July 6th 2023
Battenkill River, Near Pooks
Thursday: Humid/Hazy. 91°
River settling, still high but clear
4:30-7PM
I was in my favorite spot to cast. In the shade of an old Ash tree whose canopy fans over the water from the bank. There I can fish in the shade during the hottest part of the day. Splayed out before me, barely visible in the depth and shade, are the Ash’s roots winding around ancient slabs of river stone. It was a sweet spot for trout; the closest visual hints you’ll get about a good hole next to a flashing-neon sign pointing down to where the hogs swish their tails in the cold dark.
I stood thigh-deep. I was wet wading, which means I’m not in those overall-style waterproof waders - just a pair of running shorts and my Chacos, my sling pack across my chest like a bandolier. My hat and favorite oversized polyester work shirt were my sunscreen, and honestly, I loved the look. Style has nothing to with money, trends, or even taste. Style is about dressing in a way where anyone who sees you, unequivicaolly knows it’s you. Your personality, your vibe, your entire being can be projected through what you wear. People choose to blend in or stand out every day. I pay attention to those choices.
So I was in my favorite place, doing a favorite thing. Summer means there’s no fires to tend because the heat is free and I never forget it. If you spend your entire winter swinging an ax and sleeping next to a wood stove to stay warm and you never complain about “the humidity” again.
I can hear the distant laughter of teenagers splashing. I can hear dogs bark, and the conversations of old dairy farmers in vintage beach chairs, the kind so low they can sit in the water while they gossip, smoke cigarettes and sip beers. When I look down I can see my sparkly nail polish on my toes. Fish were rising around me so I knew they were there. This is a whole community, human an animal, enjoying our river together. It belongs to all of us, those dropping ash and those in the shade of them.
It was a hot one, with midday temps reaching the mid nineties. I had spent most of it outdoors in that heat, tending the gardens and repairing the sheep fencing. I was sweating buckets, cursing the power outage from the previous night’s thunderstorm that made it impossible to work on freelance indoors beside a fan.
But I was very proud of the work in the garden, now free of weeds and the lawn trimmed down around it. Everything felt more civilized. The lambs were grazing inside their fence (instead of escaping it) and there was a bucolic happiness in the air, as heavy and lovely as the humidity. So, when the farm was settled and the chores were done, and everyone from the youngest chick to my old pony was quietly enjoying their dinner, I headed to the Battenkill to fish.
The water temp was still cool enough for catch and release, thanks to the deluge of rain over the holiday weekend, but it probably wouldn’t be by noon tomorrow. So I took advantage of the summer evening. Tonight this river was mine.
I cast and cast but nothing bites. I don’t care. I will cast for hours, catching a fish is icing and I’m here for cake. Above me, not 10 feet above my hat brim, a young cedar waxwing watches me with mild interest.
I love those birds. I associate waxwings, brown trout, and sycamores as the triple deities of this river. I watch him strut about the branches and catch the striking yellow tip of his tail in the magic-hour light. If a bird can smirk he smirked with his raccoon masked face.
A fish rises right next to me close enough to make me jump. I swear out loud, laugh, knowing that in this heat and on this night catching my breath might be all I catch. I wish I had brought some binoculars for bird watching.
Occasional canoes and small boats paddle by, some of them rigged with spinning reels. A clever dumpling of a man in a giant bucket hat and sunglasses floats past me in his kayak, dragging his spin-rod bobber behind him. He looks like a bear in a Pixar movie. I smile. These people are not serious anglers. Not that you have to be to fish out here. This river is as much his as the waxwings but I was still insulted on behalf of the trout.
When the heat was too much I’d make my way to the bank and take off my hat and glasses, remove sling pack and sun shirt. I set down my rod on the bank and dive into the water. I am in a sports bra and those lined shorts and finally not ashamed of my body. I feel sunshine and heat on my soft belly. I feel the water rush over my thin hair and crows feet. This body does amazing things and she’s all I've got. It took me 40 years to love her, the poor thing.
Holy Crow, the water feels so good. After all that sweat and grime, it’s a dirty baptism and that’s the only kind of baptism I trust. I swim. I sit and soak. Sometimes I float on my back and let my core sink a little and watch my toes. The waxwings fly overhead. The Sycamores sway with leaves so big they look like preschoolers cut them out of construction paper.
The Battenkill has a stone bed and the water is clear as glass, cool, and crisp as clean sheets if water can be a cloth texture. It feels on my skin the same way new guitar strings sound when played, bright. I say a quiet prayer to Brigid that I get some more days like this in my life. Compulsory gratitude just seeps out of me these days. It makes dinner taste better.
It makes everything taste better.
When I redress in my kit, I change my fly over from the yellow stimulator that worked last night to a bead-headed nymph. Maybe the heat has some big boys slower and lower?
