A walk to the river, a walk to the light. The river is a place of rest, of peace, of solitude. It courses ever so swiftly through the cut-banks, down towards the greater reaches of the Mississippi. Along its way there, it passes through pastures, forests, under bridges, along roadways, and through sleepy farming towns.
The river doesn’t particularly care where it travels, nor does it particularly care about what you think of it. All it does is flow onward, day after day and all through the night.
The first man to find a river must have been captivated by it, this moving, flowing entity. So unusual, compared to the local pond that he frequented and drank from. They are so different and really so odd compared to other forms of water. Most lakes or ponds you might come across can indeed be special in their own right. Aye, they are some of my favorite places, indeed. But none hold a candle to the charm and mystique and calming restfulness that a river provides.
It’s hard to say, exactly, what draws a man back to a river so often. He thinks he knows all the bends, all the holes where the fish lie, all the dead-limbed trees submerged in their watery graves and every single boulder, rock and pebble along the bank. The man thinks he has conquered the river; yes, he thinks he has mastered the Wild Beast and has staked a claim to make it his own! He fancies himself as a cowboy, a tamer of wild stallions in the form of a coursing waterway.
But just when the man gets so bold to claim such things, the river once again plays its hand and reasserts its dominance over him. Often times it may be a new tree in the water or a collapsed bank which once held many a fish. Or occasionally the waters will run stained and dirty, hampering him from observing the structure he is so dependent on when chasing his quarry. And yet other times still, these measures are not enough, and the river is forced to take some more drastic measures…
The man wades carefully along the bank, picking his way in thigh-high stained water, feet scrabbling relentlessly amongst the slimy boulders below, desperately trying to maintain traction. He’s walked this section dozens of times, he thinks he knows where every rock is and how to put his feet just so, that he can make it safely through this fast section.
But the water is stained today. It is a little higher than usual, after a previous day thunderstorm. And the man’s wader boots don’t have quite the grip they used to. So out goes one foot, then another, as they miss their purchase on the rocks. Down goes the man into the river, in a great cacophony of splashing water and several choice words. The man is unhurt and unharmed, no equipment lost and an ego that will eventually recover.
As the man drags his wet self to the bank, shivering in the brisk evening air of late-April, he grins to himself and nods his head respectfully towards the river. ‘Tis the nature of a river, as it must maintain its frame as the mysterious and powerful, ever-changing entity that it is. No foul play was this! Simply a display of power by the mighty force of nature-a reminder to always give due respect lest you be swept away, destined to swim with the trout forever.
The Heartlander's Journal 