The following is an excerpt reproduced with written permission from Barclay Creek Press; from the book, “Black River Dreams” written by Maximilian Werner, published by Barclay Creek Press ©2010, 176 pages, 6″x9″; which can be purchased at the Fly Addicts Shop for only $24.95 by clicking HERE.

photo credit: alex cerveniak

By the end of the day, Morley had guided us down seven miles of river and ten rapids.  And he hadn’t even wetted his line.  The last quarter mile or so was smooth water with few hazards, so Morley agreed when Nole offered to take over.  I was glad he did, because not only did Nole say he had some experience, but Trevor was on his sixth Wyoming beer, and I was so cold I couldn’t feel my feet anymore.  The sun was long gone and the sky had turned overcast, and all I wanted was to get out of that boat and take off my boots.  We drifted past Catwalk Shoal and rounded the last corner before the take-out at Little Hole.  Whoever named the Green River did not name it after the sun had gone down.  From dusk on, the river is so black that only someone who knows it well can tell if it’s two inches or twenty feet deep.  There’s something unfathomable about the surface of a river at night.  Something best contemplated from shore.

Morley stood in front of me, pounding the banks with a streamer.  Shore was a good fifteen yards away, and I could hear his line whip past my head as he hauled it and threw it out.  Mend that line, he said to Trevor, whose line stretched and bowed some thirty feet across the water.  As Trevor reeled in, he realized he had a fish.  The trout came without a fight, which suggested it had been on the line for some time and was now exhausted.  Nole was sitting between Trevor and me so I told Trevor that I’d release the fish.  After I slipped the hook from the trout’s mouth, I held him alongside the boat, hoping he would revive.  A few seconds later, the trout suddenly surged with energy and broke free of my hand.  I watched him glide just below the surface.  But then he started to sink into the darkness, and just before he sank from sight he turned belly up, igniting the water.

Sorry darlin’, I whispered.  I washed my hands in the river and slid slowly back to the center of the boat.  Did you get him off alright? Trevor asked.  Before I could answer, Morley used his rod to point to a twenty-foot wide shoal that divided the river.  He warned Nole to stay outside of it because the inside line was coming up too fast, and there would not be time to position the boat.  Nole dropped the oars and pushed, but they had not gone deep enough, and they skipped across the water, causing him to fall forward.  He recovered quickly and dug the oars in hard, but the boat did not respond.  The river was moving faster now and the current was too strong.  A moment later we struck the rocks, at which point we all fell silent.

Driving back to the cabin that night, I tried to understand what had happened out there on the water.  After all, the boat was fine apart from a few scratches, and at that point we weren’t really in any danger.  Still, I could not look anyone in the eye.  The trouble came when I thought about what might have happened had the circumstances been different.  The river itself is dangerous, of course, but the cold was by far the greatest threat, and had someone fallen in the water a few miles up river, far away from help, hypothermia would have likely followed, and there would have been little any of us could have done about it.

Because of this reality, I felt gratitude toward Morley for getting us safely down the river.  But I also felt embarrassed for Nole, which wasn’t easy.  He just stared out the window.  I could see his face whenever the moon broke through the clouds.  Unless they belong to us, we tend to ignore the silences in our lives, of which there are millions, each with its own meaning, its own voice, and, if we do not learn to listen, its own consequences.  But for the man who’s silent after being tested by the river:  Better put an arm around him.