Heaven in
Hells Canyon
Eleyse Morgan
Loose
gravel crunched beneath my boots as I trudged down the dusty trail, bitter as a
brussel sprout. I had travelled 800 miles for “one more family fishing trip”
with Grandpa, only to succumb to his most epic prank:
“You
all go, I will rest in my camping chair today!”
He
said it cunningly, as if it had been his plan the entire time. The trip had
been on the calendar for six months, and it had always been for him. Grandpa is
a living spirit of the canyon; he has fished here for over 50 years. He taught
Dad to fish here, and the two of them passed their wisdom to my siblings and me.
I remember Grandpa showing me how to hook the worm when I was four years old;
tears streamed down my face as I cried for him to stop: “you’re hurting him!”
I
still can’t hook the bait myself, and I still silently apologize on behalf of
my family, as Dad artfully squishes the poor earthworm’s guts.
Grandpa
taught me how to read the river. He taught me to look for bubbles and to cast
in the pools beneath the rocks; that is where the fish will bite. I cast my
line anywhere else, wishing with all my might that nothing would bite my hook.
On the off-chance that I had to reel one in, I’d apologize as I gingerly
removed the hook, and lowered the poor thing into the water, petting its tired
body as it wiggled away.
For Grandpa, fishing has always been for peace, but for me,
fishing has always been for Grandpa. When the news arrived that he was losing his
vision, he planned “one more family fishing trip” in Hells Canyon. It was one
final chance to SEE the canyon, and he pulled a last-minute switcharoo to do so
without us, in a camping chair atop the mountain.
As
I dragged my feet down the trail and onto the boat, I tried desperately to
cling to my grudge, but the beauty of the canyon chipped away at my sour soul.
The lonely black sky began to glow lemon and coral, kissed by the rising sun,
unveiling towering peaks that jutted into the sky like temples of the gods.
Never had I noticed the vivid colors and dancing textures of the canyon like I
did that day, and through every
worm-hooking
and fish-head-bashing, I meditated on the splendor of this landscape.
I
was nearly lost in this meditation when the sputtering boat engine turned off
and all chatter fell silent. Just 10 meters away, a juvenile bear traversed the
shoreline. His presence stopped time. He was the most majestic creature I had
ever seen, padding his way across the rocks with a quiet confidence. His
movement was fluid, as if he had memorized every angle of each rock beneath his
feet, as if he had traversed this section of shoreline for a lifetime. I was
witnessing the prince of this wild playground, in all his peace and all his
glory. Suddenly, the final drop of bitterness evaporated.
I pictured Grandpa in his chair on top of the mountain,
absorbing every detail and memory of the wild playground. He had padded his own
way across the shorelines for half a century. He knew every rock and every
swirl of the river, and like the bear, he embodied peace.
Hells
Canyon is heaven for Grandpa, and it is now heaven for me too. That was the
reason for “one more family fishing trip.” We needed to SEE that the canyon is
a gift not to be taken for granted. It does not matter how many fish you catch,
or who you are with, or if you choose to ride in the boat or to sit atop the
mountain. The spirits wear many disguises; sometimes they are grandpas, and
sometimes they are bears, but no matter what form the spirits take, they will meet
you in the canyon and wake you up with magic.
