In this strange winter paradise, where the February snow this year hardly resembles itself, sunlight filters through the bare branches of a northern hardwoods forest to reflect like shining gold off the uneven surface of the rolling river.
Below, steelhead have darted back and forth between the banks of this cold-water stream for months now. More will arrive soon as the daylight length, water temperatures and stream heights align triggering the fish to move upstream.
I walk along following the stream toward its mouth, watching for dark outlines of fish haunting the deeper bends in the river or resting under the branches of tag alders and other trees that line the watercourse.
In most places here there is little or no snow on the ground. If conditions persist, the spring runoff of snowmelt should be low enough to raise hopes of a productive brook trout season opening at the end of April.
In the crisp azure sky above me, I see a bald eagle turning in broad circles, floating on the air currents, heading north. The sunlight illuminates this eagle’s bright white head and tail feathers, marking it as an adult.
A short distance away, I see another eagle, and then another.
The birds are clearly more active today than I’d typically expect for a February day. The black-capped chickadees, pileated woodpeckers and white-breasted nuthatches have begun to find their springtime voices.
Robins, the true spring kings of birdsong, will soon join them with lengthy dawn choruses and evening concerts. At that point, spring can be declared as the birds set up their territories, beginning mate-finding and nest-building activities.
The low snow depths so far will undoubtedly mark this as an easier winter for deer, which will be a positive indicator for their population in these northern parts of the state.
I paused here to take a breath or two.
An old and leaning paper birch steadies me at the shoulder. I wonder whether this tall tree, which may have been standing here when the Titanic sank, is asking why I am leaning against it when it is already leaning itself.
Or are we holding each other up, at least for a moment or two?
Speaking of deer there are a couple up ahead, walking leisurely through the woods off to my right. They seem comfortable, happy to be soaking up some sunshine, just like me.
I lift my leg over a log along the trail here and a red squirrel erupts into a loud chattering, scolding me for daring to invade its woodland home turf here along the riverbank.
As I look upward, I mutter something underneath my breath in the squirrel’s direction, but he doesn’t hear me. Nor does he care. He’s too busy glaring at me with those two big black eyes and continuing to voice his objections.
His noise fades as I walk farther downstream. I stop at a place where the river turns sharply and then flows over an uneven gradient where rapids have formed and some medium- and large-sized boulders poke up through the water, half-submerged.
The sound of the water is a godsend. I linger here listening to the rushing waters. I close my eyes and take deep breaths of the cool air. I dust some loose sand off a fallen log and sit down.
I think about days I used to fish with my dad along rivers like this, though never in the springtime. He was more of a Goldilocks angler — the conditions of the day and the fishing had to be just right before he would leave his newspaper, televised baseball game and living room recliner.
When we’d fish together, it was usually in the summertime, when waters were low, temperatures were warm, and the fish were biting — like the bugs. He also was keen to fish rivers in the autumn, angling with a friend for chinook and coho salmon on their spawning runs.
He’s been fishing that big pond in the sky for 15 years now, but I sometimes feel him around me like it was just yesterday that we fished together. I miss him most when I am outside in the woods.
My dad and mom introduced me to nature, fishing, bush cruising and a lot of other outdoor activities when I was very young. Until they divorced when I was 13, we used to do a lot of this stuff together — along with my younger brother and two sisters.
I get up from the log and keep walking.
I didn’t see any steelhead today, but I am not disappointed. It’s been a wonderful outing.
I’ve had this lonesome river trail all to myself, humanly speaking, and my spirit and mind have opened wide. Reflections have bolstered my energy levels and I’m ready to head back to town.
I kick the mud off my boots and walk on back toward the trailhead. I hope I’ll be back again soon.