The snowcoversthe banksof the river. Thesky is clear and temperature is crisp. From behindthe curvebefore the lastbridge,I can already seea goodnumber of peoplewith theback doorsof the caropen; they are getting ready to honorthe firstday oftrout fishing; today, finally, opensthe newseason for the trout fishing.
I had hopeduntil thenight before, that the temperatureshadpreventedthe snow melts, thatcopiousas we had seenfor long time, had fallenin recent weeks.Ifthis was the case, the river levelswould befishableand perhaps, during the hottest hoursof the day, some nicetroutwould bestationednear thebanks, under a bushor simplyin the middleof a current, waiting for a short hatchBaetis.
Withthesethoughtsthat occupymy mindI drivenear to the bridge despite I have not syet decided where I’ll park my car. Sofrom the driving seat, Irollneckupward toseethe riveras soon as possibleand seeifbetweentheunusuallysnowybanks, flowedwithclear water andacceptable levels forfish.
Unfortunately not. The levelsare not optimalandthe water gets a colour of a dark green, typicalof the periodofsnowmelt. On the riverthere areseveral other peoplefishing.Mostof them arefishingstreamers(the best choice for the periodof the year andalso forthe conditionsof the river).
Someonetrieswith heavy nymphes. One more lookat the river, this time I’m standing on the bridge. I leanmore tosee if despite the bad conditions, some trouthasagreed to start thehunt…but nothing is approachingthe surface. My decisionis immediate. I will spend themorning looking atpeople alreadyin actionon the river.
LikeothersIhave decidednot to fish. They are watching from the bridge withan eyeto the riverand the otherfacingthe cars running on the bridge.We speak ofcourse..aboutfishing. As usual,mostpeoplewho’s getting older year after year, do not resist thetemptation torefresh the stories of the past. The storiesare similarto thoseof all time. Thegood old days…wherethe river wasa dream, the fish thatlived therewere enormousand everreadyto give to the fishermen unforgettable satisfactions.
Usually thosestoriesend withwordsandfacial expressionsof resignationanddisappointmentat seeingresignedtoday after manyyears, that sameriverreduced toa sortof sadpostmodernplayground. Therearethose wonderfulfishautoctonmentionedin the storiesand wheretwenty years earlier, on thegreat bendof the river, loomeda magnificentoak tree, nowyou can see a naked bank.
I remember them too, the rivers of twenty years ago. And as we blame the gentlemen and nostalgic now resigned … yet many times I get those stories like the usual boring stories of old fishermen who perhaps more than regretting the beauty of the river for a time, seemed to regret their beautiful youth who, like ‘water that ran under the bridge, was passed, in a flutter of wings, between their hands.
Andwho knowshow many of them, in times past, they hadfilled theirbaskets oftroutor hadstuffedand hungonthewallsof thelarger specimensof houseframing studio
However, despite the inconsistencies andfantasticstoriesinvented bythoseelderlygentlemen, itcertainly couldnotblametheirregrets.I believethat todaythereis nota riverthat canshow itself ina better shape ofthe sameasit wastwenty yearsago.We haveincreasinglyabused, impoverished, insulted…we have repeatedlytried tokill them, more orless unconscious, and fortunatelyin manycaseswe did not succeed.
We arestill able tomarvel atall this?We can stillwatchtheindignantnonchalancewith whichwe aredestroyingthat whichgives us life?
Human historyhas beenfartooeloquentto be surprisedagainin front of theincompleterelationship thatwehad respectfor MotherNature. Wealways preferredthe fight instead of asafeembraceof aloving relationship. Unlikeotheranimalswe have choosen a different road– It was not theDarwinianevolution ofcharacter,inwhichtheliving organismthrough changesand adjustmentsareagain able tomakea full relationship with nature. The manchoosesthe opposite. Changeand adaptNature tohis own use. Once againan errorof omnipotenceisto mark a newnotch in thebelt of apredictable failure. In fact, itis anevolutionary principlethat favorssome kind ofsickperversioncalledin variousways: progress, innovationand change.
Acloser lookfollowing desireunconsciouslyor not, aself-destructive processand mostlyin the nameof reasonand logic. Yetit isto betotallyirrational, the darkmirror of the soulthat dwellswithin us all.
Thesun ishigh and the airfills witha pleasant warmth. Between a chatand a thought-drawn sighof hope, the catchfor those whochosethe streamerone another. It ‘s alwaysexciting to seea nicetroutoutsuddenlyfromhis lairto chasethat tuftof haircolor, sometimeswiselythan others, pretendingtheir lives amongrocksand bushesof the river bed.
It’s time to get home for lunch. It’s my wife’s father birthday. I got home. The table is full of food. Today we’ll have our lunch on a round table. It reminds me once again the shape of the supposed relationship we should have with Mother Nature: an holistic view. Who’s knows how long we’ll keep considering human race at the center of everything? How long it will take to let us understand that we are just little part of a all?