Six years ago our family camped here. That was a different era, what with our concrete attachment to our kids’ naps, and their conviction that camping revolved around smores. At least half that equation was now different. We returned hoping for a final summer hurrah - where mountains and lakes and streams would tire our bodies and rest our hearts.

The river was a five minute walk from our campsite. It was barely wider than our dining room, and flowed unassuming like the verse of a folk song. Potential seemed to overflow its banks. For short bursts it churned white with shallow rapids, before yielding to the valley’s curve. This created a stretch too shallow to be labeled a hole, yet too enticing to be overlooked. Fishermen are quirky with our names for river sections: pockets, riffles, seams. I wonder what name these brief but promising spots would be given by the angler who had fished them for decades?

After a few afternoons of fishing this section, I became antsy. We caught a handful of small trout, but none of the sizable native cutthroats the river was known for. My eyes kept drifting upstream. With each wistful stare the drug-like allure of the river strengthened. Heeding the call, my son and I set out one evening. 

We followed the river up the valley, in pursuit of less fished water further from our public campground. The evening light was soft and shadowy. Wildflowers dappled the meadow with enough color to slow us, but only briefly. We neared the river and began slogging through bogs whose pungent mud slurped greedily at our sandals. Moose tracks imprinted the soft riverbank, and reminded us our chiseled outdoor bravado did not make us the biggest or baddest creature that evening. At times we walked past runs of water too quick to hold fish. Then we'd turn the corner, peel back the head-high willows, and see the water catch its breath in a deep hole ripe with fish.

I can’t overlook my son joining me. Despite my quick stride and erratic course, he stayed stitched to my side. He didn’t bring his rod along. Choosing instead to be with me, in on the venture, in an act as affirming as it was hopeful. With his hat cocked backwards and his neck craned, he watched me cast. Occasionally offering in an anticipatory half-whisper,

“Great drift dad.”

He gulped the wonder of the evening with awe unmuted by past experience or future expectation. The delight dripping from his face all but shouted, Tonight! What a night! We’ll retell this story for years to come! 

Marvel, his native tongue, could be heard above the river’s run. 

The roles seemed reversed. To be joined, enjoyed and believed in by him - you would have thought he was the generous and encouraging father, and me the eager and wondering son.

Even as I write that, I pause, knowing it is true: I am the eager, the beloved son. One who received a knowing and generous gift from the Father who knows me. The Father who noticed my search for new water before I did. The Father who knew the river’s glory I was after was not just the pink enameled cutthroats. The Father who gave me the perfect companion for the evening - someone knowingly keen for the adventure, and unknowingly wise to its significance. 

________________________

Jesse French
Executive Director