a placeless world

The water was just this side of ice. So cold that I had to pull my fly out of the river every few minutes and flick off the frozen crystal bubble that kept forming around the hook.

My knees shook. My hands ached. But I was in heaven.

The first man on the river.

I'd left home with the moon still high and bright in the black Utah sky to ensure an arrival just before the sun broke over the Uintas.

I stepped out of my car. Into my waders. Onto the path. Into the river.

I set the fly onto the water's surface, just behind a long stretch of white ripples. I watched her glide downstream, yanked her into the cold morning air, listened for the snap as the line stretched out behind me, and set her back down.

An hour and several spots later, I hadn't so much as a bite. No fish. Or, more likely, no interest in my choice of lures.

Didn't matter. I was still alone. Still working my line to set the fly down on the perfect spot, right behind the ripples on the river's frigid surface. Still in heaven.

And then, in one misstep, a cold day in heaven became a cold day in hell.

The Middle Provo doesn't look very intimidating. It's narrow, in most spots, and not so very deep. As such it makes a very good fishing river.

But looks can be deceiving. The spot where I fell was shin deep, if that, but the current hit me like an ocean tide. Before I could turn my body upright I was fully submerged.

And my rubber waders were filling with water.

I kicked my legs together and broke the surface. Now I'm quite sure I should have gasped for air, but in the moment, as my body burned in the frigid water, I laughed.

And then, back under once again.

The same current that dragged me under swept me into a shallower spot. I climbed out of the river — on the bank directly opposite from where I fell in — soaked to the skin. I pulled off my vest and sweater and loosened the belt on my waders, sending a rush of water onto the ground.

I shivered violently as I walked up stream, looking for a shallow spot to cross.

In the car, wearing a pair of short pants and socks — the only extra clothes I had in my trunk — I leaned into the dash and pined for the days when my car was new and my heater warmed more quickly. I passed a McDonald's restaurant and thought about the woman who burned herself on the hot, hot coffee and won a million-dollar verdict. "Coffee that hot would be good right about now," I told myself.

I pulled into the parking lot. Inside, an old couple was enjoying a breakfast of hashbrowns, flatcakes and orange juice. I looked to the door.

"No shirt? No shoes? No service."

I wondered whether they'd make an exception for a frozen young man. Then I thought about all the times that I've tried to purchase breakfast at 10:31 a.m. Say what you will about McDonald's employees. They know how to stick by the rules.

I turned into the drive-through entrance. The sign above the menu board read: "Cash only." I dipped my finger into my ash tray.

23 cents. 28 cents if you include the Canadian nickel.

I drove on. Went home. Walked up the stairs in my socks and shorts and bare skin. I slid under the down covers on my big, big bed.

And wondered whether my waders would be dry in time to fish again the following day.