Metolius Musing

I fished the Metolius today. . . . if you've never been, you should. You don't have to be a fisherman to enjoy it. The river is the only one I know that leaps out of the ground fully-formed. There's a crinkle in the earth between Black Butte and 3-Fingered Jack on the east side of the Cascades, and the river hides itself in the crinkle for miles and miles, I suppose, until it comes frothing out 30 feet wide from the cleavage of a hill hidden in Ponderosas. I made the pilgrimage today to this site and quietly stood and watched the water flow.

It doesn't stop, nor has it let up as far back as any human being can remember. Metolius is an Indian word, so I guess it was around in their day too.

Usually at this time of year--in a "normal" winter--I'd be trudging through snow up there on the East side. Today, the sun was out, the sky was, well, a blue that defies using a metaphor for it, and the Ponderosas arched over the river like cathedral pillars. Vanilla wafts through the air--before you start to laugh, you should know that the bark of Ponderosas puts off a pungent scent--just like vanilla. Try sticking your nose right up inside the crease of a Ponderosa and smell for yourself someday. (Thank you, Bob Baker for making me stick my nose 12 years ago in a craggy old Ponderosa standing on the flanks of the Bitterroot range!)

I fished some, but what I really did was smell, and listen, and look. I walked some, but what I really did was sit, and think, and stick my head in the water when it got too hot. I saw no fish rise all day. They're in-between the great hatches. The blue winged olives are almost gone and the March Browns and yellow stoneflies are yet to come. The fish were on the bottom and were not coming up. And I really wasn't in the mood to go down and get them with a fatty nymph.

Something every person should do regularly is be out in the woods for a whole day, or in the fields, and be a part of the day as it happens. From dawn to dusk. Don't go inside. Don't take a nap--okay, maybe a short one in the sun like a lazy cat if you have to. Don't take the phone. Its even better if it's a 3-day or week-long, but few of us make that happen.

What you'll find is context. And we really miss context in this world. Between the folded fingers of dusk and dawn lies a whole world. From first light to last light, there are subtle changes and countless happenings. I found it took me most of the early afternoon to just stop worrying. Once I released the worries, the sun and river and Ponderosas with their vanilla-laced fingers did the rest. Most of us know this. It's not a new thing. But to experience it?

Maybe we like our worries too much to go out and release them.

Did I say "rest?" That's what it is.

In a crinkle between two hills, in the cleavage of volcanic rock and moss, a river rises from the earth. His very footstool.

Dust