Near my home, there’s a creek and it has been very special and meaningful in my life. To be honest, there is nothing particularly special about the creek or its waters. In fact, there are many more creeks in West Virginia that are more scenic, more remote and, to be honest, are better fisheries. I have not fished every creek in the state (a lofty goal) and I commend anyone who has, but I know of no other creek that holds more of my memories than this specific one for me.
The sound of the creek’s rushing water over rocks, the smell of the river being alive and the way the air feels cool rushing along with the water’s current all strike memories collected in a mental shoebox stored inside my conscience. The shoebox is sorted by senses that help jog my memory of a particular event, fish, conversation, milestone or even a thought.
It is weird how the human mind works. My mom passed several years ago, but I still get random reminders of her from my senses – the smell of a casserole cooking in the oven, a whiff of a certain perfume from a stranger in a crowd and sometimes even sweet tea will jog a memory of her back porch where she made sun tea every day of the summer.
The same happens on this creek. A certain memory will come flashing in like a postcard — my son’s first trout, a large brown trout my brother caught, my dear friend Cook making a cast to an impossible fish and catching it, my son’s first trout on a fly and even memories of life’s struggles and joys. After all these years, perhaps it’s not the creek or the trout that I keep returning for, but rather it’s in hopes that a memory will appear from the shoebox that I haven’t seen in years.
I have fished the creek with many folks over the years – mostly true friends and family. One of my best buddies and I — the kind of friend you are lucky if you only have one in your entire life — used to fish the creek weekly no matter the weather or time of year. My son learned to fish, and especially fly fish, on the creek since he was barely old enough to do so. I have hosted many out-of-town guests on the creek for a day of fishing in the mountains. All in all, the creek has almost always risen to the occasion, and to be honest, it still does to this day.
This past week, my son went on a solo trek to the creek. Just before a predicted rain, he was hoping the front would stir a trout or two into feeding right before dark. Plus, he set out to try a new fly pattern he’d been working on. I received a call from him and I could tell by the excitement in his voice that the creek had once again been very eager to please. Through his excited voice and fast-paced conversation, I was informed of a rather large brown trout that was hooked and landed.
He followed up the conversation with a grainy cell phone image of him holding a true, trophy brown. Although I wasn’t there, the image alone was enough for me to recall the sounds of the water rushing and feel the cool air rushing against my skin.
Although I have taken my son fishing on the creek hundreds of times over the years, today he took me fishing. And for that, I give thanks.
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