Fencerows: “Fishing for a President”
The ‘river of presidents’ on the edge of November.
By John Luthens
Scant weeks before the presidential election and I was up to the waterline in a fine state of political current. Hooks and barbs were flying. A numbing sensation had begun somewhere along my left toe and was slowly creeping upward and threatening to freeze me out of the race entirely. Mired in history on the “river of presidents,” the Bois Brule River on the cusp of November, and there I was.
I poked the dark and curling water, stripping in fly line and questioning my every move like a poll taker: “Vote to step over this boulder on the right and pray there isn’t a bottomless hole waiting to suck me down? A sandy rise to my left looked promising, but those banks can be awfully deceiving, sucking and slipping at wader-clad feet to send the unwary bouncing down to Lake Superior on a cold and bumpy ride. “What to do? What to do?’
Hinging my decision even tighter, a steady rise bubbled from around the bend to taunt me with promise. So close and yet so far; the substance behind the splashing advertisement was just out of view behind a stand of fragrant and leaning pines. I was driven by the wild call of civic duty to go all in and investigate the rolling splash, but hesitant to soak my soul to the bone in order to achieve the goal.
I waded deeper into the bend and began to hear whispers; not totally unexpected on the Brule at season’s end, but always a tad unnerving. Echoes blended with the autumn wind through the pines, mixing with the gurgling river at my wader tops. Crisp leaves in the silent heart of autumn wicked down off the trees to sound like falling rain on the forest floor. Bare branches groaned in the wind and a grouse drummed from the blackberry tangles along the sloping river valley.
Time stands still at certain times and places. Solemn shrines like the Washington Monument at moonrise, the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier at Arlington National in the rain, or the misted fields of Gettysburg at sunrise can put the staunchest of political agendas in perspective. In this reporter’s humble opinion, the “river of presidents” in November is among them.
Presidents Grant, Cleveland, Coolidge, Hoover and Eisenhower all made statesman visits to the mighty Brule. Some stayed longer than others. Coolidge was enamored enough with the trout in the water to temporarily move the “White House” onto its banks for the summer of 1928. It’s comforting to think that the foundation of modern politics may have its origins in the solid bottom of a river canoe.
Indeed, time stands still in such a place. It may even be said that time moves in reverse, back to an era where decisions seemed much more transparent and life itself seemed so much simpler. Walking its worn-trail banks and wading along its wet backbone is like hearing voices call down the valley of the past. If one listens close, one may even hear an ancient answer to modern problems.
I took a final step and listened closely to the water along the banks and the wind in the pines. It sounded like ghosts. Another upheaval of water came from around the bend. That sound wasn’t a ghost. It was the rolling arrival of a big steelhead trout. I could almost see the rings of the rise.
Carefully selecting a fly from the box, I prepared to cast my ballot Water trickled just over the top of my waders and it was frigid cold, but I believe deeply that fishing is like politics and fishing is like life: Stand firm in the current of life and cast to the outer limits for what you believe in.
The rest of the vote is entirely up to the trout.
John Luthens is a freelance writer from Grafton, Wisconsin. His first novel, Taconite Creek, is available on Amazon or at www.cablepublishing.com or by contacting the author at Luthens@hotmail.com