October 5, 2012, 9:30 a.m.
I dozed off just as the sun made its first appearance. The adrenaline from the night on The River had my thoughts and emotions reeling. There’s something about physically and psychologically getting out of what’s familiar and comfortable. It shakes you out of the hypnotic drone of life’s proverbial gerbil wheel. You can get numb and used to hearing the squeak of that wheel go around and around. You chase and chase and chase, and never get there. You want so badly for something to fill you up so you can rest. It’s all a mirage. There’s no end to it. When you arrive at what you think is the oasis, the pool in the desert, just as you dip your face to drink, it disappears and you get a mouthful of sand. Not this time for me, though. Thanks to Gabriel and The River, I was off that wheel, and the world was coming alive again.
It felt like I’d only been asleep for five minutes when he stormed through the cabin door to my room.
“You ready?”
It sounded like he was shouting. I jumped out of my skin.
“What?” I said as I sat straight up.
“Let’s go catch some dinner!”
“I barely slept.” I flopped back down onto the firm bunk mattress.
“You can sleep when you get home, Manhattan.” He’d started calling me that on The River the night before. “You ever caught a cutthroat or rainbow?”
“A what? No,” I said as I lay there, eyes closed.
“Today’s your lucky day, Manhattan! See you at the Jeep in ten.” The legendary adventure guide let the spring-loaded screen door slam as he exited.
I looked at the clock and realized I’d actually gotten four hours or so. I put my head in the sink and let the icy mountain water chill my scalp and shock my system awake.
The canyon warmed slowly as we approached the edge of the sixty foot drop-off down to The River.
“That’s where we are going.” Gabriel pointed down to the water’s edge.
“How’re we getting down there?”
He held up some mountain climbing rope and smiled. This guy had to be over sixty. Unbelievable.
“Why would I be kidding? It’s way more fun this way.”
Once again, way out of my comfort zone.
Gabriel rigged me up with the body harness, belays, and such.
“Here. You’ll need these.” He handed me some gloves. He gave me strict instructions on how to lean out backward, perpendicular to the cliff, trusting the rope and him to anchor me. I was terrified, but I was determined not to show it.
“Okay, nice and easy,” he said confidently.
My fingers gripped the rope so hard they were cramping. I scooted to the edge of the sheer cliff, my heels over the edge. My head started to spin as my heart rate accelerated. He could probably see the terror in my face.
“It’s okay. Just lean back. This rope would hold fifty of you.”
I took a deep breath and tried to calm down. I didn’t realize I could be this afraid.
“Isn’t there another way?” I asked through a nervous smile.
“It’s not about another way; it’s about taking the best way. Enjoy it. You can’t get this view, this sensation from walking. Now let’s go. Just sit back into the harness.”
I obeyed and found myself suspended out over the air, nothing but a canvas harness and a small blue rope keeping me from plummeting to my demise. But once I realized I wasn’t going to fall, it was exhilarating. I repelled down to the banks of The River and Gabriel followed. With a large backpack and fly-fishing rods on his back, he raced down the side of the cliff like an army ranger.
I gave him a high-five.
“Okay, you’re right. That was awesome.” For a few brief moments I was thinking of something other than my failure.
“Here, this will be yours.” He handed me one of the fly-fishing rods. It was much lighter than I expected. We shed the mountain gear, draped the waders over our shoulders, and headed about one hundred yards downstream. All I could hear was the soothing sound of The River bubbling, pouring, and swishing its way through the earth. The waters shimmered in the brilliant sunlight. The giant spruce and fir trees that lined the banks seemed so small next to the mighty granite walls, a far cry from the life I’d known.
“Go ahead and climb in your waders, and we’ll get to it,” the guide told me.
I tightened the suspenders that held up the rubbery waders.
“I feel like a clown in these things.”
“You don’t have to wear them. But I’m not sure anyone is looking at your style out here, Manhattan. If you stood in that water for five minutes, you’d be begging me for them.”
“Can’t we just cast from the shore?”
He walked by me, shaking his head. He turned and started walking backward. “If you fish with me, you have to be in The River. You have to feel the water. Besides, where these fish are, you can’t get to them unless you’re willing to wade. But, hey, I’ll do it my way and you do it yours, and we’ll see who comes up with more fish!” The adventurer erupted into a sinister laugh that bounced off the canyon walls.
“I was just asking,” I said as I followed him. He kept chuckling.
He showed me the motion of the fly-fishing cast and how it was all about timing and rhythm. He spoke of the art of deceiving the trout with an artificial fly. After about an hour of casting and not catching a single fish, I started to get impatient.
“What am I doing wrong?”
“Just be patient. Your cast looks good,” he told me. “See that little eddy on the other side? In front of that rock?” He pointed. “Try and drop her like a feather right in there.”
“You already have three fish. I’ve got to catch up. I don’t like being last.”
