I don’t know why I fish, let alone why I fish so much. Some may even think my passion is a bit misguided, a pathological addiction that serves no purpose save for the fitful avoidance of life’s many trials and tribulations. But after years of self-evaluation, I prefer to believe there is more to my chosen lifestyle than the wayward meandering of an unholy soul. My quest for one more cast on one more river has always been accompanied by the desire to seek answers to that which I cannot understand. Partially submerged in water, I do not avoid, but rather see more clearly beyond the undefined shadows that shape the existence to which we all belong.
From the moment I first read Joe Brooks, the path has been clear. Ever since then, I have been true to my goal; yet there are so many more rivers, and so little time. In 2000, the journey passed through the High Arctic in pursuit of the elusive char, a fish that dwells in a vast region of unfathomable harshness. Though a summer on the tundra is seductively deceptive, the tantalizing lull of constant daylight serves only as brief respite from the absolute power that fills the remainder of the year, Even the curious eyes of the muskox, a throwback beast with remarkable survival skills, seem to reflect this land of raw force. Most of us could never imagine the elements these unique creatures endure. As for the object of my pursuit, the first Arctic char I caught was huge. While admiring the subtle beauty of this uncommon ocean dweller before its release, I trembled as if I were embracing the very soul of the Arctic in my hands, a gift of epic proportions.
Squamish leader Chief Seattle once stated that “the earth does not belong to us, we belong to the earth.” It would then seem no coincidence that many holy men throughout the ages retreated at times to the wilderness to contemplate this belonging. Often these sage beings emerged with visions of truth. And though lifestyles have changed these days, something doubtlessly gnaws at the core of a restless society, as if the need to be drawn into the bosom of Mother Earth is still in our genes. Because it was difficult not too, I spent time in the Arctic contemplating the magnitude of our insignificance on a land of unabashed austerity. Rivers and wild places — simple concept. Could this be the panacea for all that ails the human psyche? I concluded that if I were to write a modern Bible upon my return from the wilderness, it would consist of one sentence: Respect yourself, every person, every creature, and especially the earth to which we all belong — the Rest will fall into place.
The night before I departed for the Arctic, I bought some ice cream at our local pizza parlor. A young gal with a friendly smile served me as I casually paid her and then was on my way. Less than twelve hours later this beautiful child was killed in a car wreck. It is a thing like this I don’t understand. Although I didn’t know her, a small town is like an extended family. Everyone mourns the loss of its own, and all suffer grievously. Someone’s daughter, gone. Pain beyond comprehension. I left town an hour after hearing the devastating news.
Later that week, in the soft glow of the midnight sun, I picked an Arctic flower and placed it on the flowing water of the Nanook River. In her memory I watched the petals of white ride the riffles and rivulets of time until the offering disappeared into eternity, embraced by the sacred water of the Arctic char. There was little else I could do. But then that’s how I deal with life.
In solemn silence, alone I stood.
Once again, at the river’s edge.
This story appeared in Jerry’s first book At the Rivers’s Edge published in 2003.
