
I’ve spent a lot of time in and around the flowing waters of Barton Creek. And by “a lot” I mean less than some, but more than most. I’ve been with it through bad times, where the disappearing water left little more than rings to show it had once been there. I’ve also seen it during good times, like now, when the waters’ flow swaggers through the hills as if it has always been more than a creek, maybe even a mighty River.
During all these years my favorite area has been around the Hill of Life. A hill that along with the limestone cliffs, frames this area of the “River”. During a recent fly-fishing/hike it was this vibrant and magical area that was my focus.
I had hiked from Lost Creek down past the Hill of Life, fishing as I went, disappointed with every casts in my ability to find and arouse any fish into striking. The high waters caused all aspects of the “River” to be unfamiliar. Banks I normally cast from had disappeared under a steady flow of liquid Gin. Rocks that I normally waded out to throw line from were so far under water that the only way to spot them was by looking for the whitewater they were stirring up on the surface. That combined with the excessive growth of plant life brought on by recent rains made for a strange “lost/deja vu” feeling that nagged at me throughout the day.

The Bluegill that saved my sanity.
After hours of wandering around, looking for fish, it was a small Bluegill that came to rescue me from my recent streak of fishless days. It’s still amazing to me that after all these years, given the right amount of disappointment, something so small can bring you back to why you took up fishing in the first place.
After the Bluegill I promised the “River” that one more fish would be sufficient to soothe my anxiety about “loosing” my fishing abilities. One Red Breast later I was loading up my pack and breaking my four piece down into two sections to facilitate its transportation through the forest, while simultaneously keeping it ready for any sudden fish sightings.
On and on, two miles back through Cypress and Cedar, along a limestone cropping that was still damp from rain, making every step something that was closely calculated. After fording the river close to the car, with the sun dropping behind the bluffs, and exhausted from the evening of hiking, i look down to see (or not see) the tip section of my rod is not in my hands.
…DAMN…

According to the Virginia Creeper, it's Fall.
After about 30 seconds of weighing my options i found myself slogging back across the river to look for the proverbial “needle in a haystack”, the needle being the tip of my 3WT, and the haystack being two miles of trails blanketed in thick foliage. After making it all the way to the turn around point and heading back for one last sweep on the way to the car, i found myself talking to the “River”.
At first it was just me expressing my hope at finding my tip. But as I hit the “intense” part of the trail again, where you climb up and down along the bluffs, the sky turned into overcast grayness with shards of intense light highlighting different features all around. As i progressed without any sight of my rod tip, my interaction with the “River” became much more intimate. I found myself conversing out loud, with the “River” as if it were a friend that I was only now catching up with, despite years of occasional fleeting interaction.
NOTE: I just now typed up an entire two paragraphs of what happened next, but realized that it was such a special experience that it probably should be kept inside and brought forth around a campfire, instead of…say, a blog. Suffice to say:
- No mind altering substances were involved.
- I am not what you would call “spiritual”
- I had one of the most “spiritual” experiences I’ve ever had.
- I found my rod tip.
Thats right. After hiking for miles I was ready to cross the “River”, be done with the whole thing and head home. Standing there on the bank, I asked the “River” one last time if was willing to help bring me back to my rod tip. I was calm, I was serene, I glanced down…
and there…
it…
was.
Miles of vegetation, water and overgrowth, and I found a sixteen inch long, 1/8th of an inch thick piece of dark green carbon fiber.
Thank you Barton River,
Le Russo