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Monday: Paul Arden
Tuesday: Harps
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Ronan's report


Tuesday 05th June, 2012

Things are starting to shine in southern Alberta. Salmonfly are taking wing, golden stones are slowly crawling from their alienesque exoskeletons, and caddis are skimming across the water surface, laying eggs with wild abandon. Evening thunderstorms threaten, the black ominous vapours threatening to block the deep blue sky forever. The air is hot and sticky, sweet with the smell of buckthorn, lilac, and wolf-willow flowers. Dogwood branches are bright red against the rich greens of early spring.

This moment you fall in love with the river. This is the last you see of your whole soul as the sweet embrace of the river takes it downstream to be part of the land forever. This is where your calling comes to life, where your purpose is realized. Whatever it takes you will always need this, you will crave the powerful spring river scene.

Year after year, this becomes you; A part of you, ingrained in your being, entwined in your life; a shared soul. This is an element that makes you, that builds your character and creates a foundation for your experiences. This is home.

The light is slowly fading, the sun setting on fisheries protection in Canada. When the laws change, it will take time for the destruction to become apparent. The river will be flashier, straightened tributaries will deliver meltwater without the necessary pause to recharge the uplands. Fish will not be able to navigate up to spawning areas in the headwaters. Bug hatches will diminish with the subtle changes in the water chemistry. The river will slowly become barren, your soul shrivelled and lifeless.

You may move on to find other waters; bigger popular waters with more people and therefore better protection. You may fish stocked lakes or take expensive flights to places that still have fish. What is left of you, of your soul will still crave that river, the memory of it's sweet water flowing through your veins. You may be driven, you may lose sleep, you may give up the rod all together. You might not know why, or you might remember fondly, the sweet spring waters and silver flashes of brightly speckled trout. You may dream of light glistening like silver, dancing on the water surface, mayflies with long tails and hyaline wings bobbing as they float on the wind.

This was all let go. This is all at risk. This is slipping through the fingers of Canadians, gone like dandelion seeds in the wind, wisping away like smoke after an extinguished fire. Soon there will be nothing left, no evidence of what was, fading memories replaced with age and senility.

We are letting this go.

Are you okay with it?
Harps


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