Fishing the Headwaters of My Mind

What is this aging and memory thing all about? I have been continually intrigued as to how I would think of things I physically revisited from the past. Yesterday I had an opportunity to check them out.

As a young teen I used to camp and fish with my family, aunts, and uncles at the headwaters of the Rogue River, near Crater Lake, OR. Our sites were always in the lush, dense, forest of large ponderosa and stately sugar pines. At the headwaters, and in this particular setting, the river had one small spot where one could jump over as it cascaded through a narrow channel in the hard volcanic basalt. Flowing gently and smoothly up to that point, the water would then squeeze into a torrent of whitewater awaiting to engulf anyone foolish enough to slip while attempting to navigate the crossing.

I would look forward to going to that spot when we camped in the area. I was confident fish were always on the other side of the river and I looked forward to searching them out. However, this particular visit was not for fishing; it was for remembering my eventful and carefree past there in that tranquil setting.

Camping and fishing with my aunts and uncles was always fun, as they took lengthy vacations annually to come from California to visit and fish with us. Doing so with just my family was never fun as mom and dad always had something to argue about. With dad’s sisters, it was entertaining as there were other stories and tales to listen to over the crackling and warm campfire. The stories always got more raucous as the adults continued their lengthy cocktail hour way into the night. We kids, on the other hand would suffer in quiet with our soft drinks and silent lips.

This particular visit was to see what the difference 50 plus years later would make. I walked around the camp sites we had spent so many hours with; I sat by the soft flowing stream above the narrow gorge. It was as though I had never left there. My memory was so drawn in, I could feel the fly rod in my hand; I could smell the smoke from the campfires in the area. However, there was a major difference.

In the earlier years I did not pause to enjoy my surroundings as I did in that moment. Earlier, I was carefree, wanting only to catch fish, and to catch the largest one so I would have something to be talked about over the campfire that night. I never gave thought to the possibility I could slip into the gorge while jumping the narrow channel. Ever the confident athlete and teen, the gorge was not even a thoughtful challenge.

Today, I was revisiting those moments. I wanted to test my memory for the truth of the experience and compare my perspective today against yesteryear. One thing that hit me was the thought, had I actually done those things, or were they something I manufactured in my mind? If I had done them, why had I not considered the dangers as I had been strongly cautioned about by all the adults with us? After all, another had jumped and not been so lucky. Why had I not earlier considered the serene beauty of the surroundings as I did on this particular visit? Surely the splendor had not changed; only the tree trunks were larger now.

The combination of aging and memory are a puzzle to me. The mind can be a tricky thing. Did I actually do what I remember, or were they fantasies cooked up to relieve the tensions of living with a drunk father. Were they my escape to a “castle on the river?” The one thing that mystifies me is I don’t ever remember catching a fish in that area. Now as I grow older I wonder if the line between reality and imagination is so blurred I may not know the difference. How about you? Do you know where you have been, or imagined it to be so?