In memory of Ben, an avid outdoorsman who lived life without limitation. And for his brother, Caleb, my best friend.
By Ethan Hollifield
Yet even in the loneliness of the canyon I knew there were others like me who had brothers they did not understand but wanted to help. We are probably those referred to as “our brothers’ keepers,” possessed of one of the oldest and possibly one of the most futile and certainly one of the most haunting of instincts. It will not let us go.” – A River Runs Through It.
There is a certain reaction that one has when you watch someone dear to you suffer immensely. Words, sentiments: none of those things really do much in the way of relieving heartache. My best friend, and my favorite fishing buddy, lost his own brother this past month. The process of grieving was exhausting at best, however necessary. We spent most of our time in the hospital in understood silence. Through the tears and the tired eyes, my best friend looked at me and asked:
“Hey, can we go fish?”
To many this would be an extreme fraction of age-old traditions of what a mourner is “supposed” to do during a time of sorrow. To me, it was expected and welcomed.
Fishing is therapy. It clears the mind of everything negative and brings the world into a focal point on which a person can aim their concentration. I believe that God made rivers, especially mountain rivers, as a place of almost hypnotizing relief that, for a moment, provides the afflicted with a small glimpse into heaven on earth. To my best friend and me, the same holds true. Our lives have always revolved around the river. We have grown up on the river, and even parts of us, which needed to, have died on the river. In times of trouble, we would each play the part of “our brothers keeper” and lead each other to water, and to fish, for each other’s sake. From there, your mind can focus on the most pressing matters of the moment. The drag free drift of a dry fly easing towards a rising trout, the subtle bump of a bass carrying off a jig on a laydown, checking catfish lines at night by a fire: all of these things carry permanence over the world, if only for a moment.
When your best friends and loved ones are hurting, there really isn’t much that mere words can do. Sentiments are often foreshadowed by circumstance, and words lose their ability to cut through the sheer pain of the knowledge that someone you love isn’t going to come home. So we went and fished, and let the river speak words for us that we couldn’t hear but yet clearly understood.
And for you, Ben, we will keep on fishing.
Ethan Hollifield is a guide for Southern Appalachian Anglers and works with French Broad Riverkeeper.
