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RIVER OF MEMORY

July 28, 2025

Our destination was the Trinity River, nestled in the heart of Northern California, amidst a volcanic landscape watched over by Mt. Lassen and Mt. Shasta. Driving up from Reno, the view outside the window shifted from high desert scrub to pine and white-gold grass. The increasing density of tall pines stretching towards the sky felt reminiscent of drives to the Northwoods of the Upper Midwest. Technically, we were ‘going up north’- as us Minnesotans are known to say- but sagebrush and the heat were reminders of the newness of this place to me.

My friend had spent summers here as a child, learning to fly fish. The happy memories of a turbulent childhood. He’d asked if I wanted to take a trip to the Trinity to fish. Him: a now experienced fisherman, me: still fumbling my way around casting and reading water. I’ve been a lucky beneficiary of his passion for fishing. From California to Wyoming, he immerses himself in the waterways that capture his attention, observing bug life and water structure, returning to rivers and streams to get to know them well beyond the surface level. And I have been fortunate to ride the bandwagon of his study of a place and diligent pursuit of this craft, tagging along to world class fly fishing destinations across the American West, his hand on my arm guiding my cast and his voice from the bank offering advice on how to fix my drift.

We arrived in Lewiston, stopping first at the re-opened and re-named general store before continuing the tour of the landmarks of my friend’s summers past: Pine Cove, the cafe where he and his dad had eaten, the fly shop, the campground with the rental trailer where they’d watched Scorpion King. We looped through the resort with the cabins now painted red and the pool where his mom and sisters would hang out, now occupied by gruff-looking men. I’d heard many stories of these trips to the Trinity. Now being in this place, it was like watching the movie rendition of a book- things look different than you imagine- but it also came with this uncanny feeling of not quite stepping into a memory.

I relished my friend’s excitement at recounting anecdotes, freshly treading with him as he retread familiar steps. As humans, we’re so often talking about the past, sharing experiences- both mundane and impactful- back and forth with each other. Our conversations are built on memory and the sharing of it. Whether we’re cognizant of it or not, there’s an inherent joy in having the opportunity to bring someone into these memories, to have them witness or experience the sensory elements that marked our personal histories and molded us.

Memories can be fickle; what we preserve doesn’t always account for the shifts of time. That afternoon we arrived, my friend carefully rigged up our array of rods, setting us up to approach fish with both nymphs and dry fly. Boots laced, we navigated around the thorny reach of brambles teeming with blackberries and waded into the river’s cool water, a mosaic of stones visible underfoot, distorted into kaleidoscope patterns by the current. His first few casts yielded quick results. Subsequent efforts with both the Euro rig and dry fly produced almost cut and paste outcomes for both of us: a passel of nearly identical, plain-looking trout. “Stockers” he lamented. No sign of the subtle beauty of a brown or the depth of color in a wild rainbow. My friend loves to fish, but even more so loves the pursuit of wild fish. It’s not about simply catching, the appeal lies in tricking these creatures born free, that possess an innate ability to spot a fisherman’s poor presentation or bad drift and, if hooked, fight with the fierceness of something with an instinct to survive. This Trinity River where he easily pulled what felt like the same fish over and over again was not the Trinity River of his memory, the place where his father said he wanted his ashes to be spread.

As much joy as there is in taking someone else into our memories, there is a sadness in realizing it’s not quite the same. The stocked fish, the disappearance of the drugstore in Weaverville where my friend bought penny candy as a child- the Trinity of memory exists in a separate and unreachable reality. Thinking back to the historic buildings clustered around the one lane Old Lewiston Bridge, rebuilt in 1901, I wonder how the memories of the people of that era would look and what they’d think of the Lewiston of 2025.

Though our memories may no longer maintain their accuracy of the current state of a place or thing, there’s the endless chance to create something new. I have the secondhand memories of my friend’s time on the Trinity and a visual context for his stories, but now I have the recollection of sitting by the crystal clear water, laughing and sipping beer, casting a dry fly and feeling the movement of my body unite with the rod and the line, the fly looping through the air with controlled power, and hearing my friend say “beautiful cast.”

