It was in the corner of my vision, when I caught that first tacit moment of motion; the silence of movement, igniting reaction, when the brain receives that split-second signal from our eyes. It was there, just beyond my shallow position in the water; woven among the lazy sway of ripe green foliage, dressing the young sugar maple trees. Not the slight stirring of leaves a gentle breeze poses; this was different; more a slow, stop and go spasm of motion; vacant of cadence and continuity. The sound from that direction, if there was one, didn’t reach my ears. Only the soft murmur of ripples a stream makes filled me.
The attraction toward this unknown turned me away from the fish I had been watching rise every minute or so in the foam line at the head of the pool, before it breaks into Wulff’s Run. A quiet flow it was; unlike the rowdy, raucous runs that suddenly happen from abrupt rains or Spring runoff. This so very popular section of the Willowemoc begged a bizarre feeling. I was alone. The pleasure of a cloudless,warm, mid June afternoon offered no one in sight; up or downstream.
My interest piqued, as the movement through the leaves grew into a slow, stingy step of khaki clothing; exposing portions of a person’s figure, coming down the short path from the parking area by the one lane bridge, leading to the Museum. The same path I walked no more than fifteen minutes earlier.
For the most part, this section of the Willow, and the winding of Old Route 17 between Livingston Manor and Roscoe are joined at the hip. The infrequent traffic noise of passersby, many of whom have piscatorial pleasures in mind, interrupts the distinct melody of the river. Along with visitors to the Museum, these mechanical sounds are usually heard and accepted as part of the environs. Perhaps however, my romance with the rhythm of the rising trout, or being immersed in the luxury of the day, blocked out any unnatural sounds from my awareness. Whatever the occurrence; its unnoticed absence, along with this person’s, seemingly, strange, stealth arrival, stimulated my response. I devoted full attention in that direction, with the anticipation my curiosity was about to be satisfied.
The gradual emergence into the opening from the path revealed a man’s full figure, approximately a half dozen steps from the edge of the water, and the answer to the khaki colored
mystery. In the unobstructed proximity between us, he appeared to be an older gentleman; a little older than me I guessed; notably lean, with a stature narrowly taller than mine. The purpose of his arrival though, was not cemented until the sight of his cane fly rod, carried in feathered custom, exposed itself. Holding it firmly in his right hand, and with his left for support, he rotated it 180 degrees, and pointed it precisely at the same foam line I had been monitoring. The smile on my face surely went unnoticed.
Over the years, there have been many occasions, on many rivers, where I have exchanged genial greetings and cordial conversation with those of us possessed with this devout divinity of fly fishing. The norm for me, except for a friendly wave or brief hello, has been one of displayed, respective privacy; allowing each of us to cherish the tranquility, and bliss of solitude.
Instead of embarking into such salutation, and the abidance of my own conviction, I uncharacteristically began to intently stare; deliberately attempting eye contact with this new guest the stream had welcomed. But he was fixed; focused on the water. To him, I was not there.
His wrinkled hat, soft with age and slightly brimmed all around, he wore in a casual, almost cocked manner; favoring the left side of his forehead. Its color, once born brown most likely, had been tortured by the sun to a bleached, faded hue from too many years to count. The width of head band above the rim couldn’t conceal the contrast of its dried, dark stain of ancient perspiration. He had on black, knee high rubber boots; similar to what a farmer would wear I pondered; a tribute to his prominent tan complexion and leathery neck. The height of the boots could also have been worn as an indication of some trepidation he had with his balance, and the forced necessity to occupy a safe and comfortable wading position in the water. Or, it may have been both. The vest he wore over his dull, olive green shirt was well weathered. Its khaki color, which the foliage tried to hide earlier, came into full view, and exhibited more of a tawny tone in the bright sunlight. The edges of the pockets were proudly frayed from all those years of commanding use; no doubt, plucking and returning fly boxes. The sentiment surrounding the secrets and stories spun into the fabric of that nostalgic garment; only he had the key to unlock. I watched him carefully.
