No Stream for Old Men

(Reprinted with permission of the author.)

Tom called the other day to see if Dave and I would like to do a little fishing. I was in right away. And when I talked to Dave, he was, too.

With the coronavirus prowling about, and all the resulting shutdowns and cancellations, I've been spending a lot of time inside...too much. I can't even go to church or the gym, so the possibility of an outing with a couple of good buddies was the best idea I had heard in days.

All three of us are part of that designated group of seniors considered to be "at risk." But the way we figured it, being outside is one of the safest places we could be--there's not a prohibited crowd, and the trout don't transmit COVID-19. But as a precaution, we decided that we should fish a remote mountain stream, one not likely to attract other anglers, if any at all.

So on Tuesday morning, we rendezvoused in a grocery parking lot, greeted one another with some perfunctory elbow bumps, piled into my truck, and headed for the mountains.

The stream we chose was one that each of us had fished before, but not for quite some time, which turned out to be consequential. But I'll get to that in a moment.

It's about a 50-mile drive, part of which took us over a narrow washboard road with enough switchbacks to make an aviator dizzy. If the road had been straight, that 50-mile drive wouldn't have taken half as long, but if you want remote, twists and turns is what you get.

When we got to the end of the dirt road, where we would have to leave the truck, the first thing we noticed was a used condom conspicuously draped over a tree stump near the path leading to the stream. That proves some people seek out remote areas for activities other than fishing, but I digress.

The stream is classic, high-grade mountain drainage, consisting of plunge pools, pocket water, brisk little runs, and rocks--lots of rocks, some the size of an SUV. And between the water and the algae, some are slicker than grease on a climbing pole.

Trees and thick vegetation crowd the banks, which means mostly staying in the water to move upstream, and navigating around, and sometimes over, those lubricated rocks.

After a short hike to stream-side, we split up so as not to get in one another's way, each man sticking to his own solitary section of water. I hadn't been fishing long before I realized how unsteady I felt. My wading boots did the slip/slide maneuver, and once when I moved to the bank to duck under a fallen tree, the soil gave way, and I landed flat on my back. In my younger days, I would have thought nothing of it, but with a hip replacement a year ago and impending shoulder surgery two months from now, I had a whole new perspective on falling down.

Taking a spill in a river usually results in no more than a good dunking, but do it in one of these boulder-strewn mountain streams, and you're just as likely to end up with bruised or broken bones, no matter how old you are.

After my bank-side tumble, I proceeded with extra caution, recalling my orthopedist's warning when I asked how soon I could resume fishing after surgery. "Fishing isn't the problem," he said. "Falling is what you need to avoid."

A somber mood ensured when the three of us got back together, and not because we hadn't caught any fish. We had.

Tom was the first to break the silence: "Well, this is the last time I'll see this stream." To which Dave and I nodded in agreement. I wasn't the only one who had agility concerns and whose enjoyment was diminished by concerns of injury.

With discernible melancholy in our voices, we acknowledged that this just wasn't the kind of fishing we could do anymore. Time and wear-and-tear on our bodies were placing restrictions on the fishing we could reasonably expect to do in the future.

Between now and my surgery, scheduled for the end of May, I have five fishing trips planned, both in and out of state (provided the coronavirus doesn't necessitate any cancellations). I want to log as much time on the water as I can before rehab and recovery shut me down.

And I have to confess, I'm more than a little concerned that my arm, my casting arm, won't function properly after the operation. That's always a risk.

As the years pass and the exigencies of being mortal extract their inevitable toll, antique anglers like me must learn to adapt, which is why I'm out in the backyard learning to cast with my opposite arm. I've also been thinking about that book I wrote, Journey to the Final Cast, and wondering: Will it be my right or my left?

About the author: Glenn Busch retired to Lynchburg, VA, in 2008, as rector emeritus of St. Mary's Church in High Point, NC, after a pastorate of more than 27 years. It was during the High Point years that he also became a college teacher. While serving as rector of the parish, High Point University asked him to become an adjunct faculty member, where, for 18 years, he taught for the department of religion and philosophy. Glenn and his wife, Kathleen, have two children and two grandchildren upon whom they dote as often as time and distance will allow. "Thanks once again, my good friend, for allowing me another opportunity to share one of your blog posts with my readers."