The Eno
Where do you go when the world shuts down.
Two of my pictures were selected for the 2025 Eno River Association calendar! The Eno river is a very special place and the assocation does great job protecting the land and making it acessible. Please support them by purchasing a calender.
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One of my pictures is the main picture for November and the other is a small inset picture in August. This is the story of those pictures.
Where do you go when everything is shut down? To the Eno.
It’s 7:30 AM on Saturday, later than I’d like. I cross the bridge over the Eno on Cole Mill Road and park on the dirt pull-off to the right. I’m not quite sure if I can park here, but the park gate up the road isn’t open yet. It seems right to park at a bridge to go fishing. Sure enough, two months from now, "No Parking" signs will appear here. That’s been happening at a lot of outdoor spaces. It seems like a strange response to COVID—limiting access to the outdoors. At least for now, on a chilly December morning when all the Christmas plans are canceled, I can come to the river.
I grab my rod from the backseat and scramble down the embankment. Mist rises off the water to greet me. The path leads along the right bank of the river. Dense brush clings to the bank's slope and a little dogwood tree leans out over the river. I trudge along until the undergrowth opens up. I’ve lost enough lures to know where I have no business casting. An old log sits against the far bank. I throw my five-inch weightless Senko up under it and wait for it to sink. When nothing happens, I twitch it a couple of times. I reel in and try again. Nothing rises but the morning mist. I curse my late arrival. I didn’t want it to go like this. I’m angry. The fish aren’t biting. Maybe the bass are social distancing? I start hiking upstream.
A quarter mile upstream from the bridge a steep path dotted with jutting rocks leads down to the river from the public access. It's covered in leaves. The gate doesn’t open until 9. I still have the river to myself. In the mist above the swirling water I see a strange sight. It’s a fallen tree forming a natural bridge from the bank to a large rock in the middle of the river. The rock acts as a dam. There’s a deep hole just above it. What is strange about the scene is that the tree is backwards. The base, with the roots splitting out in all directions, is lodged on the rock in the middle of the river. The trunk, leading towards the branches, sits on the bank. It’s almost as if the tree were growing right in the middle of the river. This can’t be, I think. It must have been some storm to flip that tree around and carry it downriver.
Beyond the tree the river bends to the right. I can’t tell where it goes. I pull out my phone, take a picture, and make straight for the tree. It’s my inspiration.
Sitting on that tree just three months prior I saw the fish, a large bass. I'd never caught a bass, never really caught any fish before. Now, I knew where one was.
“David, look,” I said, trying to get my son's attention. By the time he turned, the fish was gone. That day I didn't even own a fishing pole. This time I’m ready.
I walk out on the trunk. The world looks different from the middle of the river five feet up in the air. I can see clearly downriver, beyond the brush and bending trees on the bank, almost back to the bridge. Upriver is still a mystery, hidden beyond the bend. “Today is the day,” I whisper out loud. I don’t want to scare the fish.
I lower myself down from the tree onto the rock in the middle of the river and make my way around the root ball. It’s taller than I am and conceals me from anything swimming in the hole. I step lightly. I’ve got one shot. I peek my head out from behind the roots and gently toss my Senko to the top of the hole. The current carries the salted bait slowly towards me. Ever so gently, I reel in the slack. My hands are shaking. I give the rod a twitch. I realize I'm holding my breathe. I breath out and try to relax but notice my line moving upstream. Adrenaline explodes, and I lose all sense of what to do. I start reeling. My rod bends and I feel resistance. The line goes tight, I hear the drag clicking and see ripples on the water. The fish turns and heads downstream straight towards me. I can't keep up the line loosens as the fish rises. For a moment, his head breaks the surface. We see each other and I do not understand. The fish disappears. My line goes slack. I reel in an empty hook.
“God damn it!” This time I shout. There’s no one to hear. I spin around and look downstream. It’s not far back to the car. I reach back, cocking my arm, ready to throw my pole into the water. It wouldn’t be the first time. Something stops me. Well, not something, a thought. How will I catch a fish without a pole? It’s a good question. I lower my arm and just breathe. Today is not the day to throw in the towel, to drown the fishing pole. Today, I need to keep going. I need to see what’s around the bend. I walk back across the tree to the bank and head upstream.
Nine months later, I’m back. It’s another warm September day, perfect for swimming. I watch my 5 year old daughter and 7 year old son floating on their puddle jumpers in the fishing hole. They laugh and splash in the afternoon sun. They don't understand words like pandemic and isolation. I hope it stays that way. 
“Dad, we want to fish!” They say.
“Sure, kiddos.” I grab a barbie princess fishing pole and hand it to Caroline. Her casts are erratic, so I tie a hook less casting lure on the end of her line. She doesn't know the difference. I hand a \$15 bass pro fishing pole to David and throw on a Texas rigged swimming Senko. They stand on the rock in the middle of the river and cast toward the bend.
“I got one!” David shouts as his line moves upstream.
"He got one!" Caroline yells excitedly. 
“Set the hook!” I holler, but words are meaningless to a seven-year-old with a fish on the line. He just reels in, and thankfully, this time, it’s enough. I grab the bass by the jaw and pop out the hook. It’s a little guy, maybe a pound, maybe a little more. His vibrant green scales shimmer. He smells good and fishy. I hand it to David. He holds it and smiles for the camera. I take a picture of him, the fish, and his missing front teeth.
Caroline squeals and says the fish is slimy. I take the fish back and set it under the water, moving it gently, letting water fill its gills. It sits for a moment, and then, with a flip of its tail, it’s gone. It disappears into the hole. I watch it go. It’s not the fish I was chasing, not the one I lost. That’s okay, though. I think I’ll be chasing that one the rest of my life.
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