A River Runs Through It

'It is those we live with and love and should know who elude us.'
Now nearly all those I loved and did not understand when I was young are dead, but I still reach out to them.
Of course, now I am too old to be much of a fisherman, and now of course I usually fish the big waters alone, although some friends think I shouldn't. Like many fly fisherman in western Montana where the summer days are almost artic in length, I often do not start fishing until the cool of the evening. Then in the Artic half-light of the canyon, all existence fades into being with my soul and memories and the sounds of the Big Blackfoot River and a four-count rhythm and hope that a fish will rise.
Eventually, all things merge into one and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of those rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs.
I am haunted by waters.

Norman Maclean 1976