Do you recall the exact moment when you became alive? Were you aware of your surroundings at this pivotal point in history? Was there some defining epiphany that struck deep within your soul signaling, I am here, like electricity conducted to the filament of a bulb? Or was your life a gradual metamorphosis, similar to that of an insect larva slowly developing, then pausing in a state of pupation, only to fully emerge like that of the swallowtail or the mayfly?
I hope you are beyond thinking of “becoming alive” in the literal sense, that being your physical entry into this world. I am referring to when you found purpose in life through a passion that is so consuming, almost binding, that not only will it not release you, but that you would never desire to be released from its clutches. This is when you know you have found your destiny.
While browsing through the internet recently, I happened upon a documentary about a man and his lifelong journey and his love for the sport of fly fishing. The story, “Live the Stream,” is about Joe Humphreys, legendary fly fisherman, husband, father, and one of the great ambassadors for wild trout and the streams they inhabit. Born on January 19, 1929, in Curwensville, Penn., Joe Humphreys had an innate passion for rippling streams and for the organisms that lived there. He marveled at his first brown trout, adorned with beautiful spots and halos, taken with worms and bamboo rod. From that moment on, fishing took on a new urgency. A quest that eventually took him by both hand and heart to leave the coaching profession and lead him to share his wealth of knowledge of brooks, streams, and rivers, and above all, the many species of trout that became embedded within his soul for over eighty years.
Mr. Humphreys served students, helping them better their skills both in the classroom and on the stream, as an instructor for 19 years in the Penn State Angling Program. Along with passing on secrets of the stream, he taught life lessons that have impacted those who took the time to listen. On numerous occasions, he drove home the message that the secret of life is having something exciting to look forward to. That is the secret of becoming alive and fly fishing did exactly that for him. The sound of the water is pure therapy. How beautiful, how picturesque, and in his words, what a gift to be here it is to witness it.
His words can be summed up in one of the many songs played in the hour and half long documentary. It resonates within me, and I can’t stop watching the film nor leave the soundtrack. The Stable Song, by Gregory Alan Isakov, adds an unexplainable heartfelt kinship to those that truly understand what the outdoor lifestyle and nature really means. The words, “Remember when our songs were just like prayers, like gospel hymns that you called in the air. Come down, come down, sweet reverence unto my simple house and ring, and ring” are just words until you listen to them while watching Mr. Humphreys tie a perfect specimen of a mayfly. You must watch the film and see if you too, don’t come alive.
Around this time of year, I become fascinated with thoughts of hunting mallards in flooded green timber. My passion for waterfowl began decades ago. The allure of setting mallards into a spread of decoys has never released me. Breaking them down through timber with hand-crafted, custom calls was the ultimate. The iconic shotguns of the past, the aroma of weathered canvas jackets, and the heightened anticipation of what a bluebird day would bring from the skies above, only fueled my never-ending desire to be there. I read every word printed on a box of high-velocity shells, taking in every detail of the duck or Labrador retriever featured on the front. Volumes of hardback books adorn my bookshelves, each holding stories of the heydays of waterfowling, almost indescribable unless you were there to witness the show in person.
I could barely keep my mind on studies or work back in the day. It was a disease with only the hope that a cure would never be found. Much like Joe Humphreys, the thought of wading through waters to reach the perfect spot to become part of what has been there for perhaps thousands of years completed the journey. It didn’t end the journey; it just helps bring it to life one more time.
While watching an episode of a duck hunting show, another song brought the entire production to a different level. Picture a couple thousand mallards circling your decoys, almost tornadic, with them literally landing at your feet. No shotguns were ever shouldered nor was a shot fired. Instead, the entire ordeal seemed to be a gift for those that were there, almost as if they were told by some inner sense not to spoil the show by intervening. During the midst of the spectacle, as almost on cue, the song “That Time I Rode the Wind,” by The Painted Horses, was subtly interjected into the affair. It created chill bumps with the effect it had on what was being orchestrated. I could relate to the hunters in the film, for their passion for the entire experience overwhelmingly shadowed their desire to disrupt a perhaps once in a lifetime performance by them taking matters into their own hands.
If your curiosity has gotten the better of you, then I will help you find what I have been describing. Look for Dennis Loosier and Billy Campbell hunting the state of Washington. The song is a bit difficult to find, but with a little research and help from Alexa and Siri, you may find it. It adds an entire new dimension to what I described.
I struggle with trying to definitively know when I first came alive. Since I was three years old, I tagged along behind my dad, placing my boots in his exact steps. I found myself staring at the ground, more than at my surroundings in fear of stepping on a twig and the scolding that would surely ensue. Even at this young age, and through my days with Pop, I am certain this is when the seed was planted for me to be “born.” Though this “life” was cultivated for sure, I believe it is far more innate than just circumstance. I never cease thinking of falling leaves, the explosion of the covey of quail, the chuckle of the mallard, or the scream of the red-tailed hawk.
I know of many that don’t think of the woods or waters when the last day of season arrives until the next season. Consuming thoughts of beaches, golf courses, and vacations become their priority. I fully understand, but I never allow the gift of nature and what the swamp offers to ever flee from the back of my brain, no matter what circumstance I’m in. Whether pertaining to work or play, I’m never far from my roots. Even if I wanted to leave this world, figuratively, it is impossible for this is what sustains my being, to not only embrace but share what means so much to me.
Are you alive? Whether your passion is growing flowers, studying streams, or sitting under a giant hickory in the fall, nature is the ultimate fountain of youth. It not only gives life but sustains life until we go to our next reward. It is our duty to not take it for granted but acknowledge and offer gratitude for growing older and be thankful for what we have. Perfectly orchestrated through nature, the melody of life will fulfill you if you so allow. Remember to look up from your footsteps, follow your passion, and embrace being alive. You’ll be glad you did.
Until next time enjoy our woods and waters and remember, let’s leave it better than we found it.
