There are many things – adventures and cheese – to name two, where the stronger it’s smell, the richer and finer the product. But in this case, the smell was fish. Small Mouth, to be more specific. The smell accentuated by two days and nights under hard rain, on the northbound current of the New River, West Virginia.
The river cuts a deep gorge that runs far across the state like a crease in the furrowed brow of Appalachia. The water, cold and often fast. The fish, if lucky, big. Monstrous, according to some stories. When we tallied our stories at the end of the trip, we had no monsters, despite my dad casting for Muskies for a fair part of the first day. But our stories, my dad postulated over the final beer of the trip, are part of our vocabulary. New words, much like the ability to recall memories, are cemented in our minds if we are able to recall them properly three times before forgetting them.
So before the bottom of the last beer, we each recollected, then recited our best stories from the river. One more, and the memory would added to each of our lexicons, was the working theory. I’ve told several of mine for the third time already. Some I’ve needed to recite many more. For example, making coffee with river water brings with it certain consequences and challenges at work the Monday after, which I haven’t wanted to tell, but instead, been required to explain.
This was a fine adventure. The bartender, as anyone downwind of me would have strongly agreed. And while I was glad to wash away the smell, I hope my memories stay strong.
