Riverside Breaks

Maria had dragged herself through the river six times throughout the day. The current, gentle once the dam had changed the water level, pressed against the backs of her knees. The boots of her waders slipped and skived along the algae covered stones. The river was notorious for taking things. Stealing paddles from canoeists, unfastened life-jackets, fishing rods, items various and sundry. Maria reached into the water to clutch at another artifact - this one was the underside of a boat. There was a seventeen by three inch curved piece of fiberglass which She held it up to the sun, thinking about the unfortunates that likely had to cancel their trip down the river because they only made it half a mile from launch.

It was a little after noon from what she could tell. She was supposed to meet her father and his friend downstream at around five o’clock. She propped herself on a drying rock in the middle of the river and flipped her sandwich out of her pack. Maria made fervent looks up and down the river, scanning for anyone else. She pulled a lighter out of her wader pocket as well as a crushed pack of cigarettes. Tapping one into the moisture of her lips she lit it, inhaled deeply, then exhaled. “What a nasty habit smoking is.” Smelling the burning chemicals and nicotine, she could almost feel her addiction’s satiation. She had taken days off of school for this trip, and had been scared that her fix wouldn’t be appeased for another few days at least. She needed this time away from her father, from everyone.

“You know what else is a bad habit?” she posed to no one in particular. She sucked on the cigarette again, “talking to yourself.” She smiled. “At least I’m good company.”

Maria unhooked her fly from the rod and flicked it into the water. She watched it ride the surface of the film, bouncing. The water attempts to drown the lure in its depths. A ritual of hers - every year when fishing with her father, she had found a little secluded place and relaxed. Miles from power, from indoor plumbing, hours from Wi-Fi, many hours from school, and her friends, and mom. This was her time. All that was in the world was this curving corridor of spruce, maple, birch, and oak trees. The sounds of the water rushing round her. Bees, beetles, birds, the turning leaves of fall, and the feel of ancient wind on her back.

“Sure beats History class,” she said aloud. She was thinking of passing notes to her boyfriend. How she would comb her blonde hair when he was looking at her, and how he towered when she was in his arms.

A fish jumped at her fly snapping her back to the present, its colors shining in the sun for a second - the vibrant red, white. Specks that shot a golden orange into the eyes. The brook trout was a fantastically adapted animal. Their tails are squared, not pointed, which helps them fight against the current and drive down toward the bottom if another predator is sensed. Their backs are a mottled black and green camouflage. They’re incredibly difficult to spot against the grass and algae of the river. Brook trout have sharp little teeth, they are quick to act, and they fight hard. But, like most living things, they need oxygen to survive - that is their downfall. Trout do not have a scaly body, theirs is more akin to skin which makes it fragile, and they need highly oxygenated water - if they lose it, they die.

Maria thought on death and the fragile state of nature, as most young people do, for a moment. She looked at the sun, and the shadows it cast. “I better get a move on,” she said to herself.

Making her way down the river she crossed two more times, first to the east side, then to the west. She found a paddle and a hat in her crossings. The hat had been found before and was snagged to a short sapling on an island safe from the water. She took it with her, and discovered later that the hat belonged to one of the other campers she was with, he had lost it a year ago and by chance it had made its way back via Maria. The paddle she stuck upright - a makeshift flagpole, she stood with her fists on her hips like some far away explorer, nodded enthusiastically at a job well done, and stepped back into the river.

She continued for another thirty minutes before a break was needed. Wading is slow going, and dangerous. Maria had heard horror stories of people falling into deep water which would suck into the rubber pants and drag people to the bottom. She liked to stay in the shallows where she could. Spotting a small island on the east side she worked her way toward it, her legs turning to Jell-O. She’d been in the water since nine that morning, it was time for a serious break. She took her waders off and relieved herself behind one of the bushes that littered the island. Standing on tippy-toes, she could see the rod tips swaying from her compatriots downstream.

The east side of the island, between the edge and the riverbed, was a small run of the river. A pool plunging into bubbles and eddies. She changed her fly. A small orange, red, and tan Stimulator. Maria cast the rod into the rip and a trout slurped the fly. It was a small fish and it tried to fight. She finessed the fish into the shore, snagging it in the net. She dipped her hand into the water. Oils from humans aren’t known to be good for the fish and she had a combination of sweat, sandwich, and now probably particles of piss on her hands. She unclipped her clamps to pull the fly out. She twisted the tool and the little metal hook did not release, instead it was driven further into the trout’s mouth. It lodged in the gill plate, the little frills of the gills pulsing, gasping for air. Maria panicked. She began twisting harder. She caught a glimpse of the trout’s black eye looking up at her in terror.

“I’m sorry!” she started to shout. The thought of clipping the fly off never occurred to her. She was a gentle person and as the hook tore the animal, the process ripped at Maria. “I’m sorry!” she began to cry. The mouth of the creature tried sucking the air, the strength of its little body waned “I don’t know what to do!” She sobbed. She held him in both hands, dipping him in the water hoping life would spring back into his body. The soft waves spilling over his vibrant colored corpse.

She sat on the rocks looking at him, his jaw mangled, his eyes blank reflecting the sunlight in ebony orbs. For an hour she cried over him. He shriveled in the sun, his white belly wrinkling. He shrank. Peachy pink gills jutting out at a grotesque angle. She lit another cigarette. Maria wet her hands again, this time to wash the diluted blood from her palms. Eyes staring into his skin, cold washed over her. “I killed him.”

The river stole something new that day.