Haunted by Waters

Almost every morning I wake up to a clear view of the Sawatch Range from my bedroom window. Eight of the tallest peaks in Colorado are within the Sawatch and all of the mountains have a shocking lack of snow for March. The Angel of Shavano (who I think looks more like the wavy, awkward limbed inflatable tube man) has been visible throughout the winter, not buried beneath a blanket of snow waiting to appear with the lengthening days. In fact, the Arkansas River Basin has below 50% of median snowpack. Lower than elsewhere in the state. Many people depend on the water that comes from our watershed. Many. And I fear we are in for a dry, fire-prone summer.

Rivers, especially Colorado rivers, run through my veins. My father and grandfather also fished many of those same rivers from childhood on and passed that tradition on to me. If sounds are woven into the fabric that creates us, the music of mountain streams over rocks provides an elemental texture to not only me, but three generations of Coloradans. My grandfather’s ashes were scattered near his favorite fishing spots.

My grandfather took this photo of the Poudre River in 1935.

Proud of my catch.

Rivers have been a soundtrack to my major life moments. From career twists and turns, to foundational relationships, to stabilizing my mental health, moving water is the common thread. A lullaby that soothes the pain of human existence.

One of the benefits of living in Colorado again is open water year-round. Our property in Alaska had a stream flowing through it, but it was frozen solid for six to seven months of the year. Unlike here, where I can bike a short distance from home and find myself riverside.

However, I admit that though I love the idea of fly fishing, the actual activity, I could give or take. There is no question that it is aesthetically beautiful. Exquisite flies in a variety of shapes and colors to entice a fish to take a bite. The supple lines of a fly rod and the shapes it makes snapping through the air as the line hovers above the surface of the water before landing light as a feather (hopefully). Despite years of practice, my cast is uneven. Somedays I can catch the rhythm, a ballet of line and fly. Other times, my efforts are sure to scare even the hungriest of trout. But honestly, it doesn’t matter to me. I’m as content to bask on a river rock, or wade through the shallows until my toes go numb, without catching anything.

Now that we have the space, Dave has started tying flies again and his love for fly fishing has reignited. So, we’ve been spending more time together on the Arkansas River during the winter months. And though I find comfort in being near the water, it is tempered by worry. The river levels are very low, lower than normal for this time of year. Benchmark rings around the large rocks demarking winter river flows are well above the current waterline. Last month we hiked into the canyon on a warm afternoon and instead of fishing, I pulled out my sketchbook to sketch a branch of the juniper I sat beneath. Around me the plants were brittle, the dirt loose and windblown. Unease sits heavy on my chest. Yet another worry to add to the pile with all the others.

What will this summer look like when there isn’t melt water or precipitation to recharge our vital rivers? How do we get to the other side of the environmental damage that we are witnessing in our lifetime? I think of my grandfather as a young man plying the waters of the Poudre River. His rivers are not our rivers. Not anymore. I sit on the banks of the Arkansas River and repeat the closing paragraphs from A River Runs Through It. Like a mantra. A promise.

“Now nearly all those I loved and did not understand when I was young are dead, but I still reach out to them.

Of course, now I am too old to be much of a fisherman, and now of course I usually fish the big waters alone, although some friends think I shouldn’t. Like many fly fisherman in western Montana, where the summer days are almost Arctic in length, I often do not start fishing until the cool of the evening. Then in the Arctic half-light of the canyon, all existence fades to a being with my soul and memories and the sounds of the Big Blackfoot River and a four-count rhythm and the hope that a fish will rise.

Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world’s great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs.

I am haunted by waters.”

-from, A River Runs Through It, by Norman Maclean