On a narrow, arcing wooden bridge that crosses just below the confluence of a major tributary and the main stem, I stood and let the breeze ruffle my hair like a pine’s needles. The turquoise water below tumbled westward as it had for millennia, snaking through a valley guarded by craggy peaks and towering evergreens.

I had crossed here many times, with companions in tow, and alone. On this day in early June, I watched in solitude as the Cascade Range’s snowmelt continued to swell the river’s flows on its way to the sea. The river wasn’t ready to be fished, but I was drawn here nonetheless.

The previous weekend, a close friend of mine passed on while climbing in the Sierras. His appreciation for the mountains, and their centrality to his life, brought me back to their doorstep despite selfish and confusing feelings of betrayal.

Awash with memories of tents and beers shared, I found my way to the bridge and peered into the passing water below. The turbidity reminded me of the first time I attempted to wade this river almost exactly a year prior. Having spent a couple of years fishing eastern tailwaters and creeks, inexperience and misplaced confidence convinced me that my abilities could match June flows. What followed was a baptism to the West.

The morning hours pushed me downriver in a less than controlled, more like panicked traverse that saw more wading than fishing. When I exited the river a couple of miles from my car, sweat drenched my torso beneath my waders and my indicator rig had seen as many trout as it had at 7 AM.

The hard earned lesson in freestone mountain flows came at a time of transition in my life. Days prior, I had followed a girl across the country in the midst of a pandemic. Our first apartment together was crowded with boxes, and we were still figuring out how we fit into each other’s lives. Much like the river valley, beauty ran throughout our relationship, even as the swelling and receding challenges offered lessons that needed to be learned.

As the summer wore on and boxes were unpacked, the river came into shape. By August, flows dropped and became more predictable. Previously invisible structure dotted long, slow pools and runs. I learned more about the river and its turns. I sat on exposed gravel bars and watched as an ecosystem introduced itself.

As if it was waiting for my patience and attention, the river came to life. Sun hit the trees in the morning, waking the forest with the smell of pine and sounds of chirping birds. When the light of day warmed the water, hatches began, and fish looked up. Caddis flies drifted up from the river, enticing darting cutthroat to jump and sip in a frenzy that could be easily missed by the passive eye. I learned that effort, in the form of hiking deeper into the valley, brought with it success. But my view of success shifted as well. Quantity and size of fish started to matter less, and the experience mattered more. By noticing these things, I felt squarely part of the environment, one small rung in a cosmic ladder, operating in and with the planet.

With fall came rain. The first storm almost doubled the size of the river, blowing out pools and covering gravel bars. Everything I had come to take for granted changed. Fish hunkered down, no longer willing to rise for a decently placed elk-hair caddis fly. My first reaction was to despair at the end of a charmed summer. Indeed, the onset of the Northwest’s famous rain and short days called for a mental adjustment from beneath a raincoat.

I fought the change in season and stayed inside for too much of the early fall, looking at the world through my apartment window. When I finally peeled myself off the couch and took a drive to the river, I expected to be disappointed. I thought my whole relationship with the valley revolved around my ability to drift flies in the river’s current and interact with the resident trout. This time, I left my fly rod at home and nosed my car into the valley with few expectations. That proved to make all the difference.

The river was high, but its water turned a shade of blue-green that my eyes had never seen before. The dark green moss on the trees took center stage, replacing leaves as the valley’s source of color. Craggy peaks were dusted with snow, and interspersed bouts of brief sunshine lit up the mountains. It was wet and cold, there were no hatches coming off and the fish were hunkered down.

But as I walked beneath dripping trees with frozen hands in my pockets, I realized that my individual expectations meant close to nothing here. The valley was doing exactly what it was supposed to do. The constant rain nourishes mammoth trees and radiant moss. It swells the river to unfishable levels, but down below the falls, salmon and steelhead have enough room to complete their lifecycles and fertilize the forest with their carcasses. This cycle goes on and on, for generations and millennia. I had no control, but I had the privilege of being here, of walking through groves of ancient trees and breathing their air.

As I stood on that bridge in early June, the river’s role in my life became clear. The emotions I felt in this valley – jubilation, fear, frustration, contentment, awe, pain – were the emotions that connected me to this world. I stood in this river’s runs or on its banks or on its bridges because it helped me make sense of love, death and the rest. My life, like the river, rose, fell and flowed. Rain swells, sun shines, fish feed and hunker, all as they should. Perfectly.

I thought of my friend. I missed him deeply. The river continued to rush, carving its way through my life. So I took a deep breath, crossed the bridge, and waded into a slow section. Because I knew he would’ve understood.