Sounds of the River

I always heard the river before I could see it. I'd leave my truck by the old stone wall and cross down through the meadow, swinging my legs through knee-high hay and keeping a steady pace as I worked to hear what the river was promising.

The Housatonic River is a tail-water, fed from a dam 10 miles upstream. The power company raises and lowers the river’s flow depending on power needs and the flow into the river from rain and run-off. If I heard the river early, say at the first break between the meadow and the corn field next to it, I could know the water was fast and high. I’d recheck to be sure I had my wading staff and begin to think about my first fly choice. Usually I’d want my special tan and olive streamer.

If the sound came to me further along my walk, closer to the row of wild briar roses, I would imagine the water flowing high enough to cover the shallow edges of the river, but low enough to expose the tops of the four big rocks that shaped a perfect pool. I would think again about my fly choice.

If I didn’t hear the river until I entered the thicket of maples and beeches that closed off the back of the meadow, my smile widened. Except for times of drought, hearing no sound on my walk meant low water, ideal for dry flies. All I had to do then was slip down through the brush, stand still for a minute, see what flies were on the water and look for the beautiful sight of a rising fish.

On those walks in, listening for the river’s sounds, anticipation sparked a small joy. With no effort on my part, problems broke apart and faded. With each step, worries and the pains of age and reckless youth washed out of me. No matter the season, the walk across the meadow never failed to renew a promise.

Each walk became another occasion for hope and from the walk in until a dispositive darkness would send me back across the meadow to my truck, I would be happy.