I’m a bear

I stink of fish, my hands have river dirt like a second skin. Rolled up in my fishing shirt, I sleep on my unmade bed, exhausted from a day on the river. At the foot of that bed, scattered about, a few magazines, a book by Tom McGuane, another by Jim Harrison, a catalog of rods, photos of fish on the wall, friends with devastating smiles. Near the door, my travel bag, half-unpacked, half-full, ready to be closed and set off for new adventures. My waders, still damp, rarely have time to dry, and my shoes, with their worn felts, could do with a new resoiling. Further on, in the entrance, a bundle of cane tubes looks like a game of Mikado. I can smell the river. I’m a bear, my head full of dreams of trout as big as my thighs, of welcoming rivers offering me their most beautiful facets. In a few hours, the alarm clock will ring, and with my trunk full and a Thermos of coffee steaming by my side, I’ll set off into the night to find my friends. In the headlights, the animals of the dawn, with their sparkling eyes, will greet our crew, while landscapes promising pleasure and escape glide across the windows. We’ll get together and share something untranslatable, an unknown happiness for those who don’t fish. And once again, among the ranunculus, sunburnt, my skin dull from days of fishing, I’ll give in to the perfect pleasure of a fighting fish.

I’m a Bear. And I thank the earth for making me this way. Happiness is what I feel. Stopping, leaning and dreaming against a tree, looking out over the water where the fish live. Let my thoughts take me to the trout’s paradise, an Eden where my place is already reserved for me, to feel the torrent’s flowing water against my legs, a delicious caress, the smell of the river and the thickness of the air, only hunger or love can pull me out of the water. I’m here, I stink of fish, my hands have river soil like a second skin, rolled up in my fishing shirt, I sleep on my unmade bed, exhausted from a day on the river… I’m a bear.