The sound of a train not running...

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.
— Wendell Berry


Another long day at work. Too long but at least with a glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel. For tonight the schedule was gloriously free. Warm, muggy, it felt more like one of the first days of summer rather than one of the last days of spring. In the pack I threw the first things I could come up with, a peanut butter sandwich and a pop top can of pineapples, some water and ran for the door. Twenty minutes later I'm parked at the Fork. Todd's Fork? Anderson Fork? Flat Fork? East Fork? North Fork? Theres a dozen "forks" on the Little Miami and that's as close as I'm coming to saying where I was. Some of you will recognise it from the pictures, please don't tell the whole world about it... You cross the fork on a two lane blacktop then park on the other side next to an old railroad overpass. All that remains is the two stone structures made with a craftmanship that insures they will be there long after I'm gone. The old railbed is just a gravely hump overgrown into a thicket cutting across a big bend in the fork to hit it again a mile or so upstream. A small path cuts down the bank beside the road bridge to the waters edge. Here I wade in. The fishing no good here but it's easier walking up the streambed than on the banks. Upstream in the bend was deeper water but the sun was still hot. A fish halfheartedly slashed at my rebel minnow but I didn't hook it. A great blue heron lifted off with a "Kronk" and flew upstream. I'd flush it twice more before it had enough and left. There was a small island held it place mostly by the gnarled roots of an old sycamore. I love the old trees and never tire of looking at the twisted puzzles made by the contorted, tortile roots. It was shallow on each side of the little island but just upstream everything came back togethor in a deep riffle pourinng out of a long hole. A big turtle plops off a log into some slack water on the left side. Way upstream I hear the manic laughter of a kingfisher as it swoops down from an overhanging sycamore branch to grab a minnow. This long hole has several of these long branches overhanging the stream. Besides being the perfect perch for a hunting kingfisher they were the kind of place my grandfather used to look for to hang a "jingle line" for catfish. Fishing with jingle lines seems to be a lost art. You would hang a baitfish on a stout line and a big hook from a long springy branch so the bait would struggle just under the surface. On a still summer night it's sometimes deadly on good sized catfish.
I caught a couple small smallmouth bass from the riffle on an inline spinner then tied back on my rebel minnow. Throwing over into the slack water by the turtles log, I twitched the lure once. Splash, a nice strike. It turned out to be a nice spotted bass, maybe 13 or 14 inches long. After admiring the fish I began to wade op the hole. It was a long flat bottomed hole anywhere from waist deep to mid thigh. The best fish I caught out of the next hundred yards was a big rock bass that hammered the minnow plug by a jumble of woody debris. Now in the distance I could see my destination, the old railroad bridge crossing the stream. The bridge crossed on two high banks and was maybe forty feet above the fork. I dont know if I'd have liked walking it when new but that was out of the question now, about halfway thru a big section of ties was missing. It was a beautiful old bridge. Underneath one side was a small sandbar, while on the other, the stream, blocked by the stone structure had dug a deep hole. Deep and full of possibility. On the sandbar another old sycamore leaned back away from the stream, its trunk creating a perfect backrest with a soft sandy seat. I sat there a long time eating my sandwich and draining my can of pineapple. I noticed several swallows flitting in and out of crevices on the stone bridge abutments. And in a tree next to me a robin eyed me nervously with a worm dangling from its beak for its hungry chicks somewhere nearby. I read somewhere that the average robin family eats something in the neighborhood of 14 feet of worms a day. That's alot of work. It was still early and I leaned back against my tree and closed my eyes. When I opened them again it was much later. Long shadows hung over the water. I sat there a while watching the swallows swoop over the pool and flit in and out of their holes , no doubt also feeding hungry little ones too. Finally I got up and tied on a jig and began to fish the deep water. I caught two small fish about ten inches long and another maybe seven inches long a bit upstream. Then upstream in the next riffle I caught three that were from 10 to 14 inches long. Now it was getting late and the sound of frogs trilling filled the calm air. I pulled a sweatshirt out of my pack and slipped it on. I switched spools on my reel. From light six pound test to heavy braid and tied on a lipless crankbait and waded back down to the deep hole by the bridge. Nothing hit. Overhead the last of the swallows were replaced by the flittering of bats as they worked upstream and down in big ovals hunting insects. I probably stayed too long but the scene was so peacefull the last thing I wanted to do was go. Then, in the middle of a cast I was no longer paying much attention to, the line stopped dead. Then it began to move off slowly upstream, the rod bending double. The fish bore upstream almost out of the hole, then slowly swam back down stream past me. I followed. Several minutes later and quite a bit down the long flat hole I finally beached the big shovelhead on a small gravel bank. I snapped a few photos then held it upright for a momment by the tail till it could swim off again. I waded back downstream towards the truck. I turned on my headlamp but found I could see better without it and switched it off again, wading slowly into the coming night. Finally back at the truck I heard the hooting of a barred owl way back upstream as I climbed in and headed regretfully back to world of people...