Fencerows: Timeless River
By John Luthens
It seems only an eye blink removed from the waist-deep snow of March on the banks of the Bois Brule River. I peered through snow-draped pines at the cold and ropy mist hanging over the water. I stood on ice shelves that hung suspended and frail over the stained depths of the river.
The late-winter sun shone promise onto sand banks that climbed in increments out of dark pools. I caught a flash of silver far upstream beneath the pines – a steelhead trout rolling, or a flow of ice breaking loose. I squinted and blinked my eyes into the sun shadows. My imagination runs wild in such a place. I blinked my eyes again and it was gone.
It was high, humid summer along a Brule River tributary stream. The only sounds heard were the thundery rumblings of an approaching storm and the constant whine of mosquitoes in my head. I worked a 10-foot fly rod and a night crawler through brush and nettle, far beneath a cut bank, scant yards from where the tributary enters the river.
Last sunset of the season over the Brule River Valley.
In a clash of currents, where spring-fed water met the warmer temperature of the main river, a brook trout shot out to bend my rod in half. I crashed through brush and over submerged logs to keep the fish from tangling back into its sunken maze. The trout was heavy and purple-sided, worm tracks stretching along its back. It blended with a host of others taken from that very spot. I don’t remember if I landed it or not. I blinked again.
Now, it’s the last of October and the trees are bare. The paper birches stand out against a backdrop of balsam like white pillars. Leaves crunch underfoot and it smells like the glories of a thousand seasons gone by.
The Brule River shines in the falling sun below. A step bank erodes down to a curling pool. The current of time flows fast. Thirty years ago, I caught my first brown trout in that pool. I ran in circles, shouting, showing the fish off, even though there was no one around to see except me and the river.
I climb down the steep bank for my last rites of the year. The river valley is alive with an autumn breeze – blown leaves rolling with the wind in the pines. The river sings over rocks below, a cry from thirty years ago still trapped in the sounds. I slide down into the falling sun. Though my eyes mist with past legends of this valley, in this moment, on this last day given, I refuse to blink.