Stream, the Lovely River
Josh Wolfe 02.20.14
Shades of red and orange intermixed with specks of black filter through Arthur Farrell’s closed eye lids as he stands smack dab in the middle of his little beloved river in southern Tennessee. February’s not going so bad, he thinks, continuing to bask in the warm light. In a few hours the sun will sink beyond the hill and the temperature will surely drop. Not that it’s necessarily warm by most standards, but getting a chance to trout fish on a sunny day in February is a rare thing; moreover, who wants to stand in a cold river with freezing rain and spitting snow?
Earlier in the morning, Arthur headed down to Lynchburg for a quick breakfast, which was even quicker than he had intended after overhearing a waitress insist that her constant vomiting was due to her hormones, which in turn caused her to be “in a pissy mood right from the get-go.” He gulped his coffee, paid his bill, and headed over to the fly shop on the tiny town’s square, not sure if he would fish this day, but a few extra pheasant tail nymphs and olive wooly boogers would go a long way. Tim’s a fine fly tier even if he’s a bit overpriced, but Arthur can’t really figure out if anybody has ever been in the shop except himself and a few friends he knows that fly fish. Fully understanding economical difficulties, Arthur picked up four extra wooly boogers, a roll of tippet, a fly box, and a patch kit for his waders.
He’d not seen the ducks, all mallards, sitting low on the water beneath the bank where the roots from a large oak protruded out over an eddy. A good hiding spot indeed, he thought to himself while the ripples from their swift departure blended back in with the current of the river.
His first casts were shaky and a little limp after going several months without picking up a fly rod. Adding tippet to the end of his line hadn’t been bad, but it seemed like tying on the fly took up most of the morning because Arthur forgot his glasses in the cabin. He didn’t care to waste time going back to get them, with a presence of mind that perhaps his eyesight is not what it once was (as happens to us all), but by God he’d thread the line if it took all day. Stubbornness had served him well before and the inevitability of success lingered in the speck of light shining through the tiny hole that is the association between tippet and fly.
He took great care not to put the pheasant tail in a tree right from the start. Hang a fly in a tree after a few hours and there’s your excuse to break for lunch and a nap. Give it up in the opening minutes of the game and you’re looking at the possibility of retrieving a rod from a deep hole, or worse, attempting to hurriedly retie a fly with shaky fingers maddened by their incompetence and inability to grip the cork lightly and direct it where it will.
Arthur laughs at the absurdity of all things sportsmen get really riled up about that have absolutely nothing to do with the greater scope of the outdoors. Rising license fees and encroachments by those running afoul of the law are one thing, but if you shoot and miss a deer or let a fine rainbow wrap your line around a fallen log, so be it. It’s what we signed up for.
Perhaps the fish know it’s February and refuse to bite, but Arthur continues casting anyway. The feel of the rod in his hand and the off chance of a strike as his line moves with the current is enough to keep his mind occupied. Before long, the dogwood’s bloom and the turkey’s gobble will fill his world with delight. His son Jack will come home to southern Tennessee to chase toms and Mary will begin making plans for the garden—a bit early perhaps, but the planning stage is important in that choosing what goes where and how much is appealing when everything comes to fruition. All these things will come in due time, he knows, as he continues riding out February in the little river that gives so much in return. At the end of the day, it’s never about numbers but what you get out of the experience as a whole. Just before the sun slid off the hill behind him, Arthur knocked some of the rust off his roll cast. A good start, he thought with a smile.
It didn’t take long for me, following in my father’s footsteps (literally), to develop a deep appreciation for the outdoors. Because it’s there in the wind, in the rain and a cool summer sunrise where I’ve learned more than in all the classrooms combined. My journalistic work is the sum of all I’ve taken from the outdoors and all I want to give back.
It was during a long, grueling two-year stint working as a banker in Huntsville, Alabama, I finally realized I needed to follow my dreams. After sojourning several places across the country, I now call Asheville, North Carolina, home, where I am the co-founder, publisher and editor of The Golf Sport (www.golfsportmag.com) magazine and editor of Sporting Classics Daily (www.sportingclassicsdaily.com). I am also a contributor to OutdoorHub and Global Outfitters, and hope to really inflate that balloon over the next couple years.
For me, it’s the power of the pen that makes the outdoor adventure live forever – as it is resurrected on the page in front of me. I am so fortunate to be a part of the outdoor community and make my passion a career.
