The tip section was fragile in his hand. Hell, everything seemed fragile lately. He ran the fishing line up through the fly rod guides, careful not to let the line fall back through. Once the line was through the top guide, he pinched it with his other hand and pulled the line taught, forcing the reel to unwind. When enough line was out, he tied on a pattern that worked well on this river—a bushy red and white humpy fly.

Matt sighed, locked the truck, and headed up trail to Black River Falls.

The lower forest of Huron country consisted of birch trees, aspen, and other hardwoods. Most of the trees were small although near the river they fattened and provided an extensive canopy. Patches of blueberry and lady fern dotted the forest floor. In the past, this area was predominately white pine, red pine, and hemlock with a dash of beech and aspen. Here along the river (now protected from logging) a few of those big pines remained. They appeared as freaks of nature, their trunks dwarfing others and their crowns looming above the rest. The first of these big pines was a 400-year-old hemlock known as Lazarus,and it marked the entrance to the Black River Canyon trail. Matt rested his fly rod against the beast and gave it a hearty pat. Then he steered his gaze up through the layered branches and needles. An unseen red squirrel chittered from high up in the crown. Matt smiled.

This had been a sacred trail of sorts since he was a child. His father had taken him up into the Black Canyon numerous times. During those trips the canyon walls seemed much higher and the water deeper. Now they felt comfortable, although he couldn’t help but sometimes feel as if he was a giant that had outgrown his childhood home.

He climbed higher, watching his steps with the felt-soled wading boots. Soon the trail ascended, bringing him closer to the canopy of the trees down the slope. A pileated woodpecker swooped up a tree and gripped the bark with its claws, smooth as could be. A vertical runway. Heck, we couldn’t even do that yet.

Rushing water whispered to him from far below. Shimmering glimpses of the Black appeared to his right, between old growth hemlocks that speared the ravine walls.

Welcome home, he said to himself.

As beat-up as these woods were, a bond still existed, a thing that had established itself without his consent. He was brought here as a boy and that was that. The landscape had burrowed into him for life. No cure, no remediation. All he could do was accept.