Personal Narrative: The Caney Fork River

In the wee hours of the morning my life is the embodiment of a living, breathing dichotomy. Awakening with a wry little smile on my face, I knew I had dreamed of the river, big brown trout, and sweet 3wt bamboo rods. My body screams – “Where’s the coffee”, while my brain questions the sanity of getting up this early on a Saturday. Oblivious to the cacophony, the hairs on the back of my neck tingle. Betraying logic, they forewarn that this pre-dawn moment was the premonition of a great day ahead.

The Caney Fork River, in its precociousness, is not usually an early morning river and you don’t “have” to rise early to fish it. But this morning I wanted to avoid the “canoe hatch” – a seemingly endless chain of loud, alcohol guzzling paddlers with their beer coolers in tow. The quintessence of modern reality, the “canoe hatch” puts a damper on quality fishing experiences.
Arriving at the river, I abandon discretion and resolve that this morning I’m going to wade wet. With my pulse quickening and clutching my rod and fly pack, I venture forth on a quest for one of my favorite and secluded fishing spots. Covertly slipping into the river before the break of day, I finally relax and in the dim predawn light experience a moment of intimacy with God’s