Words by Christopher Seep
Like many, I am haunted by the river’s voice, especially mountain creeks. Born of snowmelt, cold, transparent water obeys the imperative of gravity and terrain, it’s marathon journey to the sea just begun. Haunted also by the promise of trout, the sudden snatch of the fly, the electric connection to the fish via rod, line, and fly; somehow it’s energy flowing to me in reverse; the possibility of fooling a trout with my counterfeit.
Haunted also by shards of persistent snow on a Rocky Mountain peak in summer, by the unique clarity of mountain sunlight , by the cool, dry air on my face; possessed, too, by the fecundity of an Appalachian stream, it’s pleasant claustrophobia of mammoth rhododendron, mountain laurel, and spruce, so overwhelmingly green.
I dream of a ceiling of stars on a new moon night, bright pinpricks in the dark celestial fabric above a leaping campfire, or a of bright moon with its peculiar quicksilver light casting a tent-shadow on snow.
I imagine myself now standing in the river, the pleasant press of flowing water against my legs, straining to hear the water’s whisper, trying to decipher its language, so ancient that none can understand it but perhaps the wind.
Christopher Seep began fishing while still in diapers and hopes to finish that way. Since adopting tenkara, he has never looked back.
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