Living on River Time

“The Lord has blessed us all today…It’s just that he has been particularly good to me.

Rev. Maclean – A River Runs Through It

Tributaries

My mom turns 60 this year. I turned 31. I won’t be there for her birthday, but we have adventures planned for next year here in Alaska. When I turned 30 I decided I would begin in earnest to make the journey to reconnect with my past, my ancestors, my history. I made this decision because sometime in the last year I’ve come to know a sense of time that is finite. A resource I will never get back. My history starts with my parents. It’s with them I have always known I begin, and I will in some ways become. I’ve always wanted to be like my mom when I grow up. In that way a child looks up at a rainbow in wonder for the first time, I look at her in hopes I’ll be as pretty, smart, kind, and loving. I still look up to her and hope one day I will.

Alaska, August

In 2021 my parents came up to visit for 10 days in our new home in Alaska. Wes and I had a year to explore our new home, and I knew exactly where I wanted to take them: the Kenai, Valdez, Girdwood, Whittier, Seward. I knew they would love it all. This is how we grew up: traveling and seeing the world, fishing, and hiking. My parents both grew up in a bubble of a 100 mile radius. But every year we would go on a road trip somewhere. We would go into the mountains or desert. We would fish and build campfires. We would cook and nap in the shade or by lantern light. These were my plans for their first Alaska adventure.

We met my parents at the airport. I saw my mom’s smile. I gave her a hug. I was home. Sometimes that’s all it takes.

The first time we floated a river with my parents was in Idaho. We were in paddle boats, and my mom was seated on an oar boat following behind us. This trip down the Kenai would be much different. We would all be together, and not in whitewater.

The Kenai is one of the most popular guided rivers in Alaska. It gives everything you imagine Alaska would showcase for a river. Glacier blue water, beautiful deep pools, panoramic views, and vibrant fish. The first half of the float from the bridge is scenic. The water is deep and slow coming out of the lake. It gives us time to orient ourselves to the grandeur that’s around us, and to teach my mom and dad how to bead fish with a fly rod. They’re quick learners, so they catch on easily. My dad, the avid fisherman, told me and my partner that all he wants is: “for mom to catch fish.” It’s because like everyone who has spent time with her, we’re addicted to her smile and her laugh. It’s wholehearted. It’s all in or nothing. It’s infectious.

The first hole we stopped to fish was full of sockeye staging to make their way up the river. Wes oared us into the eddie and dropped the anchor. Dad and I got out to fish upstream and Wes guided mom to fish the pod in front of the raft. He tied on a pink streamer we’ve had success with, and walked mom through targeting fish. After a few casts and losses, she hooked into a sockeye and the world lit up.

A few minutes later, dad hooked into a chum salmon, and Wes was able to net it just as it started to rain. Their first salmon on the fly: Accomplished.

Fish Bite When it Rains.

It was a typical August day of misty rain, sunshine through clouds, and calm winds. The last spot we stopped to fish Wes anchored our raft in an eddie line. Dad hooked into a massive sockeye and swung it to the boat for me to net. Just as I scooped to get the fish Bella decided I wasn’t getting the fish into the net fast enough. All four paws and legs attempted to wrap around the fish in a bear hug. The fish broke off. Bella realized there was current and started drifting away with a defeated look on her face. All of us in the boat laughed at her failed attempt at a boop. Wes scooped her up by her pdf handle in no time and all of us were back to our lazy float down the river.

The next weekend we made the trek to Valdez after work on Friday. I called ahead and reserved our favorite camp spot on Blueberry Lake, and was so excited I could barely contain myself. This would be it: the true Alaska experience for my parents. Camping on a mountain, under a full moon, and in beautiful weather. We made camp that evening at our site on the mountain, and made dinner over the fire. We watched the sun go down and shared hot coco and stories. We marveled at the galaxies and glaciers. We made plans for the next days fishing and adventures.

Legacies

“WooHoo!” Mom’s voice echoed over the water. I turn around from my spot in the river next to my dad to see. Wes is reeling in his line and walk-running down the bank to my mom calling instructions like:

“Get to your reel! Point your rod towards me!”

She’s laughing and giggling, bending her fly rod, and reeling in her fifth dolly varden of the day. My dad laughs. Wes pulls his net from his pack and mom swings her fish to him. She quickly releases it back to the crystal blue and marvels as it slips through her fingers. She’s smiling for days.

There’s a picture that sits in my dad’s office. It’s of him and my mom holding up two largemouth bass over the live well of their boat. Next to the picture is a plaque on the wall. They’ve been tournament bass fishing together since before I was born. It’s more than the competition and the prizes for them. It’s the community and the friends they’ve made. The experiences they’ve had together. This is what always brings them back to the water. It’s what brings us to the water now, and what will keep bringing us back time and time again.

White tipped fins slipping effortlessly through weathered and sun-kissed skin. At the end of fishing season, we always hold our hands out to compare them. Tanned and freckled skin up to the cuff line. Then a stark contrast of color where our long sleeve shirts have protected us from the sun. We laugh because even though our hands are clean, they’re browed by the sun. We wear sungloves now as my parents get older and as our hands are exposed to different environments. But we still compare our hands at the end of each season, sometimes at the end of a great day of fishing. These hands briefly held beautiful fish. These hands held pieces of the rainbow. These hands that look like both my mom’s and my dad’s, have fumbled and been gentle, have been strong and not strong enough, and have tried again.

When we cared for my grandmother as she got older, I always took note of her hands. Even when her dementia progressed, I marveled at how her hands remembered to crochet patterns, smooth a tortilla, and gingerly turn pages in a readers digest. My sister has her hands. Their shape and strong sturdy-ness. My mother’s hands have their color and lines. When my hands are dark after a season’s worth of fishing, they wear the same sun-kissed olive brown. I know one day, my hands will look like hers. I love that they will. Maybe because it means when they do I will have tried to live for the quite moments of persistence and love and peace like she has. To look at every little detail with reverence and wonder. Like the pearl-tipped fins of a dolly varden, or the hook-jaw of a salmon, or the way the light dances on the water in the hour before sunset.

It’s not enough to say that mom is everything to our family. She is our matriarch, our blood, our bond to this world and our past. She is the peace that steadies us in the storm and the joy that celebrates with us at the mountain top. I can’t wait to share our next adventure together. Maybe I’ll learn a little more about how I can grow up to be like her. All I know for certain is, I am endlessly thankful and humbled to call her mine.