No Belief Today: Exploration on the River and in Your Head

An exploration of being on the river and in your head: a semi-fictional fishing tale by Andrew Brigham.

With each tentative, labored step, I try to find purchase between the moss-coated rocks. I have not caught shit but a sweaty crevice. Man, it is so beautiful here. I need to just focus on how beautiful it is right now… be in the moment. I don’t care if I don’t catch a fish. Wait, does that mean I care? I am just happy to be here. Man, I need to catch a fish. I should've waited to catch something before I smoked that weed. Cosmic microwave background of slight paranoia and doubt. Awkward. Awkward—is that onomatopoeia? I’ve lost the belief. The boys are crushing it. I hear joyous catcalls echoing in the distance. You must believe. Some people just have elite belief. No belief today.

Nothing in the fly box looks good. Perhaps I should go to the Sex Dungeon. Not a place, but a double-articulated streamer. I could make my own. Keep it provocative. Call it the G-Spot? Nah, fish wouldn't be able to find it either. How about that nymph we used last week in that green water? It looked like a snow cone and just slayed. Nymph; like a beautiful woman emerging from the deep. Irresistible.

I am parched. My mouth makes an audible sound every time I open it to lick my lips with a dissociated tongue. Water everywhere. I wonder what it’s like to get giardia? I hear it messes you up for a long time. How desperate do I need to be to take a big, long drink of this clean, clear water swirling around my calves? How have I not gotten giardia yet? More hoots upriver. I work my way down, away from success, toward resignation. Go with the current… be like water. Maybe I should just flood these waders and float downriver. If I don’t drown, I can just go straight to the bar at Dornan’s.

A small cut in the bank with Mediterranean white sand. A bleached cottonwood, denuded of bark and branches. A spot to sit with my feet in the water and my back supported. That looks good. I sit, facing the mountains. They are pasted with recent spring snow. Polarized in my vision, they pop against the bright blue sky. High above rests the horse’s tail of cirrus clouds. I balance my reel on a river stone to strip to shirtsleeves. Vest off, jacket off, back pressed to the warm tree. I close my eyes and listen to the river. The ebb and flow of the living current. In my chest, I feel the radiation of the sun hovering over the range. Radiation. I need vitamin D after a long winter. Packets and waves from the past heat the wool fabric of my performance shirt. Performance shirt… what performance? I am not performing. Fucking shirt.

A subtle change to the light opens my eyes. A portion of the sun is just descending behind one of the many mountains of the range. The light bends, extends, and glows on the southern faces. The temperature drops a tick. I reach for my jacket and stand in the slow water to zip it. An overhanging willow bobs rhythmically on the far side of my spot. Up and down, affirming the beat of the passing current, a bit of monofilament strung in its branches. A slight movement below in the darkening water. My eyes focus on the movement I believe I saw; I am sure I saw it. Probably a submerged branch. Ahead of the willow, a small fallen cottonwood creates a pocket. In the pocket, water moves in slight contravention to the flow. A translucent brown membrane disappears. That’s a fin. That’s a fish… a big fish. Big trout energy. Embers of belief stir to life.

Little trout, so reactive, so marginalized, will slap and flash at anything. Big trout, experienced, discerning, and always in the best spots, swirl and sip. What is on offer? I need to go small. A midge… size 18? I think I have one. Do I have anything that is relatively high-viz? I won’t be able to see much in the shadowed pool. No wind. That’s a good thing. More finning. Vest is on. I move silently and with intention.

My smaller fly box is in a pocket adjacent to the vest’s connecting clasp. I snap magnified glasses onto the edge of my nose and open the box with care. I’ve recently gone to 3.0 glasses. Good to see up close, but a funhouse perspective if you look through them into the broader universe. I can’t help continuously looking over at the spot; the magnified contrast is slightly nauseating. Perhaps I should've stuck with the 1.5s.

I find a midge, a dark gnat with a plume of pink hair. Pray the eye is not clogged. Man, that’s a small eye. Glad I have the 3.0s. Line is through. Eight turns for good luck. For infinity. Through the loop into my magnified fingertips. Pull taut. Test the tension. Gnat is secured. Fish out the goop from the breast pocket. Down to tag ends, and I need to squish the bottle aggressively to get a blob on the gnat. Spread with fingertips. Blow three times for good luck. Peter was a fisherman. So distracting to tie a fly while that pig keeps swirling in my peripheral vision. Be the fly.

