I have to admit that I have never been in a kayak before. I’ve always had small rowboats. Still, there’s a strong sense of freedom that comes from gliding over the water and going someplace that you’ve never been. I guess that it’s the perception of a broken barrier. We seem to crave a life without any restrictions. Thanks to Hollywood our perspective of what constitutes an adventure is colored by images of Indiana Jones trudging through the jungle or people in some life and death struggle with the elements. But adventure can be as simple as deciding to do something new. It doesn’t even have to be a thousand miles away from home. In fact there’s a lot to be said for having a warm bed and WiFi when the sun goes down. But I digress. My Appalachian Mountains are full of rivers and streams with all kinds of little coves and hidden beauty to explore. I have been told by a friend that while exploring a local river he found a hidden cash of prehistoric stone points. (I’m sworn to secrecy as to the exact spot on which river). Even the little creek that runs through my yard has yielded a few fossils. But the best reward we get from our rivers is the tranquility that comes from peacefully floating around and going wherever your heart takes you.
Tag: The Meadow River
A Trip To The Meadow River.
Today is dreary day in the mountains of Appalachia. There’s been heavy rain and gray skies all day. By morning the ice and snow is supposed to return. On days like today I like to look at the summer images that I’ve taken. It makes me feel like I’m sitting by one of our rivers with a Zebco 33 and one of my favorite lures. The simple repetitive action of casting and slowly drawing the line back in has a meditative quality for me. I don’t even really care if anything bites. Like Zen archery ( or at least my understanding of it ) it’s all about clearing the mind and regaining focus. The image above was taken on the Meadow River during one of these trips. The spot is known mostly to locals and I’m sworn to secrecy as to the exact spot. Behind me a small campfire crackles softly making just enough smoke to keep mosquitoes away. It didn’t seem to bother the butterflies that danced and played on the buttonbush. I made one last cast into the river and slowly retrieve. There’s a tug on the other end of line. But, I let him go. Sometimes is not about the fish, it’s about the fishing and memories that are made.
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