The River Judges Not

We gather in the cool dawn along the banks of the Etowah River to greet them as they filter in across the damp, grassy clearing. The Etowah is hardly a river at this point actually, more a large stream. But we label it so because humans are fond of taxonomy. It provides a sense of order. An indication of the relationship of things. The river has no such need and is indifferent to both the name and the classification.

The Veterans trickle in to learn about flyfishing, and we meet them with handshakes and good-natured banter, the call and response of human connections. My angler is cheerfully shepherded over to me by a fellow guide this morning, a guarded smile and a tentative handshake communicating uncertainty. Most of the veterans who spend a day on the water with us are looking for an escape. A day in the mountains learning the arcane craft of flyfishing. Others, having previous experience, are simply looking to catch a fish, hopefully a memorable one. Still others come to the river hoping to find something more.

I suspect that at some visceral level, humans understand the water perceives no difference between the sacred and the profane. The water judges not. The water labels not. Truest of friends, the river seeks no explanation and expects nothing in return. What is, is. What is not, is not. No amount of wishing or wanting can alter that simple fact and the river moves forward untroubled, a new river each time you step foot in it.

We review fundamentals, set up the gear he will need for the day, and head upstream. He has no gear of his own, but he has flyfished before and came up empty each time. At our first stop a small rainbow takes his nymph solidly, making me look like I know more than I do. Few things break the ice better than a pretty fish in the net and he starts to talk.

By lunch we have only put a few small fish in the net, but I now know that he has seen some action overseas, and despite being more than halfway to retirement, he doesn’t think he wants to stay in. He is married with kids and wants to be home but isn’t sure what he will do if he does retire. There is a weariness in his voice, as if he is looking to try out the words but is expecting to hear a different direction in response. Or perhaps has already received one. Sometimes people want to be heard, not told. I listen, then ask what he wants and listen some more, keeping my guidance on how to fish where the fish are.

Late in the day he hooks and lands a large rainbow. For the first time, his face emanates unfettered joy. It is contagious and the high-five blossoms into an impulsive bear hug. There is no weariness in his tone now. Research suggests that flyfishing confers healing qualities on participants. The feedback we receive from our veterans, sometimes written and poignant, sometimes delivered spontaneously, pure and raw while on the water together validates such findings. It is a priceless gift and is almost certainly the reason why we have a cast of committed volunteers including professional guides and casting instructors.

He is talking freely when our day concludes. He tells me he is pretty certain he is going to retire and move back to his, and his wife’s, home state in the Northeast. Thanking me with a grin and emphatic handshake, he is sorry this means he probably won’t make it back to fish. “Best day I have had … in a very long time,” he says. I assure him we will be here if he changes his mind. But he will be fine. The thing is, the river may not always be there with you, but it will always be there for you.