The next step he attempted, failed. He lost his poise, and stumbled to his right knee. The suspicions I had regarding his wading ability were no longer in doubt. As he fell, the impulsive thrust of his left hand to the ground for leverage acted simultaneously with the elevation of his fly
rod to prevent the reel from being driven into the sand. For a few moments he froze in that position to catch his breath. Then, pushing down with his left hand; together with arching his back, he attempted to bring his right knee above the ground. Clearly struggling to do so, he pivoted to the left, and rocked sideways into a sitting position onto the ground. There, his head lifted toward me. Our eyes met for the first time. The look of shock on his face was followed by an embarrassing wave, assuring me he was not injured. A couple of attempts to rise were fruitless, so the urge to provide help became obvious.
The immediate act to assist gave me pause, realizing my own physical shortcomings. Unlike the once held spontaneous execution of my youth, age had shed its cloud of uncertainty upon my balance and wading agility; reducing it to a matter of applied caution. A sense of urgency to act quickly, and jeopardize my response to help, gave way to the more sobering necessity of prudence. My line and leader successfully in place on my reel, and with the surety of my staff, I gingerly began wading back toward shore. Even though the sandy bank was no more than four or five steps away, each one was an exercise in concentration to avoid any mishap. Steadying myself, I looked over to him. He was still in a sitting position.
Approaching him, we exchanged no words. I felt however, the frustration he was having, as the need for assistance from a stranger, conflicted with the stubborn self respect to raise himself. When I extended my hand out to him, it was his ego that would yield, and succumb to need. He looked up at me, like a child; trusting. He gripped his fly rod tightly, and with a nodding gesture, encouraged me to take hold of his forearm. The effort of my lifting and his rising, in unspoken harmony, succeeded. We stood together; each with a sigh of relief, facing the Willow.
The chemistry between us evolved into an unexplainable, yet genuine bond. Our eyes attached to the water in silence, like attendees at a religious ceremony, listening to the sermon of the stream. I waited for a vocal sign which would lead us to interact into conversation. There was none. He remained committed; committed toward the water. It was no surprise, when he suddenly attempted to move closer. Doing so, he wavered a bit before taking a step, then stiffened to right his footing. He leaned hard against me for ballast. I braced myself, grasped his right shoulder, and was able to keep him from falling.
After what seemed an eternity, the propensity to move once more became evident. I instinctively took a light hold of his right arm, but quickly released it, as the vibes of his
determination came through to me. So close to the stream’s edge, he accepted the challenge of taking the last couple of steps on his own. The assertive attempt awarded success, and satisfied by the stability of his stance, he turned back to me with a look of pride; beckoning companionship.
By his side, our voiceless conversation continued. The water from this hallowed Creek, barely lapping the soles of our boots, anointed the piety between us; two strangers, in the winter of their years, sharing this being of existence; hypnotized in the occasion by the tone of the rushing ripples, sparkling in the bright sunlight. That unique sound only a stream can render. The duration of those moments was unknown, and unimportant.
He swung his head around, and looked at me with intensity. His facial features were acutely evident. What was once the vivid, vernal skin character of his youth, had now perished to those chronic cracks, and fine fissures the bells of time had tolled. It was however, not his face, my focus. It was to his eyes, I fastened. Deep, light hazel eyes they were; pleading to recover that earlier theme in life, when few were the cautions to impede the fearless freshet of his mind, and the steadfast belief his physical dexterity was endless. He looked away; directly at the water. I felt his body tremble a bit as he raised his fly rod. It was like I was listening to his thoughts; his inner self. He reluctantly lowered it. It was not his thoughts I imagined that brought the rod to his side. It was his voice; a low whisper, barely audible to me; but surely not to him. It came the second time; a little louder, but still, a whisper. The words I heard were clear; not to be mistaken, or for that matter, ever to be forgotten. His hazel eyes penetrated mine; encased, watery wells; too full to hold back the overflowed release of two tiny tears from each, with the words, “I can’t do this any more.”