In many ways, fishing is all about memory. Fish remembering (or failing to remember) a pattern on the water, fishermen regaling each other with tales of the big ones that left both parties exhausted in the fight, the lack of certainty of a fish’s size after the fact, the muscle memory of casting. After leaving the Trinity, before heading home, we fished beneath the snow-topped peak of Mt. Lassen. Hiking along the stream, flanked by trees charred by wildfire, yellow bursts of flowers, and tangles of manzanita, my friend snapped a photo. “I’m always taking photos,” he explained. “To remember and look back on.” I admire this process of documentation, of preserving a scrap of visual memory that, when looked upon, can take you back to that time and place, even as things change.

At the family cabin in northern Wisconsin, running along the stairs to the basement is what we refer to as '‘the fishing wall,’ a collage of photographs of family members and friends posing with fish (primarily) caught in the lake the cabin sits beside. Photos have rotated over the years as more impressive fish are caught or grandkids and great grandkids pick up rods. I’ve stared at the photos over decades of trips to the cabin, taking in this tapestry of family history as seen through the lens of fishing. I was never much interested in fishing as a kid, I only appear a couple times on the wall, a tiny version of myself. However, during my most recent trip up north, I looked at the wall differently. I saw photos of my uncle and grandpa, both who died shortly after I graduated from college. Having learned to fly fish almost two years ago, I mourned the inability to share this newfound interest and commonality with these men who had such important presence in my life.

My favorite photo on the wall is of my aunt. She gave my sister and me Rosie the Riveter shirts- ‘we can do it’ serving as the reminder of our own power and capability. She took us on snow picnics, organized birthday trips to museums, and brought us to pick up trash along walking trails. She died when I was 13, leaving me with an evolving, but persistent grief and an eternal wish to be able to talk to her just one more time. It’s a painful truth that she’s been gone longer than the time she was alive in my life and the tangibility of her person-ness is harder to grasp. There’s a line in my aunt’s obituary that reads “She embraced life, loved people, and hugged trees.” In the photo, she wears a wide brim hat, with an even wider smile, holding a fish up proudly. I’d always looked at the image and questioned how she could have enjoyed fishing- catching fish seemed antithetical to this woman I understood as a staunch environmentalist, a tree hugger, and lover of the natural world.

Now a fisherman (fisherwoman my aunt would probably prefer) myself, I don’t see these things as standing in opposition to each other. Stepping gently into the depths of a river, observing the structures, the flow, the ecology of this system. Reaching out to catch a closer glimpse of a dancing mayfly, dipping a hand into the water to marvel at the casing of a stonefly. Appreciating the iridescent shimmer of a trout, sharing a moment of thanks with this creature before releasing it back to the water. Fly fishing can be a practice in immersion, of embedding, not imposing, yourself in an environment and considering the importance of all aspects of an ecosystem. Fishing depends on the health of waterways and relies on our care and protection of these spaces.

Not long ago, I woke up early to fish the river near where I live. Alone, water ribboning around my knees, I paused from casting and broke down in tears. The golden light of a not-quite-risen sun edged the tall grass framing the banks. Lithe birds swooped in acrobatics overhead, the flow of the river providing a steady background chorus while granite peaks watched silently in the distance. I felt moved by the beauty, for getting to be a part of it, for the privilege of being able to step into this environment, and for my smallness in it all. It was humbling, magical, simultaneously sad and wonderful to be sharing it with no one but myself. I think of the memories I’ve made while fishing: catching golden trout in alpine lakes in the backcountry of the Sierra Nevada, rounding a bend on a river in Wyoming and stumbling upon moose, hearing stories of the Trinity River of my friend’s childhood and creating new memories with him on the Trinity of the present.

I wish I could step into the photos of my aunt, my uncle, and grandpa, to have them visit me and the waterways of my present, or to experience the Trinity River of the past where my friend caught wild trout and learned to fish. None of these things are possible, so I’ll have to settle for my friend’s strategy: snapping a photo of a stream or fish, not to brag about later or show off to other people, but to carve a moment in memory, to preserve a reality to reflect and reminisce on. Memories to share with others or a future version of myself.

(photo by Calder Davey)

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