The Soul of a River
On finding deep connection with nature through water and the strange conflict of harming a world we love
I walk along a river in the North of Sweden, embraced by familiar smells. There is pine and moss and the unmistakable soft, rich scent of the slightly peaty stream. So different from the sea air I have been breathing recently. Returning here after several years is a reawakening. Parts of who I was and am are unlocked, as memories from years of walking along similar streams rush back with every breath.
Before I knew the soul of the sea I knew rivers. The gentle cadence of water meandering through a landscape – its sounds, scents and patterns. This river is small, flowing gently against grassy banks and low-lying brush. Its water is deep amber, clear enough to spot rocks that redirect and perturb it slightly, creating ripples. Weeds sway lazily in the irregular currents.
I spent my time getting to know rivers long before I started sailing. Rivers have always held a certain wonder and mystery to me. The way they shift and change from rushing white water, tumbling over rocks, to calm, mirror-polished, inscrutable ponds. The way they dart and flit across the landscape, sometimes dividing, before the streams re-join in a rushing joy. There is a promise to a river. I look at it and it seems to hold its secrets close, but somewhere deep within there is magic. Its dark pools and twists and turns are tantalising, and all my life I have wanted to learn what hides beneath the surface.
It’s a curiosity of nature and all that it holds. Like spotting the brilliant colours of a kingfisher flying past, my curiosity is piqued when there is a small movement in the stream, a rising brown trout breaking the surface. Concentric rings ripple out from where it must have eaten some insect. It sparkles for a brief moment as the sun reflects off its scales. One of the river’s secrets.
And like spotting a kingfisher and wanting to grab the binoculars to see it up close, I’m drawn to the trout. I want to see it again and perhaps then better understand this hidden world that contains such wonders, and connect with the animal soul that belongs to this stream.
Trout are beautiful jewels, scales glimmering gold with ruby spots, and they hold infinite curiosity to me. As I see it rising, I remember all that I have learnt over the years about rivers and the lives they support. I have learnt to see how the current shifts around bends and speeds up; how it’s pushed up and sideways by rocks and branches; and how deep hollows take the speed out of it. I’ve learnt where the trout likes to be, to save energy, stay protected and find food. I have learnt how the temperature shifts and gives life to mayflies and other insects. Their life cycles are as important to the trout and the river as the rocks and the twists and turns themselves. The way the larvae move and feed as nymphs; the temperature at which they molt and rise to the surface to hatch. And then how they begin their brief adult life after being given wings, one glorious day aloft in the sun, only to die shortly after, their life cycles complete.
I sit by the river and watch the place where the trout rose. I spot the mayflies drifting on the surface. Another one approaches the rock behind which the trout is hiding, and it too becomes a quick snack, as the smallest little plop makes it disappear into the trout’s mouth.
My curiosity eventually gets the better of me and I sneak up to the edge of the water and tie on a perfect mayfly imitation to my fly line. An insect made of string and feathers. I must hold all that I know of the river and its treasures in my mind before I cast my line out. I cast my mind out to the rocks, the currents below the surface, the insects in the water, and where I imagine the trout is hiding. I sense the movement and the energy of it all, the spirit of the river.
And if I’ve understood enough of it, then maybe the trout will rise. I let my imitation of nature drift along the stream. It sits on the surface like all the real mayflies around it, almost indistinguishable, drifting in the currents towards the partially hidden stone. The fly follows the twists and turns I have observed before casting it out; it’s pulled one way and then the other before gliding past the rock. And then the trout rises. The river has given me one of its treasured jewels to hold and observe for a short moment.
It’s the manifestation of my connection with the soul of the river.
It’s a thing of beauty and wonder. But it can only ever be fleeting because the act in itself hurts the world in its disturbance. It takes a toll on me and the trout. Flyfishing is a strange conflict within. To get to know the river and the trout, you know you are hurting it. But it is done out of curiosity; out of wanting connection and of loving the trout and the river it is in. It always feels wrong and a little selfish, but it also provides this deep and immense connection to the world that feels important.
So as the trout swims back, I breathe out again, the tension released. The trout glitters a final time before disappearing into the amber stream, perfectly blending back in against the pebbled river bed. It’s absorbed by the river, hidden in its embrace. Soon after, I spot it rising again, eating real mayflies. Not too rattled.
I say a quiet thank you to the river and the trout. And then I turn around and walk home as the sun drops lower in the sky, but never quite sets.
Thanks for reading this essay. Flyfishing has always been a way for me to connect with the natural world, but there has also always been a conflict in the fact that there is some harm to the fish. I know it can be controversial so I would love to hear your thoughts in the comments: have you ever tried it? What do you think about it?
Two big inspirations for this essay are the books Illuminated by Water by Malachy Tallack, and of course the timeless A River Runs Through It by Norman Maclean. Check them out if you are interested in more soulful nature writing on rivers and flyfishing.
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This story is part of a set of themed essays around nature and finding belonging. You can read the other essays here:
Have you read The Road, by Cormac McCarthy? “Once there were brook trout in the streams in the mountains. You could see them standing in the amber current where the white edges of their fins wimpled softly in the flow. They smelled of moss in your hand. Polished and muscular and torsional. On their backs were vermiculate patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a thing which could not be put back. Not be made right again. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery.”
Beautifully written, it took me back to my first wild swim two years ago and how soft River is. I still struggle with the undergrowth that glides along my legs. If I could swim perfectly horizontal it wouldn’t be that much of an issue.