“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.”
~Cormac McCarthy, The Road
Still a timeless quote that I see repeated often and the reason for it above. A stunning example of the species from the Nipigon. Smaller ones, much smaller ones, will be in the brook now and I need to go down and reacquaint myself with my totem fish. I need it soon after the phone call I had last night. A friend in the states that feels the same way and would love McCarthy’s sentiment was in the hospital with bad dementia, according to his wife. He loved sporting literature, art and collectibles but she says he isn’t interested anymore. All his knowledge is lost now and I am likely the only one to have a clue about what he had and his memories of it.