A jet passes overhead, oblivious to the drama playing out on the river below. Main character syndrome amping as I match wits with a pea-brained foe. I turn my attention back to the river. The mountains are now impossibly close, brushed with indirect light; silent, still. My body retains half-life radiation. Not much time. It's going to be an extremely tight cast. That cottonwood, that perfect white feature at the top of his pocket. Not a twig on it.

If I can just hit that thing, this little piece of fake protein should land seductively in the arena. I am in the arena. What am I saying? I false cast with my index finger on the rod, extended from the cork onto the carbon fiber for maximum accuracy and feel. Feel the fiber load on my single haul and release with a flick. I check behind myself in a slight panic. Nothing to snag on, but I hadn’t checked. Another swirl, and it’s time.

The gnat is short and to the right of the target. Shit… abort. I yank, and the fly makes a slight pop exiting the water’s surface. You kook. Such a bad cast that I didn’t even threaten the fish. Had I been slightly better, he would have gone down for good; game over. I issue an audible “fuck” to no one. The main character must deal with adversity. More false casts. Remember, big trout sip slowly. Say, “God save the Queen.” Strike on “Queen.” Easy to strike prematurely. Premature striking might be the worst, especially in front of your buddies. Small trout energy. Weirdo.

It’s getting colder as the sun continues its march to the horizon; time is running out. False cast, then release. I see the gnat fly into my field of vision. It’s on target. Black speck hits the white wood and bounces into the tight pocket. Can’t mend… can’t risk it. I raise my arm as high as it will possibly allow. My line is above the main current. Not much time to drift. I realize I am holding my breath. Lips… big, sexy lips. A current runs through my scalp. Breath still held. Sip. God save the QUEEN. My arm is so high I can hardly strike, but I get my wrist into it. Is it enough? Immediate, angry heft, the rod bows, the pot boils. Shit… so tight in there. So much trouble with the willow. I need to tease him out of his protective enclave. Upriver: safe. Down by the bank: disaster. He comes out… looking for faster water, and finds it. I need to get him on the reel and let the drag do the work. I reel frantically, trying to maintain tension. This is the most dangerous time. He is going down the river so fast that I don’t have time. He puts himself on the reel and takes a line. Clicks converge into a plaintive wail.

I need to tighten that drag. Take your time. Keep your tip up. A quarter turn to the right, and the run slows. I need to follow him downriver. There is structure everywhere, and he is going to find it. Short, quick steps. Tip up. Crank the reel as the net bounces against my back. I have a moment, in the recesses of my consciousness, something that makes my chest too small for my lungs. My skin is alive, electric.

The pool where he makes his stand is darkly shadowed, ominous. There are downed trees scattered about the edges, but nothing that could break him off. He is head down and deep, attached to the bottom. Tip up, use the leverage. Again, I face west, ridges drawn in charcoal; primitive and permanent. I hear my breath from the recent effort. Bubbles form against my taut line. Imperceptibly, I am gaining on him. Left-hand retrieve, slow, steady; a give and take. His bursts are getting shorter. A flash of a slab; muted orange. A huge fin, and he is down again. I am rooted to my spot, total stillness. Cutthroats are not great fighters; it’s why they get their ass handed to them when rainbows are introduced. He should be done. I keep reeling. Keep the pressure on him. He is coming. Emerging from the gloam, shaking his head, and then resignation. He is huge. Huge is all relative. I don’t know how big, but he’s fat and round and perfect.

The shock of being on the surface reanimates him. A violent splash and another dive. The rod bows and nods to the spot where my eyes are fixed; where line meets water. They say whitefish can’t jump, and neither can cutthroats really, but then it happens. Suddenly he is airborne, fighting for his life. No one told him he’d be released. His body twists and contorts, and he is off. My line goes limp. I am still rooted to my spot, total stillness. Blood floods back to my extremities. The only sound is the water continuing to flow downriver. Dude, that was sick. I am released from my reverie. I look to my right, north of the pool. One of the crew must’ve walked down to find me. Yeah, so sick.

RIVERS is a publication built on the belief that the best stories about rivers come from people who live and collaborate with them most often. These are exploration dispatches, environmental investigations, Indigenous water stories, exclusive interviews and cultural essays from the edge of the freshwater world. If that's the kind of writing you want more of, subscribe for free for our monthly email newsletter updates.