Chasing Light
Ending the day chasing light into a remote canyon in Idaho, hoping to cast one more line before darkness, I felt alive in a way I hadn’t for months. My fishing buddy, Chuck, felt it too. The light awakened us. We didn’t think about the future, or anything behind. Only that which was before us. Trout and water and cottonwoods. And the light connecting all things.
A dirt road led to a curved stretch of the Salmon River and on the far side of the river rose a steep canyon wall with the current’s flow defined by boulders fallen from the crags. The river was wide. I entered from an inward bend and, after wading waist deep, could land a dry fly on the far side with a double-haul cast. Behind me grew a bank of willows edging a small meadow and, beyond that, the further canyon wall blushed with a light long passed. The light turned pale, pink as the river’s namesake, and glowed in the dusk. It faded along granite walls in a marking of time. This day. The days before. Each with its own light and together, eternal.
Casting by Canyon Light
There’s a quality of canyon light that brings our lives into focus. It’s a remnant light, reflecting through the canyon after the sun has passed. A reminder that light endures. I’ve been fortunate to experience this light both alone and with others and to know something of what it is. It’s a gift. An offer to enter a moment of glory, when the world’s burdens fade and darkness comes as a friend. Here it was again and I was grateful.
I entered deeper into the river and cast below a hatch of mayflies dancing in fluttered light. A trout rose to my fly and, for a moment, I danced among them. I’ve often wondered if there is a heaven and how it might feel to spend a day there. I think it would feel something like being on the river’s edge, deep in the canyon with my wife or my sons or with a fishing buddy, casting a line into the remnant light remaining from an unending glory. The moment passed and I released the fish back into the river and the daylight faded into night. My buddy and I settled into peaceful darkness. We cracked open a couple beers from the cooler and toasted, knowing we had touched the eternal.
Roger W. Thompson is the nationally acclaimed author of We Stood Upon Stars and My Best Friend’s Funeral, as well as an avid fly-fisherman. His ability to write about fishing and adventure while connecting to the deepest meanings of the human experience has earned him the nickname “The River Bishop.” Roger lives with his wife and two teenage sons in his coastal hometown of Ventura, California, where they surf, skate, snowboard, and build furniture together. Roger will be writing an exclusive series of essays for RareWaters.com over the coming weeks and months. We hope they inspire and encourage you.
