A Rod and a River to Link Two Individuals

A comparison to the experience of Mark Twain in his short story "Two Ways of Seeing a River."

 

        In Mark Twain’s essay, “Two Ways of Seeing a River,” he relays to his readers a transition in his life. This transition brought about a devastating effect on his view of the Mississippi River. In his early days of steam boating, the river was a spectacle of fascination and held a majestic aura in the heart of Twain. “There were graceful curves, reflected images, woody heights, soft distances, and over the whole scene, far and near, the dissolving lights drifted steadily, enriching it every passing moment with new marvels of coloring” (1). Regardless of this heartfelt view of the grand Mississippi River, a monotonous feeling washed over Twain’s eyes like the river itself over the multitude of large stones and sandbars. The splendor of the river had succumbed, within Twain, to the many trips down the long, muddy river. “All the grace, the beauty, the poetry, had gone out of the majestic river!” (1). Just as the wonder of the river had ceased in Twain, the wonder of the steamboat itself had come, most likely, to an end finally. The feeling of a new experience, the creaking floor boards, the rumbling of the mighty engines, and the trail of “white clouds” … each would eventually become as insignificant as a sole ant in a colony. That is, unfortunately, a nature of the human race. A human is capable of becoming fully asphyxiated with something as simple as a bubble rising into the afternoon sunlight. However, if the individual finds themselves beholding this simplicity too often, it will become just a sphere of soapy water that has been shaped by the flow of air into a tool of circular shape.

        There is one activity in my life that has mirrored the transition that Mark Twain had experienced with the Mississippi River. Many years ago, I was taught the art of fishing. Fishing has always been a leisure that I could enjoy. Whether it comes during the spring and summer or during the chilled months of winter, it has been an activity where I could participate in quite eagerly. But to mirror Twain’s experience, the sensation of fishing, within myself, has shifted with the passing of the few years I have lived. The initial beauty of fishing, the wonder of the rod and the shimmering hook that I beheld as a child has given way to the views I now hold as a young adult.

        As a child, at an age of eight years, I was given a closed-reeled rod and a box to store my hooks, fishing line, and bait. My grandfather would bring me out into the freshly cut, grassy yard and allow me to practice casting the pole. He would tie a rusty old washer to the end of the nearly invisible line. Each time that the distance of the casting grew, so did my eagerness to put this newly-found joy into motion. Finally, there came a time where I could. The first lake I had ever fished at was known by the locals as Fox-Dam Lake. The sound of tumbling water echoed from a towering block of stone and the unseen birds were noisily making their presence known with reverberating “honking.” Dark streaks shifted about beneath the glassy surface of the water, transforming into silvery streaks as they flew up from the depths. The croaking of numerous frogs filled the area like a soothing melody. My grandfather and I sat atop the tower of stone, the consistent sound of tumbling water directly below us. As frightening as that was, the streaks of black and silver were enough to draw my attention. The buzzing of the line as it exited the reel came to a sudden halt as the bobber landed on the glassy surface, crafting a rippling effect that had spread across the entire lake, as it seemed. Then it happened. It seemed as if time itself had paused to regard the moment in which the bobber disappeared below the surface. I yanked at the line, feverishly turning the reel as if my entire existence had depended on it. An unseen force lay at the end of my line, pulling opposite of where I sat. It had tried to pull me into the water from my perch, but I had quickly overcome it. A living, beating fish now floated before my widened eyes, the glimmering hook attached viciously to its lip. My early childhood view on fishing was so close to that of Twain’s early experiences with the Mississippi River and the steamboat. “I stood like one bewitched. I drank it in, in a speechless rapture” (1). 

        The innocent magnificence of fishing has ceased in my mind and exited so profoundly from my imagination. I no longer find myself staring into my tackle box. While I still enjoy the leisure, the beauty of it has long since drained away. The geese and the frogs become, after some time, an annoyance. It seems I would rather listen to the newest music from my favorite rock band that to absorb the natural music that surrounds me. I know exactly what the streaks of dark and silver are and beholding them up-close no longer grips me in a state of amazement. The shine of their scales is belittled by the concept of their size. Their size, it seems, now encompasses the entirety of their beauty. The view of the lake or river seems to become so monotonous with each new setting. There is water, grass, trees, reeds, and the wildlife. I cast my line out either for sport or for nourishment. It seems, sadly, that I no longer stretch forth a length of nearly-invisible line for the wonderment of a simple, subtle tug from a world one rarely visits.

        Mark Twain, after the passing of time, found the beauty of the lengthy, majestic river simply fading before his eyes. No longer did the rushing of the water and the mosaic painted by the sunlight or moonlight hold any everlasting effect on him or his heart. I too, just as Twain, found the beauty of something I enjoyed so dearly at a younger point in my life washing away from me. “No, the romance and beauty were all gone from the river” (3). Twain relates his experience to that of a doctor’s. He wonders whether the learning of a practice, such as a physician’s, directly links to the loss of an artful view of life. “Does he ever see her beauty at all, or doesn’t he simply view her professionally and comment upon her unwholesome condition all to himself?” (3). I believe that this is how we come to view anything that we learn to enjoy as a practice with technique. I just hope, that in my experience, I will find myself transitioning back into the child-like view of fishing rather than remaining in the monotonous world that fishing has become for me.