Fishing with the Next Generation

My boys are two and five, and every Sunday I take them fishing on the New River. We climb in the water at the sandbar and wade up the creek, looking for crawdads. We tie fishing line to a stick and use dead wood for floats. Then we hook the crawdads by the tail, throw our lines in the clear pools and watch our bait crawl along the bottom.

We see brook, rainbow and brown trout in this stretch of the river. Once we catch one big enough to eat, we cook it over it a campfire. I've taught them to clean the fish and be thankful that it gave its life so we can eat. We say a prayer over every one.

When we open up the fish, the boys see what's in its stomach. They know crawdads are river scavengers, and they can see the fish ate the crawdad, so they watch it come full circle. Sometimes we hunt for salamanders, beavers and turtles in the nearby wetlands. For them it's a close-up look at the web of life.

Dinner on the River

Each time I visit Bridal Cove, I discover something new––a wildflower in bloom, a big buckeye tree or a chestnut stump measuring four feet across. Whatever I see reminds me this land has endured for centuries.

My favorite Bridal Cove memory is from a late summer camping trip. The days were warm, but at night, a hint of chill was in the air.

I spent the morning climbing the ridge, enveloped in quiet. At the top I marveled at the mountains I could see––Elks' Knob and Peak––thankful they will remain untouched by development.

After a day of fishing, we set up camp on the rocky sand bar that sits in the river's bend. The kids built a swimming hole out of the smooth rocks, while we admired their work.

Dinner was corn on the cob and jambalaya cooked over the fire.

We spent the entire evening on that sand bar, sipping Scotch by the river and watching dusk steal across the meadow. I wrapped myself in a blanket and contemplated the stars. As the conversation wandered, I listened to crickets and the sound of night falling.