|
I had just reached the break in the jagged wall of red rock that divides Squaw and Lost Canyons - about eight miles from the trailhead in Canyonlands National Park. Wearing the 90 degree sun like a woolen mantle, I scrambled 400 feet to the wash below--a sand-filled streambed empty of water. For a time after a thunder shower, there are fresh pools of water in these lonely canyons. The frogs, shrimp, beetles, and horsehair worms emerge, communicate and mate in the soon-to-be-dry-again pools. Their offspring, the products of but a few moments of ecstasy, quickly become encased in mud and sand to await nature's next cycle of rain. The solitude of Lost Canyon was my goal, but where I had never before seen anyone, I spotted a fisherman. He cast his line in vast, rhythmic sweeps along the curving, sandstone walls of the canyon. As surprised by his presence as by his activity, the ritual words of greeting spilled from my mouth, "Hi. What are you doing?" "Same as you." he replied as he cast his line down the dry, rocky wash, "fishing." What did he mean, "fishing?" I felt wary of presenting a contrary viewpoint to a person who was so obviously deranged, but it didn't look as if he was carrying anything more harmful than rod and tackle, so I took the chance. "I'm hiking, not fishing," I said, and added hopefully, "There's no water here -- do you mean that you're practicing casting?" "You think my style of fishing is strange -- there's no use denying it -- I can see it in your eyes. But, then you should see how Sara does it." Sara? Did he mean the Sara who walked with me through the streets of Moab. All men turned to enjoy the vision of her in the black flower-print dress that fit perfectly her breasts, waist and hips. Aware of her impact, she displayed her signature just-hint-of smile. "Yes," he said, "Sara is a wonder to behold. You've seen her loosen raven's hair to the backlighting of the setting sun. But, you failed to notice her skill in fishing. She casts with neither rod nor line on invisible currents where no one else has ever fished." "I didn't think that there were any rivers left that no one has fished," I said. "Rivers?" he laughed. "Sara uses matchbooks and tabletops." "What do you mean?" He paused just long enough to place his fly expertly next to a rock in the would be stream -- a place where the big one would be lurking if there was a deep pool of water. "She writes her thoughts in matchbooks and leaves them in restaurants and bars," he said. "On the inside cover, she places her postbox address." "Ah!" I said, "Fishing is a metaphor of sorts, people fishing for other people, so to speak." "I can tell that you don't like the comparison," he said. "Most people think of fishers as backward oafs intent on the taking of life. Yet, they can also be thought of as attempting to communicate with primitive life forms. They use beautifully made equipment -- a slender rod and colorful feathers tied to a bit of metal at the end of a spider's filament. To communicate they have to learn not only the nature of the river, but the very instincts of the trout. Unlike dogs, trout lack the will to please. Even cats are easier. Successful fishers-of-cats merely have to learn to communicate with the cat's will to be independent. But, a fisher-of-trout has to learn to match nature exactly. To test themselves, the best cut the barbs from their hooks and use ultra-light lines, making it almost impossible to land the trout. For, it isn't the trout they want -- many neither keep nor eat them. It's the perfect communication with another being that is desired--a way of entering the place of their spirit." "And, Sara?" I inquired. "You said she fishes in invisible currents." "As do you," he said. "Me?" I said, but I was barely listening. Instead, I was thinking of Sara's physical beauty. "Sara knows that she can communicate physically," he said, reading my dreams. "But there's no skill in it. Instead, she's chosen to cut off the barb of her physical self." "And, me?" I asked warily. "Lost Canyon is your fishing ground - but usually there's no one else in it. Even those who occasionally travel with you are really only moving through -- they refuse to enter." "And how am I like Sara?" I asked. "Like her, you cast your lines in empty places and like her you most often open an empty postbox." "So, why do we keep casting?" I asked. "Aren't we bound to fail in making contact?" "We humans are a blend of trout and dog and cat," he answered. "So, contact is difficult. But, we are more than the children of nature -- we have the power to free ourselves from instinct." |
