It's six AM Thanksgiving morning. I filled my mug with black coffee at the store near home, in hope it would ward off the chill. It's foggy and cold. I snake along the road that hugs the hemline of the mountains. I can't see much except the white line. The river is on the left somewhere in the fog. This road is so familiar, I sometimes think I could release the wheel and the truck would know the way. I sip my coffee and promptly burn my tongue. I truly dislike store coffee.

Seven miles, a hard left across the bridge then a hard right. The road is narrow from now on and no line to follow. Past the last vestiges of civilization, I climb the ridge where raccoons play. The road is slick with leaves. Down the hill and along the river only a mile left. I must be careful. Deer often come down for a drink before the dawn. I park alongside the road at my favorite spot. Peering thru the murk I see the rocks. YES the schedule was correct. I see the rocks.

A few miles upstream is a sleeping giant. An unmanned power generation station silently waiting for a mindless TVA computer somewhere to tell it to spring to life. When it does, three thousand cubic feet of water per second will spin the generators supplying power for all those blue naked turkeys waiting in their roasting pans in South East Tennessee.

I can see the first of the four chutes. The far shore is about seventy yards. I'm heading for the largest, chute number three, about fifty yards out. A chute is where the river finds a lower area to pour through. The river is bothered by occasional rocky areas which impede its flow between areas of flat water. It responds by grumbling through. Today the grumble is reduced to a whisper. The river sleeps.

As I sit in the doorway of the van, donning my gear, I am taken by the stillness. It's eerily peaceful in the fog. First I don my wool socks and wading shoes. They are heavy duty high-tops with plenty of ankle support and special soles with steel studs. Sad experience taught me that I wouldn't get ten feet wearing anything else. My vest is next. Lots of pockets with some items clipped to the front and a net hanging in the back. It also serves as a flotation device. Since I swim like a crowbar, I hope in the case of a serious dunk, I can keep my head up. Last my pole and wading stick tied securely via a lanyard to my belt. I would choose to lose a fishing pole rather than my stick. It is a sturdy hickory sapling tortured by a vine which was lovingly cut, peeled and dried on a mountain above Front Royal Virginia.

It's getting lighter. I can see half way across. I crossed the first chute without getting wet. Probe and step. Probe and step. Some rocks are vertical, some are flat. Some rocks are small but most are large. Some rocks are tippy and all are slick. Probe and step. Find those deep spots which provide trout a sanctuary during fast water. Watch out for the crevices where rocks team up to grab your foot like the giant clams of the South Pacific. I crossed chute number two and at last to number three which we named Dan's Chute. My fishing buddy, Dan, was swept down it earlier this year and although he is a strong swimmer, nearly lost his life.

As the fog started to lift, the fish were biting. I looked up river and down. Not a soul in sight. Today the river was mine. Just an occasional kackety call from a kingfisher and a raspy argument between a couple great blue herons downstream can be heard above murmur of the water. Oh no! Here comes trouble.
One of the herons has spied me catching fish. He flies up and settles on a rock about ten feet away. These herons are notorious thieves. They stare with unblinking eyes. They ease up waiting for the opportunity to dash in and steal stringer and all. When he gets to six feet, I retrieve my stick bobbing on its lanyard and wave it at him. He flutters back to eight feet.. He knows how long the stick will reach. I tie the stringer firmly around my leg. When he sneaks in again I chuck a small rock in his direction. He flies back downstream loudly protesting my lack of cooperation.

When you first start fishing, you pick out a reference rock, one that is barely awash with the water. You check it from time to time for an indication of any change in water level. I've been at it for an hour and a half. I have a nice string of Rainbows but still hope for that ever elusive four or five pound Brown Trout which this river is famous for. I check my watch. Eight o-clock. They are scheduled to release at eight and it takes twenty minutes for the water to get down this far. One more cast and I hope for the big one.

I concentrate on fishing when an uneasy feeling creeps over me. I look around nervously. There is no change I can see or hear. I glance at my reference rock. There is a half inch of water over it! Time to get. With rod and stringer in the left hand and the stick in the right I head for shore.

Probe and step. Probe and step. I'm almost back, one small chute to go. It's only been up to my knees so far but it's getting harder to hit the rock I'm aiming for. The force of the fast moving water is incredible. The last little chute is going to be tough. I throw my rod across to the shallows beyond to be retrieved later. Tying the stringer to my leg, I wedge the stick and feel with one foot at a time for a foothold while bearing most of my weight on the stick with both hands. Two or three creeping steps and I am across.

As I sit in the open doors of the van changing my shoes and socks, the last of the fog has dissipated. The sun has started to climb above the ridge behind me. As it does, it's rays advance down the mountain across the way changing the drab landscape to reflect the beauty of fall. Reds, yellows and browns glisten in the morning sun. The trees have been reluctant to give up their leaves this year but the combination of the dampness from the fog and sudden warmth of sun loosened many a grip. Leaves were fluttering down by the thousands seeking an eternal resting place.

The first truck load of kayakers just went by. In a couple hours with busses and cars and trailers, maybe as many as a hundred kayaks, canoes and rubber rafts will paddle down the river today. I try the coffee again. Now it's too cold so I light my pipe and watch the water. It grumbles and roars, white and angry as it trips over the rocks. None of the rocks I tread on a short time ago are visible. The trout are safe.

I think the river is very much like life. Many people spend lots of money on equipment and trips only to skim the surface of what they perceive as life but do they know what's beneath them? Some of us know that life is a million experiences like the rocks in the river. We are free to choose our path and step on good ones as well as the tippy ones. We avoid the crevices by observing and planning so we may reach our goal to that most rewarding rock in spite of the risks. If we are alert, we can protect ourselves from those steely eyed thieves who would feed off our accomplishments. Our shoes are our confidence. Our stick is the staff of will. If we are observant and sensitive to our surroundings, we can feel the changes in life's flow and beat a hasty retreat until better times without suffering or loss. As long as we love life there is always another day to find that big trout.

My pants are wet and I'm getting cold. A hot breakfast waits just twenty minutes away. One last look and I shout out the window as I always do "God I love this river".

As the van climbs the ridge I think I will make every effort to never step on the same rock twice.

- Jim Monfort

I believe the perception of heaven is different for all people. To me It's where we can enjoy eternity doing what we love best. So when you get to heaven, look me up. I'll be down by the river.

JWM