It was a somber statement; a dateless, depressing statement; deflecting the splendor before them. No appropriate words could I choose to console my new confrere. Again, we stood there as one; captivated by the stream’s sensuous song. It might have been a few minutes later, and without warning, he fidgeted a little; waved his rod some, as if to bid a kind of farewell to this historic Catskill Creek. He brought his back to the water, and faced the path; bent his head toward me, and our eyes met for the last time. The expression on his face was one of sadness, unmistaken gratitude, and the assurance that my attendance in his parting would not be necessary. I watched, as the path absorbed his irregular, cautious steps, to where he left my view.
I stood there a while, holding back my own tears, looking into the emptiness; weighing the silence of his exit, and the hurt he must have realized in those words of finality he shared with me.
It wasn’t long after, or perhaps it was, I put the path behind me, and with my wading staff as a guide, made my way down stream toward the more placid stretch of the pool by the bridge. When I arrived there, the sun had ebbed lower in the west, and began to filter its rays through the tree tops; gently shedding a veil of shadows onto the slow-moving water; telling me that the time spent with this new acquaintance of mine had whittled the afternoon away. A trout, rising to the surface with a quiet splash in the shadow of the large sugar maple on the far bank teased me to engage. The temptation and desire to oblige dissolved into a smile; my sole response.
I backed off from the edge of the water with an eye toward resting my legs. The large rock under the bridge was waiting for me; a peaceful place for anglers over the years to meditate or plot strategy. Sitting there on the cool, uneven surface, as I had on many occasions, it was the former I embraced, and the wonderment of whether today’s company was among those who had befriended this tranquil setting.
The trout on the far bank was still performing surface exercises at a predictable pace. But my mind was in a suspended sense of elsewhere. It was him. He occupied my consciousness; this stranger I met, whose low spoken message left me speechless with compassion.
Musing in this quiet, private place, daylight melted into early evening. The last of the sun’s leisurely light strained through the foliage, leaving a few remaining silver streaks on the blackened water; those magical hours of the day for casting a feathered lure. The maple tree trout was joined by others for surface dining. Once again, I was content to be a spectator.
A cool breeze entered my shady nook, and the once tolerant discomfort of my rock became more a maneuver in shifting positions. I decided to leave. The security of my wading staff in hand, I carefully walked up the unfriendly, outcrop-like steps by the bridge to the parking area and my vehicle. During the routine of first breaking down my fly rod, a young man arrived, in hopes of enjoying whatever gifts the Willow would offer him before dark. We exchanged greetings, and brief conversation. I wished him good luck, as he started down the path. My eyes followed the anxiety of his gait, till he was no more. The last of my gear put in place, and before closing the back hatch, I looked down at my vest. The fraternal similarity to the one worn by the old gentleman brought a reflective grin to my face. It stayed with me as I departed.
Driving into Roscoe, I decided on the rooted reminiscence of old Route 17 back to Horton, rather than the drone of the boring highway. That evening, I sat under the porch lights at the motel where I was staying, and listened to the Beaver Kill. The mellow meter of its riffles resonated through the darkness. My thoughts became questions, as I drifted back to the afternoon on the Willowemoc, and the old man on the path. What was the meaning of our rendezvous; this appointed place; his noiseless entrance and exit? Was he a visitor to the stream, or did my imagination create a visitant? An inward subtle snicker, not so quickly eliminated the latter. When will the hurt displace the elation, I lamented, for this unexplainable magnetism; this insatiable thirst we crave from this fly fishing fountain? Would we ever meet again? The Beaver Kill delivered no answers; nor did I expect any.
It was within the abyss of the ink black night his image appeared; this old man; to whom I had not spoken; only listened. I could still see his face; his watery, hazel eyes. The admission of the mournful message he whispered; I could still hear; that clear and certain truth in life’s passage we all face…when the curtain falls.
