The first golden trout was bred at the Petersburg, West Virginia, hatchery, and now the state stocks about one golden for every ten trout stocked. Because the silly thing is gold, it stands out in the river like a, well, like a gold trout against a brown river bottom. And it knows it. This trout is clearly self-conscious about his looks. He hops from fin to fin like he's in a long line to use a public restroom. As soon as my woolly worm hits the water, it lights out downstream. By the time my fly finished its drift, that trout had gotten all the way to Charleston, where it was having a beer and a burger at Joey's. "They breed nervousness into them," Philip says. "I thought only chicks in bars darted away from me that fast," I reply. Philip stays to fish the pool, and I wade up to the next one, a wider pool with a steep cut bank on the left side. Swallowtail butterflies cover the bank. A couple dozen of them sit next to the water in a ring like they are sitting around a campfire. The river bounces among boulders at the head of the pool where I can see fish working the smooth run. Upstream I see one pool after another until the river bends out of sight to the west. We could fish good water upstream for hours. I know if I cast at the trout working this spot, I'll be here another hour, then I'll want the next pool upstream. But there's the three- hour drive back to Charleston, where my wife and baby are, and Philip's fiancé has an infected tooth that has her in bed with two kids to look after. As I watch the butterflies, it seems possible to know all things by standing in this river. To know its land and its people, including myself. I hear Philip come up behind me, but he is silent. We have fished together so long that I know what he's thinking. We've got to talk about what we’re going to do next--do we keep fishing or head back to the car? If we decide to fish on, we're liable to be midnight getting home; but if we leave now, we might make it home for supper. "I don't want to leave this river," I say. Buzzards pass days riding the thermals, and deer browse the low branches at gloaming before settling into ferns. But I can't stay here. I can't feed myself without tools, or protect myself against the elements without some form of rudimentary industry. The hair on my body won't keep me warm. I can't breathe water, nor drink from this river without it assaulting my intestines. And there's the work the world expects of me. Up the mountain to our right, we hear a truck pass. "I think the road's up here," Philip says, pointing to the bank on our right. Without speaking, we step out of the river and into the shadow of rhododendrons.
Matthew G. Cooke is a freelance outdoor writer and lover of all things West Virginia. He resides in Massachusetts.
