Working on second-hand information with the aid of a hand-drawn map, I had walked/climbed/crawled along a rough-hewn trail for a couple of miles through a timbered, rocky chunk of eastern Kentucky in search of one of the state’s few brook trout streams. There is no evidence that brook trout are native to Kentucky, but the state’s handful of brook trout creeks have not been stocked in decades. The fish are wild and self-populating. I was determined to catch one. I also was foolishly unprepared.
The humid late-summer afternoon was scorching hot. Traveling alone with scant supplies, I had told no one where I was going other than that I was going fishing.
I finally reached the valley floor, where the trail crossed the creek. It was hardly more than a rivulet, but it flowed clear as vodka and was delightfully cool. I followed it downstream around a couple of bends to where it pulsed against a stone the size of an automobile before swirling into an aqua-tinted pool. The first trout, vividly colored and barely big enough to hold, hit a black midge drifted as a dropper under a Dave’s Hopper. The second was equally magnifically colored but nearly twice as long and had risen to the hopper. Stream-bred wild fish.
I was unaware of how far I had followed the creek but suddenly was alarmingly aware of the deepening shadows as the sun dipped below the lip of the ridge. Late-afternoon sunlight is a precious commodity in a narrow, timbered, leafy, swelteringly hot vale. I made a few more casts, then turned upstream toward the trail.
The climb out was twisty, steep and slow-going, made even more challenging by the deepening darkness and my rising anxiety to reach the trail head while I could still see the trail. I could have benefited from a flashlight or a headlamp if I had had the foresight to bring one.
I slipped and bruised a knee on a step that had been carved into the trail to help negotiate a steep, narrow turn between two boulders. But then I remembered this spot and knew the trailhead was no more than 200 or so yards away. The ridge line was faintly visible in the fading light. I emerged from the slit through the rocks, turned left, and walked about 50 or 60 yards along a fairly level, curvy path, my mood lifting with each step, when the trail suddenly ended at a small rock avalanche. I looked around. Nothing seemed familiar.
A series of dumb, careless and arrogant errors had brought me there.
I was in no immediate danger, of course. But panic is an emotion you never really plan on. One way to control it is by not repeating dumb, careless and arrogant errors. I had long ago emptied the one water bottle I had grabbed just before leaving the truck and was suddenly, unreasonably, almost painfully thirsty. Then, I thought of something one of my childhood mentors, Sam Hickman, an excellent woodsman who moved through the woods and through life with both an audacious fearlessness and measured caution, had once advised: “It’s important to stay safe. Remember that.”
Stay safe. I sat down for a moment and tried not to think of anything. Then, I retraced the 50 or 60 steps I had just taken. The trail opened before me. I turned left. The trail lurched steeply through some pines and then suddenly emerged onto the road.
• • •
My work has allowed me to visit some delightfully wild and remote places, often while traveling alone. My brook trout trail experience, many years past, has not been repeated, largely because I’ve learned to stay safe. But I was reminded of it recently while getting my hair cut.
My barber and I were chatting aimlessly when the topic turned to current events: Covid. Delta variant. School-age kids facing another year of masks. Conspiracy theories. Fauci. CDC. Fear. Anger. Who do you trust? What do you believe?
She paused. Our reflections met in the mirror. Her scissors stopped. “You’re vaccinated, aren’t you?” she asked. “I know [your wife] is. She told me.”
“Yes, I am.”
The snipping continued.
“Which one did you get?”
“Johnson & Johnson.”
“Did it make you sick?
“It did not. No side effects at all.”
The snipping stopped.
“I heard it made some people really sick. They rushed it through. You don’t know what’s in it.”
We’d had a version of this conversation at my last trimming. I always encourage friends and colleagues to get a COVID vaccination because it’s the safe thing to do.
“It didn’t make me sick, but I know it did some people,” I continued. “And yeah, it was probably rushed a little. But it’s safe. I think it is. It helps people stay safe. It’s important to stay safe.” I shared my story of long ago.
She nodded. I knew what sliver of influence I might have enjoyed was waning.
The snipping returned. I stopped her. Our gaze again met in the mirror.
“Did you decide to get vaccinated?” I was pretty sure I knew the answer.
She only smiled slightly and resumed her work. The conversation shifted. Kids. School. Vacations. Work.
She finished her work. I made my next appointment and paid the bill.
“I got my first shot,” she said unexpectedly. “I was a little nervous. But … want everyone around me to be safe.”