On foot, wandering through a river’s course in the wild, a person’s ability to listen closely is not just a convenience, it’s a lifeline. The silence of the woods, the thunderous roar of a river - either might conceal the stirrings of danger, and the awareness we sharpen in those moments could save a life, be it our own or another’s, should nature take offense at our presence.
In this sensory-overloaded world, such rare pockets of quiet are as precious as they are restorative. The crunch of a boot on a decaying forest floor, the clack of a stone slipping beneath a careless footstep as we wade the river’s edge, the screech of an osprey hovering high, watching its next meal with deadly focus, these are the sounds that reconnect us to the earth. And if we’re fortunate, the sudden rush of the line through the guides, the reel screaming its own sharp tune as a hard-won anadromous fish takes the fly. These are fleeting moments, hard to come by in the concrete jungle we’ve all but built our homes in. To drown them out with music feels a disservice, both to ourselves and to the wild world that would carry on without us, if we were to let it.
Yet, on a recent Louisiana bayou redfish trip, we were getting skunked, we hadn't seen a fin or tail in hours. Then, out of the blue, the guide cranked up some Jerry Garcia, and just like that, a bull redfish flashed to my right, retreating with purpose. A quick cast, and Bam! The fish of the trip was on. So, what do I know?
