Unwanted

The windy old road could have only been made a route by an old stubborn horse leading his owners from their farmstead to town in a now forgotten time, likely to trade and gather goods once per month, is now covered in gravel and used by miners to travel daily to the dark depths of the coal mines and factories of West Virginia. The path leads down a large scenic canyon, which through it's Western look seems out of place in this region of the Eastern United States. A modern horseman now rides into the canyon, not out of necessity of the bodily survival, but that of his soul. His silver steed races down the mazy labyrinthine of sandstone which towards its lower reaches gives way to limestone. Traveling at a rate 10 times greater than the stallion whose hooves pounded the Appalachian dirt into a path of least resistance long before him, he sets his sights towards the wild river that drains the hills surrounding the vastly underpopulated landscape . His expectations are high, as is his confidence, for last time he road upon this canyon he dueled with upwards of 40 finned beauties. His thoughts remind him of the allure his eyes gather as he wades his way up through the scenic river, one of the beauties of the east, he can already feel the cold breathe of the dam cooling his body on the hot summer's day, shades of turquoise blue contrasted by the white ripples caused by the rivers steep decent, not to mention the gratifying feeling of dropping his soul candy into his clear rubber basket where he admires these gems who resiled past pollution to blossom back into the colorful species in which god spent an extra few moments to paint. The daydreams shorten the trail and he sees the old white church where the road has a right hand branch that leads to the river. He makes the turn and passes through the old Appalachian strongholds to which the natives to this valley call home. Mostly unchanged from the way of life their ancestors lived when they settled in this area from Eastern Europe, the villagers of these small encampments refuse to conform to today's world, as if a protest to all that is wrong with society today.

He pulls into a small parking area and demounts from his steed. To his surprise the area that is usually glowing with life is eerily tranquil. A negative aura fills the air, not even a bird chirps. He ignores the weird feelings, suits up in all of his gear, and sets off to do battle with the mighty river. He carefully steps into the ice bottomed river and plants his boots against a rock that causes a small seam in the wild river. The observant fisherman watches the river for a few minutes looking for any signs of life that the fish would key their forage on, He strangely sees no signs of life in the river. After deciding to tie on an old standby search and destroy pattern he reaches into his vest to find that his fly box had been left in the parking area. A quick step onto a flat rock swipes the angler off of his feet in an instant, he lands hard on a rock, with his hip taking the brunt of the blow. In an effort to regain his footing he slips again and is swept off his balance yet again only this time the fall sends him under the water. His waders begin to get swamped as he swims back to the surface, a close call, yet the determination in him drives him back to the place where he left his fly box so he can go through with his mission. He quickly snatches it up and makes a straight line back to the promising run. Instead of walking the open path, he takes a shortcut through the woods, with the river in sight he picks up his step and just as he places a foot into the last tuft of weeds he hears an audible sound that will send chills down any avid outdoorsmans spine. The rattle quickly travels from his ear through his sensory system and the brain triggers the abort switch launching the angler through the air at a rate so fast that even the quickest of snakes couldn't strike. He lands in the river, his left hand catches his fall up against a log where he takes a moment to reflect on the close encounter with what is likely Appalachia's most dangerous native. As he goes to push himself off of the log and regain his balance he see's a water snake who was using the log to gather some heat on the summer's day, coiled and ready to strike the fisherman who intruded on his resting area.

 He again gathers himself and the stubborn fisherman marches forward to the juicy run. Growing exceedingly frustrated, he quickly ties on his absurd excuse for a fly and takes a cast into the current. Just as the cast is dropping into the heart of the strikezone, the angler sets into a deep snag which results in his tippet breaking and likely blowing up the spot. He reties his rig and continues working up through the section of usually promising water with the only result being a large number of flies lost to underwater debris and boulders. He has yet to even spot a trout in the gin clear water, the man can neither see nor feel any life on the river, the birds, deer, bugs, even the fish seem to have completely left the area in abandon. Out of complete arrogance the man ties on another fly, just as he puts his box back into his vest pouch, he hears some rustling in the woods behind him, being the first signs of life he has heard all day (That wasn't a snake trying to kill him), he quickly looks over his shoulder to see two men peering through the weeds pointing in his direction and sharing whispers. The two who appeared to be natives of the small Appalachian "village" quickly disappeared back into the thick timber after seeing the man had uncovered them. The man weighed the thought of catching a trophy sized fish which he knew resided in this river, with the strange negative feelings he was getting and like a mule, he pushed his way upstream towards a big chute that plunges into a nice deep hole. It was here where he had hooked a rainbow trout in the excess of twenty inches on his last outing, he was set for revenge and just as he motioned to cast he heard a loud CRACK on the hillside that towered above the river in this section. An old Hemlock tree decided to throw one of it's large branches at the angler as if to tell him to "get out". The fisherman dove out of the way of the limb and was flopping around in the river like a wounded duck, as he regained his footing he saw his rod floating away down stream, he ran to gather it slipping the whole way down. Upon gathering his rod back he found that his reel took some damage from the ordeal and was no longer functional. Angrily he ran back to shore and sets a waypoint in his brain directly back to the parking area. He hit the small path that leads along the river (this time looking for snakes and any other unexpected harm) and limped towards his exit finally admitting his defeat. Not even the hint of a bump from a fish on any of his presentations, how could this be after such a huge numbers day on his previous trip the man thought. Without even removing his water logged waders the man jumped into his steel horse and kicked it into drive, leaving his high hopes for the day in a cloud of red dust behind him. As he winds his way up and out of the deep canyon he reflected on the events that took place, lately the man had been trying to pursue his roots and fit his way into being a cog in the natural world like his ancestors were, learning hard lessons along the way. This time he learned the fable of  the natural world revealing to you warnings,when it does it's best not be arrogant to it and recognize the signals it is giving and follow suit. On that day, in that deep canyon, in the heart of Appalachia, be it for his own good or reasons he may never know, he was unwanted.