Time Is a River (36 page)

Mia walked the well-worn path along the river, deeper into the backcountry. The forest swallowed her as she hiked steadily through a medley of trees to where the air cooled and the dew was wet on the vegetation. She was surrounded by surreal color and she kept her head tilted toward the trees, mesmerized by the foliage. Underfoot she heard the crunch of fallen leaves that created a new layer of compost on the forest floor. The air smelled of ripeness and rot, sweet and pungent, that made her think of apples and pumpkins. Resident birds flitted in a thicket of mountain laurel and plump, chatty squirrels were in a frenzy of gathering for the long winter ahead.

She came to where the rhododendron clustered, feeling as she always did at this point that something wonderful was just around the bend. She walked a little farther and the vista opened up to reveal a grassy knoll, golden now, overlooking a wide curve in the water. Standing on the banks, like the first time she saw him, was Stuart MacDougal.

His tall form stood relaxed on the river’s bank, dressed in his tans and browns. He wore his fishing hat and Mia could just make out bits of vivid yellow, dark brown, and bright orange of the dry flies looking like fallen leaves hooked along the band. He cast smooth and tight loops over the water, the line stretching farther with each stroke, then presented his fly gently to the trout holding in the pocket.

Her mind drifted back to the night before when he’d held her in his arms. They didn’t talk. They had already said their goodbyes. When he rose above her and she wrapped her arms around his shoulders she thought of the mountains that he loved and called home and the rivers that laced their sloping sides like tears. She drew him closer, feeling lost and eager to bury herself in the granite and stone and firs, drowning in the streams.

From the ridge, Stuart had spotted her and was waving her over. Mia lifted her arm in a high arc, then came out from the woods and felt the warm afternoon sun on her cheeks. She stood by Stuart’s side at the river’s bank and spotted some big browns cruising the shallows. Their bright red spots stood out against the pebbly bottom.

“What are you fishing?” she asked, opening up her packet of flies. “A Booby Nymph,” he replied, straight-faced.

Mia chuckled at their private joke and pulled out a tiny, brightly colored fly and held it up.

“Or a number twelve Adams,” he amended.

“Me, too.”

He chortled at her answer, then held out his hand. “Want me to tie it?”

“I can do it.”

“Yeah, sure. But I don’t think the trout will wait that long.”

“You go on, then,” she replied with a stubborn jutting of her chin.

“Yes ma’am,” he replied, backing off and heading downstream.

Her fingers moved with dexterity as she tied the minuscule fly to the thin tippet at the end of her line. One of her goals this summer was to become an independent angler. The least of it was being able to tie her own knots. She brought the line to her mouth, feeling the slender plastic thread slide between her lips as she moistened it, then slowly tightened the knot. Done. She looked up to see Stuart watching her. He touched the rim of his hat in homage. Their eyes met, then he turned his head away.

Mia felt a surge of emotion as she looked out over the water, assessing the river and her mood. She felt a calm wash over her, determining her course. Slowly she moved upstream, her felt-soled boots sliding over the slippery pebbles as she made her way to the middle of the stream. When she reached the center she stopped and felt the gravel shift and settle in the silt beneath her feet. Lifting her chin, she took a good look around.

On one side the current ran quick and strong in brilliant, shallow water. On the other side dense shrubs that hung over the edge of the bank provided cover where fish could hide and feel safe. She remembered back to when she was sick and thought she might die. It was like standing in the middle of a river, wondering which bank she needed to prepare for. On one side life moved on. On the other, all was stillness. She had felt so alone and afraid, not knowing to which bank she would drift.

Now she was standing knee deep but steady in the river, facing the current head-on, her rod at the ready.

Mia cast her line far out to the fast, moving water. The line unfurled slowly, moving like liquid on wind to present her fly. Her breath held as she watched a trout rise then sip her fly down. Instantly she felt the electric current of life travel up the filament to the rod directly to her heart.

It was not a large fish; there wasn’t a great struggle. Mia played her gently to the net. She bent to meet the fish at the river’s surface and held the trout with hands as cold as the water, crooning assurances as she removed the tiny hook. Dark eyes stared back as the brookie went still in her hands.

Mia’s head filled with the voice of the river, pulsing loud in her ears as she felt the timeless connection with the fish, the water, and all living things. Opening her hands the fish remained still in the water, her spots shiny against the gravel. Then in a flash, she was gone.

Mia rose slowly and looked out at the river that rolled on through time. She was going to make it, she knew that now. She was a real fly fisher. She was a survivor.

She turned and headed back toward Stuart in the deeper water of the pocket. He was aware of her beside him but he didn’t speak. The wind gusted, rippling the water and showering them with colored leaves like confetti. They set their casts out over the water and together slipped into a four-count rhythm. Side by side they moved in tandem. Their lines whispered through the air and their flies danced on the rushing stream. With each cast she felt her worry of leaving flow from her heart down the thin line to disappear into the river.

It was time. Quietly, in the silence Mia had come to cherish between them, she drew in her line and unhurriedly walked away over the striated rocks and through the current, leaving Stuart alone in their private space. He paused, eyes on the river. Then, with an upswing, he cast forward again.

Before leaving the river, she bent to dip her hand into the cool waters.

“Remember me,” she murmured, sending her spirit to join the infinite flow of death and rebirth, of beginnings and endings, into the current. Mia lifted her face to the final moments of this perfect day, welcoming the last rays of light.