Rivanna River

I came to Charlottesville to visit Will and Julie and Rose this weekend. In the afternoon Will and I went fly fishing on the Rivanna River nearby, a tributary of the might James River running like an artery through the heart of Virginia. It is my favorite river, the river of my childhood.

Wading in the shallow, sunken pools under the boughs of peely barked sycamores we shadow danced our lines over the edge of dark crevasses and walls of elodea weeds floating in the current waiting for a strike. Nothing but little fish, small bass and pumpkin seed tonguing our flies. In the treetops vireos and warblers disappear like colorful ghosts and great blue herons stand stock still like sentinels. The current feels delicious on bare legs wading hip high. Beside the warm air it is like a cool caresse, moving and alive.

And all around in the still pools is life. Schools of carp startled by our slow approach upriver stampede through the shallows like cattle in hesitant aquatic figure eight stampedes across the bottom. River turtles and the long snouts of alligator gar silently break the surface and retreat down stream like vanishing spirits. And heavy curled sycamore leaves drift down lazily to land on the still mirror surface, heralding the first glimmer of autumn with a touch of zen. We didn't catch a thing but I couldn't have asked for a better way to spend the evening. Nothing but the comfortable silence of the river sounds broken only by the unhurried conversation of old friends.