A Day On The River

 

The days I spend on the river are my favorite. Possibly, I use the word river too plainly. I'm sure more than half of you held a vision of a muddy clog of water that you can smell before you can see. A body of water you would not dip your big toe into.
 
However, that is not the case. My River is as clear as a drop of rain. The river is winding, moving in and out of the Montana - Canadian territories, tickling the borders that lie between. You can hear her babbling, softly revealing her secrets to those that will listen. Once your feet catch up to your senses the sight of her is breathtaking. Her aroma is clean and fresh. It makes sweet the air as it lingers with the scent of pine and honeysuckle, which bids you come.
 
Once you park your car and pack your mule, life is no longer dictated by a clock, cell phones or deadlines. It is time itself that moves the day, coupled with Mother Nature and the drive to see around the next bend. Her charm demands you admire her. Her beauty requires you gaze upon her. Once your feet touch her banks your feelings tell you, you are the first, though a sign two miles back clearly disclaims that feeling. 
 
The day draws to a flawless close as lazily I lay on my side watching a Brown Trout smoke over the open fire, keeping perfect time with the ascending smoke from my camp. The moon drifts up the ridge until it is spiked by the great pine I lie beneath. I pick clean the bones of my handiwork and drift asleep to the sound of the wind that lives among these trees. The aroma of the forest fills my nostrils. The song of the night is my moonlit sonata. I dream and search my thoughts for a way to remain in this pleasant state. 
 
Day broke with a morning chant from a chattering squirrel and a bugling elk. I am ready to face the river and peer around the next bend; ever listening to her secrets as I hear them proclaimed. I meet the day and the river, with hopes of another mild sun-filled day.
 
Long before I wet my line the fish allures me with his grace and fluid motion, bringing me ever closer to the water's edge. I take in the moment and wonder how modern man could overlook this place. As I admire God's Cathedral, offering Him a prayer and a hymn that I hum under my breath.
 
 I study my hat and carefully decide what my first strike will be with. Once selected, he who has allured me from my natural setting, I hope to allure in turn.

Author's Note

any comments are helpful

Reviews

[Arthur Henn]

OK, This piece brought a tear to my eye... I use to box (Fight) and have seen a lot of pain, blood sweat and tears. The tough guy I was and still think I am. Your words have brought this Montana boy's heart back home where he thrives and wants to be. Everything you have written here is true and has become that of a prayer for this reader.

Thank you soooo much for writing this and bring home back to this heart of mine.

(((Hugs)))

[barleygirl]

Your description of a day on the river contains everything I love about being outdoors. You describe my early life of constant backpacking. You capture so many of the best details and your enthusiasm is palpable. The only thing I don’t like is the first paragraph where it seems you put other people down before sharing this blessing. I prefer when a writer shares good tidings without making it a comparison that reflects poorly on others. Since I am blessed to live near a river like the one you describe, I love to share my blessing with others who don’t get to enjoy the same blessings. I urge you to share your alluring haven without criticizing the sad mudholes found in the midwest (((HUGS))) Fondly, Margie

[Cherrie Palmer]

In the opening image I was picturing the Mighty Mississippi and or any river that has a rich red clay bottom. The intent is to stimulate opposing images.

[barleygirl]

I see what you wanted to do now.

[Cherrie Palmer]

I want to transport from their own backyard to something new.

[lee von cleef]

I like Painters . I couldn't but like to think I could ...Live under ground, away from all, as long as I had Wilson Hurley paintings to lift the cool damp air in my hole, now I realize I would need a story or two of Cherrie Palmer's.

[Cherrie Palmer]

I too wish I could paint and with my box crayola's me and the grandkids create our own works of art ( I also moonlite as a ballerina here in the livingroom just don't tell anyone lol)
Thank you so very much for such an endearing veview For the most part I write for myself and family and it always means so much to find that others can relate to what I write.

[lee von cleef]

Second position, smile.

[Cherrie Palmer]

lol

[Steve]

This reminds me of a documentary I saw once on the BBC's brilliant Natural World series. It was about a guy called Kenny Salwey who lived off the Mississippi River, who mused and philosophized about his life there. It was quite moving and a fantastic piece of film and a picture of a life that is sadly so alien to most of us in the 21st century.
Your piece reminded me of that, a great escape to the end of the day. Thanks for sharing!

Steve

[Creepy Swine Guy]

This is clearly a place that you have been to. No one can paint this picture from imagination, this comes from a memory! My only gripe is with the very first sentence ...

"The days I spend on the river is my favorite time."

... I find that to be a bit awkward. Perhaps ...

"The days I spend on the river are my favorite time."

... otherwise I find this to be letter perfect.

[brittneymarie]

Your story was fantastic. The imagery in this story was so clear and sweet. I invisioned everything that was going on. Wow I still can't believe how beautifully written this was. Great Write

BrittneyMarie

[bluessadmood]

God you surely have your special way with words,this is not a story ,its poetry,i swear ,you brought me there ,i could feel the night air..
the moon light tickling the eyes,the senses just go wild with the calmness and beauty of the night..
it like being a baby in her arms ..mother nature arms..
life is no longer dictated by a clock..The moon drifts up the ridge, till it's spiked by the great pine I lie beneath. I pick clean the bones of my handiwork and drift asleep to the sound of the wind that lives among these trees.
The song of the night is my moonlit sonata. I dream and search my thoughts for a way to remain in this pleasant state.
lovely ,dreamy write..