I was driving one of those twisty, shoulderless roads somewhere in the Western North Carolina mountains — the kind that hugs the hillside like it doesn’t want to be found, and runs alongside a trout stream barely wider than your tailgate. One of those “bluelines” you could step across without getting your socks wet, but still holds the kind of promise you’d expect from a river named the Blackfoot or the Madison.
I pulled over on the sort-of shoulder — more like a wide spot in the road — and got out, stretching like a man who’s old enough to know he’ll be sore tomorrow, but drawn to places like this enough to forget — for a while — that he should care. I strung up my fly rod — not out of urgency, but because it’s a thoroughly enjoyable ritual, the kind that gives you time to think while your hands do something familiar — and picked my way down the bank through rhododendron and wet leaves until I stood at the edge of the water.
It was quiet — that good kind of quiet that’s never really silent. You’ve got the water tumbling over rock, wind through the trees, maybe a distant bird calling out just to remind you you're not entirely alone. I started walking upstream, stepping in and out of the water like I couldn’t quite make up my mind about how wet I wanted to get. The stream twisted through a narrow valley like it was doing its best to steer clear of change — of anything that might disturb the slow rhythm it had kept for years.
Around every bend, I thought, This might be the spot — the one with the fish that doesn’t spook when you blink. But each time I’d pause, rod in hand, I’d look upstream and see something even better. More light on the water, more moss on the rocks, more of the gentle calm I never would have noticed in my younger days.
By the time I finally stopped walking, the sun was starting to disappear, making even the greenery along the forested stream banks appear golden. I sat on a rock, thought about a cup of coffee I didn’t really need, and realized something kind of funny.
I hadn’t even cast my line.
Didn’t fish a single pool.
Didn’t tie on a fly.
Didn’t spook a trout.
And I didn’t mind at all.
Didn’t tie on a fly.
Didn’t spook a trout.
And I didn’t mind at all.
Maybe that’s age, or wisdom, or just what happens when the stream becomes more than the fish — and the day, more than the catch. Either way, I’ll take it.