My apologies for the infrequency of writing over the past few weeks. Illness hit our household hard, and I’m just now starting to feel better. Isn’t that springtime?
After working in healthcare for nearly two years, I’m learning more about the rhythms of illness in our community. Spring brings respiratory viruses—Flu A, Flu B, RSV, and Covid all competing to top the charts. In our area, we’ve also seen a flu bug followed by a secondary bacterial infection (which happened to me!). That means 7–10 days of illness one, then another few days of illness two. Oof.
You know it’s bad when I’ve been too sick to go fishing. But that was kind of okay, timing-wise. Just as illness has been flooding the community, the rivers and streams have been experiencing their own type of flooding. This time of year, we experience something called “runoff”—when rain, snowmelt, and warmer temperatures at higher elevations swell freestone rivers and streams.
(Bonus thought: In my area, there are three types of rivers/streams—Freestones, formed by glacial runoff; Tailwaters, created by the outflow of a dam; and Spring Creeks, natural freshwater creeks bubbling up from the ground.)
Fishing during runoff is tough because rising water levels change the river. Runoff typically does three things:
It makes the water murky as it pulls dirt from the banks.
It adds lots of new bugs and worms to the river.
It signals that spring is near.
I occasionally find myself in similar seasons, though perhaps not with the same foresight as my trout friends. I wonder if they know that muddy waters mean an abundance of food is coming their way. Do they sense that if they just hang in there, the water will drop, and things will clear? Or do they simply take the moment as it is, unaware of the feast that has just been delivered after the long winter fast?
I’ve lived through seasons where the waters rise beyond their banks, leaving my perception murky. When we get sick, face schedule interruptions, or have less energy, it’s easy to feel overextended and in need of retreat. For me, that meant taking a short break from writing.
I created extra margin here and there—rescheduling, postponing, and canceling where needed. I took time off, tried to sleep more, and redefined what productivity looked like. I wonder if trout in muddy runoff do the same—hunkering down until things clear.
At one point, I texted my therapist to reschedule. She graciously responded, “Take time to celebrate your magnificence.”
The thing about runoff is that it impacts every creature in and around the stream. It’s hazardous to humans, as the currents become stronger. But we’re good at inserting ourselves where we aren’t needed. The wilderness has its own rhythms, and life carries on without our interference. From the smallest midges to the largest fish, everything in the stream learns to ride the current, year after year. Maybe that’s what makes them stronger.
But catch that—seasons like this impact us all, and that’s completely normal.
Life gets busy, unexpected things come along, and while the current is strong on the surface, when we hunker down in deeper water, we find that things slow, sustenance appears, and our strength returns.
Spring is near. Hold your magnificence close.