The Plan

They had planned this trip for years. “If I get there before you do, look for me upstream.”

That was the plan, for they both knew that their chances of actually arriving there at the same time were extremely slim. You know how it is. And in the end, it turned out they were right.

Still, when he got word that his father had left without him, he couldn’t help but feel let down, though he had known all along that with the differences in their timing and schedules, it might work out this way. And when it finally came time for him to leave, it came rather suddenly and unexpectedly, and he wasn’t sure of the route to take or which path to follow once he got there. But he knew it would be all right and that he would understand when he arrived, for the trail would not be hard to discern.

It never had been hard, this trail that had always been laid out clear and unrepentant for him, this trail he’d always known he could trust.

They’d done this many times before, he and his dad, back in the world they both knew so well — whoever reached the stream first knew the signs to leave for the other to follow, signs that no one else would ever have recognized, but which for these two stood out like blue lanterns in a moonless night. And sure enough, when he finally left his vehicle and his vision adjusted to the dim light, the signs were clear enough. And he was thankful.

The journey here had been long and much harder than he’d ever imagined it would be, and there had been times when he’d been hopelessly lost. Nights are long when you are lost, and if it hadn’t been for the directions his dad had given him back in the world, he knew he might never have gotten here at all.

Now he headed upstream, just as they had previously agreed, straight into the soft, early morning light, its glare not nearly so intense as to distort his vision, but a bright enough path that he felt certain would lead him where he needed to be.

lt was lovely water, by far the best he’d ever seen, and he had already seen the best. The riffles appeared golden, and the pools were deep and inviting, and when he knelt to drink from the stream it was as though the water itself were alive. And for the first time in a long time, he too felt alive. Really alive. And suddenly, all he had ever possessed, all he had ever desired, all he had ever been, counted not in the least, and all that mattered was where he was and where he was going and the path laid clear in front of him.

He peered into the soft morning light, its intensity growing as he made his way upstream, searching both for that which he knew and that which he had not yet encountered.

And then he saw it, a rise unlike any he’d ever seen, a broad arrow-shaped head thrust out of the water to inhale who-knows-what, and that great arching back and dorsal fin that slowly and deliberately followed as it curved back into the depths.

Future and Past were now totally meaningless, and the Present was all that mattered. And even though he had no idea what the trout had just taken, he immediately cast the same fly he’d been casting yesterday evening when he had been called away, and it suddenly disappeared in a massive swirl.

He struck on sight, and the fish burrowed deep, as though she had planned this from the beginning. Amazingly, it looked and behaved very much like yesterday’s fish; only this one was larger and more powerful, its sides deep and rich, as though it were cast from pure living gold.

This fish, too, vaulted high into the air, though it seemed to hang there in front of him for a much longer moment than yesterday evening’s fish before heading over and back into the current. He tried to get below it, but he was already at the tail end of the pool and the water fell steeply from where he now stood, so that even if he could have somehow gotten back downstream, he could never have played the fish from there.

And so they simply danced in place, he in the edge of the current and the great fish deep and even with him, and it seemed as though they might dance there forever. Until he heard the voice.

“Who’s playing who?”

It was a good voice to hear. And as he looked up and over his shoulder, he saw the face he’d come here to find, coming down to meet him, and it was a good face to see. It had been too long since he’d seen that face and heard that voice, and for the briefest moment the trout no longer mattered and he would have laid his fly rod down right then and there, fish and all, and run up to embrace the hand that had so patiently awaited him. But he was brought back to himself by an old familiar question, a question he had heard many times before and was now glad to hear again:

“What can we do to help you?”

“’We?’ Who’s ‘we’?”

Only then did he notice that there were actually two of them, and the other fellow did look somewhat familiar, and he suddenly recalled that they had met once on another stream in another time. But just then, the fish turned, not downstream as he had feared, but upstream into the flow, and as he moved up to meet it, his companions moved down to join him.

They all four arrived at the same place at the same time, he and the fish still in the water and his two companions looking down as he eased it out onto the golden shore beside them. And as he knelt in the light-laden stream and rinsed the gold dust from the great trout’s sides before releasing her, gathering angels anxiously hovered overhead among the treetops bathed in the warm morning glow, and his dad and his Lord waited patiently there above him and smiled. And when he stood, they welcomed him home.

Note: This story is reprinted from the author’s widely acclaimed book, The Last Best Day, which is available from Sporting Classics. The author always welcomes your comments, questions and input. Please keep in touch at Mike@AltizerJournal.com.