“Hey, Dad, check it out!” Ben says, pointing to something along the edge of the river.

A green cloth, partially in the water, caked with mud. Looking a little closer I see it is green flannel. I reach down and pull it out. A flannel shirt, intact. I rinse it in the river and set it over a sagebrush to dry.

I fish the hole, a nice stretch of water with a large boulder in the middle, a smaller rock to the left and another rock, submerged and below the large boulder about ten feet. Fish usually hold in the section between the boulder and submerged rock and right below the rock near the left back. I cover these areas for 20 minutes and land a couple of beautiful fine-spotted cutthroat: deep red gill plates, orange-reddish throat markings and golden belly and flanks.

Ben carefully releases each fish and adds the tally to the other fish caught. Not yet a fisherman, he enjoys being my ghillie on these father and son outings.

Heading back to the truck I grab the shirt, dodging the blue flax and wild geranium dotting the path. The white truck stands out against the dark green of pine and fir trees marching up the roadcut behind it. Behind that a canvas of deep blue sky stretches taut above us framed by the valley.

At home I wash the shirt then toss it with my other outdoor gear. Heading out the door on my next fishing trip I notice it’s a bit cool and I grab the green flannel shirt and throw it over my T-Shirt.

The wind kicks up. I trap the rod under my left elbow and reach down buttoning the flannel shirt without looking, or really even thinking about it as I scan the water for rises. As it warms again I unbutton the shirt. I think its unbuttoned, but the button side of the shirt does not separate from the buttonhole side. I look more closely and notice that the button has not come through the button hole cleanly because the buttonhole is frayed, catching the button in a web of threads. Every buttonhole is the same.

I have worn that shirt for nine years. The deep green flannel reminds me of pine and firs. Of that bright blue sky. And watching Ben release the fish. I smell woodsmoke from dozens of campfires he has built on that river.

I feel the wet sleeves riding around my wrist from reaching into the current to release a fly from a snag. Reaching into the breast pocket I finger a few sunflower seeds left from the last trip and grab a piece of jerky. A few months-old leftover cookie crumbs cling to the jerky.

The shirt is a story in itself, but is also now a part of my narrative.

Another day, another river. Beyond the Varney Bridge my brother-in-law, Danny, parts company with me; he heads downriver and I up.

I pick my way through the knee-deep water close to the near bank, casting. The day warms and the dew dries I peel off the green flannel shirt, tie it around my waist. The sun glints and winks over the endless riffles that I cover with endless casts. Nothing stirs except my rod and line and tall grasses bent into the water bouncing from the riffles. White clouds scuttle toward the east.

I reel in, set the fly in the hook keeper and head down river to look for Danny. Stepping onto the bank from a slow side channel, the shirt catches on a branch and flops into the water. I quickly grab it and ring it out.

I reach the car and unload my stuff, leaving the shirt to dry on the hood. Just beyond the parking lot is a gunnysack and on the far side of a small log something glints in the mid-afternoon sun.

I move closer. The shine comes from a belt buckle. Attached to the belt are two knife sheaths, with a Swiss Army knife in one and a Leatherman in the other. I pick up the belt, buckle it and throw it over my shoulder like a bandolier.

I meet up with Danny. He was also skunked. I take my find back to the motel where I open each blade and carefully clean them. The knives are in excellent shape and sharp enough to deeply cut the pad of my right thumb, my casting hand.

The two knives are attached to my daypack and have traveled with me for eight years.

Above the Glory Hole on another river, Dan L. and I cross at the Old Wagon Crossing through the swift current, struggling to keep the water out of our chest waders. slipping and stumbling on rocks I realize I’m not a young man anymore.

The sky darkens as we pick our way along the far shore, away from the fishermen shouldering each other on the near shore. Dan moves ahead, upriver while I stop on the rocks ten feet above the river. Trout are lined up, methodically sipping flies. Others are cruising the still water created by rock outcroppings.

I make my way to the water and cast to the risers, working slowly upstream. The fish come readily to the fly.

Just upriver from me, in two feet of water, is a net. Actually, two 16 inch nets hooked together: a tiny-holed white net for collecting insects and a black landing net for fish. I pick them up and clip them to my waders.

I reach Black Lagoon where dozens of fish rise just as the first few raindrops pock the river. I fish from a bar covered in 18 inches of water.

The April temperature quickly dips and the raindrops come quicker. My only layer is a green flannel shirt. Last night, parked below the down, I left behind my jacket with my polarized glasses in them. They weren’t there when we checked in the morning. Someone had good Karma last night and enjoys a Columbia rain jacket today.

Today…today I am not sure of my karma account balance. I’m thankful my hat keeps the rain from dripping down my neck and into my shirt. But I eventually lose my balance at the Black Lagoon, falling on my left side. Water gushes over the nets and the top of my waders soaking my green flannel shirt.

It is a shirt of the river—born of water and mud (and rebaptized with regularity).

It is imbued with my narrative. Our narrative.

Things lost. Things found. Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.

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