He didn’t respond at first. Then after a few casts, he said some things that haven’t left me. He sat down on the bank behind me and started attaching a new fly to his line.
“ ‘Many go fishing all their lives without knowing that it is not the fish they are after.’ That’s Thoreau. Man, he had a way with words. In life, we sometimes fixate on the things that are peripheral to really living. Even out here, you can be so worried about the fish that you miss the sparkling water, the canyon, the peace, and tranquility, the slow-moving clouds and the transcendent beauty all around. By the way, competition is rooted in comparison. In games that’s fine. In relationships . . . in life . . . it can be dangerous. You know what I always say? Comparison is the thief of joy. We all have a race to run. That’s why I love what old President Hoover said. ‘To go fishing is the chance to wash one’s soul with pure air, with the rush of the brook, or with the shimmer of sun on blue water. It brings meekness and inspiration from the decency of nature, charity toward tackle-makers, patience toward fish, a mockery of profits and egos, a quieting of hate, a rejoicing that you do not have to decide a darned thing until next week. And it is discipline in the equality of men—for all men are equal before fish.’ ”
I reeled in my line and pondered what he said.
“Let me see that. I just want to make sure it works.” He waded out and took my rod.
Back and forth he slung the tiny fly. The line whipped through the air in a perfect figure eight. He released it and it landed directly in the spot he showed me earlier. Within two seconds his rod bent over. He heaved the rod up, setting the hook.
“There she is!”
He reeled in the most beautiful creature, a rainbow trout.
“That’s amazing! How did you do that?”
He grinned slyly. “River secret.”
“I’d appreciate it if you’d share it.”
“You really want to know?”
He sloshed toward me and handed the rod back to me.
“Luck.” We both started laughing. “Try again. Be patient. You’ll get one,” he said.
I waded back out to the precise spot he was standing. The current pushed gently on my legs. I looked up into the canyon walls and took in the spectacular views. My soul was finally starting to feel the freshness and freedom of the place I was in.
“Here goes,” I said as I began to move my forearm. Ten o’clock—Two o’clock, Ten o’clock—Two o’clock. I remembered the positions he told me. Then I cast the fly. It lit on the water just downstream of a boulder that created the small eddy.
Then it happened. I felt the jolt as the tip of my rod went down. I yanked it up and started reeling.
“Hey, there you go!” he shouted. “Look at that rod . . . That must be a whale!”
He waded back out to me as I reeled in my very first fish on a fly rod. He brought the net up under it gently.
“Look at that beautiful little cutthroat!”
The fish was only twelve inches long, but I was elated.
He reached in and cradled the fish at the surface of the water so I could get a good look. I had no idea something so small . . . so simple . . . could bring me such joy. He spoke reverently as he used some pliers to remove the hook.
“You always want your hands to be wet when you handle the fish; you don’t want the oils to rub off on their scales or gills. It could be deadly to them. Just handle them as little as possible and let them go back to spawn another day,” he said as he cradled the trout facing the current until it gradually gained the strength and swam away.
“Wow. What an experience. I get it. I get it,” I told him.
He put his hand on my shoulder.
“The River holds many treasures, Blake. Listen to what the waters are saying.”
We sat down and enjoyed the delicious ham sandwiches he had prepared for us, and then we packed up our things and started to head out.
“How are we getting out of here?” I asked, thinking about the sheer cliff we repelled down.
“That trail.” He pointed downstream.
“Ah. So we didn’t have to take the terrifying way down.”
“You loved it.”
“You’re right. Are you always right?”
“Just when it matters.”
I snickered. “Okay, that was good.”
We made a little more small talk as we started to ascend the trail that would lead us back up to the road where we could double back to the Jeep.
“Be careful here. The shale likes to give way,” he instructed.
We made several large steps as the trail rose sharply. He stopped in front of me at a small plateau behind a large boulder. I was breathing heavily. He wasn’t.
He pointed beneath the rock.
“That’s where Rio found Millie.”
In an instant I flashed to the storyline of Billy Fielding and the loss of his little girl, and my gut felt hollow. I wondered what kind of a person I’d be if I lost my little girl. We leaned up against the rock wall in silence for at least a minute. Then Gabriel spoke.
“We all have had stuff, stuff in our past buried in the canyon of our lives. Things we’ve done, or that someone has done to us. When those bones are dug up, pain, grief, and shame . . . man, it all comes crashing in. We feel as small and unworthy as a worm under the dirt. The bones must come up. Truth must prevail. That way, they can have a proper burial, and we can move on to new beginnings.”
I had no response, just thoughts. His words burrowed deep into my soul. That canyon he was describing that was my life. It felt like the digging began . . . it began when the love of my life discovered I was a cheat, a fraud, and a liar. I wasn’t sure there was a new beginning for me. If it was true, I was ready for the bones to come up, whatever it took.
After a few more moments of silence, he said, “I’ve got one more place I want to take you, and then we’ll head back.”