this beautiful valley like a blessing. Where the sun still shone it looked clean and warm and golden, the sky was clear and blue. Dinner on the deck with Pat beckoned, along with a nice bottle of wine, so I clambered up the bank and walked toward my car. My thanks to God had returned as a blessing.