There’s a stranger standing in my yard as I write this. He’s wearing a suspiciously floppy canvas hat and carrying a glinting, metallic object in his right hand. A year ago, when I was living in town, this scene would have inspired me to call the local police with an invitation to come on over. But I’ve learned to expect the occasional wanderer in my yard. I know it’s not me they’re after; it’s the fish.
For the past year I’ve lived on a patch of riverfront property in rural Southern Appalachia. My house is miles away from a town or highway, but it is only a few feet away from the New River, one of the oldest rivers in the world and a fine place to catch small mouth bass and trout. The river is also a liquid thoroughfare for kayakers and flotillas of inner tubes.
Summertime is sweet. So are fall and spring. Winter is another matter. In winter, the river is void of recreational travelers. There are no fly-fishing lines circling the sun like spider-spun lassos. Gone are the canoers who sometimes look up at my hilltop home to wave hello and goodbye, simultaneously, as they quickly move in and out of view. To my surprise, during my first winter here I realized that, in addition to missing summer’s wildflowers and trilling crickets, I missed the tourists.
Even so, this is no national park. The deed to my little patch of Appalachia shows that my property extends to the middle of the New River. I officially own all the smooth stones recently skipped by a young family whose laughter slid through open windows to fill my house. And what of the fish just snagged by the man in the floppy hat who is now whooping with joy? Well, that bass looks like it was plucked from my property. But, despite legalities, I know this river is as much the fisherman’s as it is mine. And, though it means I have to keep my bathroom blinds closed, I wouldn’t dream of putting up a “no trespassing” sign.
I have watched the Carolina fields and woods I frequented in childhood transform into gated communities and fenced-off parking lots, so I find solace in the river for reasons I wouldn’t have suspected a year ago. The New River is lovely, but its true beauty lies in how it gives visitors and locals the chance to feel a sense of shared ownership in an increasingly privatized world.
A friend of mine recently brought her 6-year-old son, Kal, over to visit and play in the shallow sections of the water. The riverbank behind my house proved a bit too steep for his little legs to negotiate, so he quickly ran over to a distant neighbor’s yard to gain access to the river. My friend called out for Kal to stop, looking worried. Glancing up at my neighbor’s house, she asked, “Won’t they mind that we’re on their property?”
To ease her concerns, I shaded my eyes and waved in the direction of the cabin above us. I could just make out someone waving back to me from the back porch. When I turned to the river where Kal was already dancing in small rapids, I saw that he was waving at the owners too. From the smile on his face, you’d think he’d just inherited the entire river. And, in a way, he had.