I start casting the sinking fly when I hear the first claps of thunder. It’s loud, like a strike at the bowling alley. I can see clouds to the southwest but the sky above me is blue and the sun is making me feel drunk. Maybe drunk isn’t the right word, as I haven’t drank alcohol since New Year’s Eve 2020, but I remember, and it was that kind of buzz. I was grateful for my altered state, because days like this drain you like a battery, making your body demand shade and a nap, which is what any sensible woman would do after a day of physical labor in a heat wave…
BUT! That's the thing about fly fishing! There are stakes now in this river, the rod in your hand becomes a magic wand, delivering a second wind of excitement the moment you grip the cork. Every cast is a prayer, every fly landing on the surface is a drop of hope. Okay, that might be a little too precious. Hope is there, but fly fishing is a little messier.
I suppose it’s less of a prayer and more like pulling down the lever on the slot machine, only it’s a slot machine you got to scope out and get a slight advantage on, so your odds are just high enough that skill can create luck.
I’m not that good of an angler yet. I cast on luck.
I notice a man swimming free, no friends or kayak or life jacket. This stretch of water was perfect for a long free swim and part of me envied him. He wasn’t attached to trout or hope at all. I watched him swim pass a young family of otters, about 20 yards to his left. If he noticed them he didn’t disturb them. The older otter kept going about her business slinking in for swims, the occasional pup sliding after. I wished I’d brought binoculars for the second time that evening.
The sunlight comes and goes, but when it comes it arrives from behind the clouds, tired and vast. It’s the golden light I associate with summer, with everything beautiful and lovely and warm.
I take a minute to savor this time of year like I just snapped a mental polaroid. This is the sweetest moment. This is exactly where I want to be. Who I want to be. How I want to be. I came into this world on a July evening, right around dusk. I think we all can’t help but love the time we arrived. It’s home.
Two young women kayak past. Before they are too far out I tell them about the otters. I hope they see them. They thank me. They didn’t ask, but I couldn’t imagine not wanting to see a baby otter on a summer evening with distant thunder. We all looked towards the distant river bank with eyes like kids, excited as hell.
I changed my fly again. Nothing is working tonight. Every cast still feels like a wish. Every thunder clap makes my heart stutter. I feel my phone vibrate against it. (My phone is in my sports bra.)
I check my phone. I want to hear back from the woman I send pictures of trout to. It's new, but lovey. She’s left me a few texts and the hum of excitement from her attention mixes with the heat and hope and it all washes over me like lavender bath water. For the 50th time that week I thank the oldest gods women have ever prayed to that I’m gay. She sends back a wish for luck on the river, and I realize, I have caught something.
While my phone is out I see a message from my neighbor Linda. She said to stop by after the river because she’s taking sourdough out of the oven at 7, and I nearly start salivating on the spot. Her bread is amazing, with a crisp, flaky-rich crust and the inside crumb full of air and character and surprising lightness of a good sourdough. Thunder claps again, this time farther away, but I feel the wind move my hair and it sends shivers all over my body like a kiss on my neck.
How dare I ask for anything more?
I dare. I cast a little longer. The sunlight comes and goes from behind the storm clouds. The otters swim. There are no more kayakers and the last of the loud high-school boys has left the swimming spot near the bridge. Sometimes I think the most horrific and glorious thing to be in the world is a teenage boy. Some of them were fishing. Spin rods, the lot of them.
Not one fish takes my flies.
I pack it up. I head back to my car and as I break out from the riverside to the farmer’s field we all park in, I see a rainbow. It’s arching among the rolling mountains and fields of sweet corn and it could be 1867 or tomorrow, a timeless moment of agricultural harmony. I fished for three hours and didn't get a single strike but damned of I didn’t end up catching a rainbow.
As I load up the car, a girl parked down field from me shouts, “Hey! A rainbow!” and points. We are the only two cars left in the lot and she just wanted me to see the otter. I thank her. I love how women look out for each other’s joy.
When I stop at Linda's the bread has two minutes left in the oven and we chat until she hands it to me warm in a paper towel. When I get home I slice off an end and slather it with butter and honey and it melts into every air pocket. When I bite into it the sugar and fat squish between my teeth and I think: THIS. IS. LIVING.
My friend Mark texts me. He wants to meet to fish in the morning I will take him to that same spot. I hope he catches a monster and I catch nothing so he feels amazing. He’s recovering from surgery and I’ve been sending him trout pictures as low-grade threats until he agreed to come out with me. I haven't fished this spot in the morning yet, and I hope it’s a mess of browns and brooks and the river is a little calmer so we can really cast the pockets against the walls.
I remind Mark to bring binoculars.
How good it feels to be alive today. The water and the light, the wildness and friends, the food and plans, the community and hope. I have so much more than any woman should be allowed to have in one lifetime. And that’s saying something, as I don’t have a washing machine or microwave and have less money in my bank account than any respectable high schooler with an after-school job. But I have my scrappy farm and I have this river on a Thursday night.
I found it. I ended up here. I can’t stop smiling.
Thanks to everyone who recently found me and giving me a shot. Please find me on Instagram, and stay in touch. I’d appreciate it.
Pictures are mine. Painting in Audio prompt from The American Museum of Fly Fishing, Manchester VT.
River Diaries: July 6th, 2023