We’ve probably all done this as children, but I spent a decent amount of time as a young boy contemplating which would be worse: being blind, or deaf, or without the sense of smell. The reason I went through this exercise was that I was crazy about fishing. To be exact, I had grown dependent on throwing a line in the water, and I didn’t know why. I loved the way trout looked, especially stream bed brown trout and cutthroats, and who could separate that from the breathtaking sight of the Sangre de Cristo mountains? I also needed to be able to see where I was walking or throwing my fly.
But what would the sight of these spectacular landmarks be worth without the far away rush of mountain wind, the songs of birds, and the urgent yet friendly roar of creeks and rivers? How much would be lost if we couldn’t smell pine needles on a hot summer day or a surprise whiff of mint? Fortunately, I don’t think I’ll ever learn the answers to these questions. I’ve fished for many years and have a good idea of how blessed I am to have done so without physical limitations.
Until last month. Playing tennis during my family vacation, I rushed the net for an overhead, stumbled, and landed with all of my weight on my two closed hands. My right hand swelled up to the size of a catcher’s mitt. My left thumb was ruined, and neither of my wrists could support any weight.
For the first week I had difficulty opening doors or holding a sandwich. Typing was painful, even riding a stationary bike at the gym. You don’t know how much you need something until it’s gone, and I felt this no more poignantly than when I thought about fishing. How would I cast? What if I slipped or tripped? Thus, was my tennis injury the beginning of my road to a more sedentary form of fishing?
No offense to Eagle Rock Lake or Eagle Nest Lake or some of the meadow streams in the Jemez, but I’m going to fish the Rio Grande gorge until my legs won’t let me. But I didn’t figure on my hands. They’ve healed quite a bit, but I’m not sure I trust them. If I fall, as is likely in the gorge, will it be my elbow that takes the brunt or my face? I’ve made it through a hip operation and made it back to the Rio, and I suppose my hands will return to normal and I’ll be able to fish again and arrest a fall. But one of these days it will be over.
Things fall apart, as they say. This is just a fact. The mountains around Questa have been falling apart for millennia, pushed up by subterranean forces and torn down by water, ice, and wind. I suppose there’s consolation in there somewhere. Maybe as we age, we (hopefully) leave the impression that we are coming and going at once. Maybe we move through time while it also moves through us.
