The Trout Fishing Capital of America ...

Last year, on Easter Sunday, E and I wandered aimlessly into a town called Roscoe, off route 17 in Catskill country. We were free of obligation, and were looking for a place to have a picnic. In other words, the best Easter dinner ever. We ended up on this long dirt road, and eventually found a covered bridge and a rock that jutted out into the Beaverkill River. It was one of the great discoveries, and through all of the ups and downs and unknowables of this last year or so, we've always remembered that day, and that spot.

We got up this morning, and we both felt restless. The sun was in the wrong spot because of the damn time change, and neither one of us felt like sitting around the house. Mind you, we both had lots of things we needed to do, but sometimes you just have to say no. When I said out loud, "Do you think we could find that spot along the Beaverkill again?" we just knew. Now we HAD to find it.

Getting to Roscoe isn't hard. It just takes time. You get on 17 in any of the normal places, and you just drive. Not long after Livingston Manor (another sleepy old town that used to have a phenomenal independent bookstore called Hamish & Henry) you come upon Roscoe, right off the highway. To call it sleepy is an understatement. There's a diner, a couple of gas stations, a sad little Chinese place, and a coffee shop that wasn't open. Trout season begins in early April, and I imagine it's a different scene then, full of good ol' boys in flannel and pick 'em up trucks. But today, it was utterly still.

We actually recognized the road that led to the dirt road without too much trouble. When we hit the first bridge, and the cell phones stopped working, we knew we were in the right place.

It's hard not to imagine what it would be like to live so far off the beaten trail. I know I couldn't do it for more than an intentional week or two, to write or recharge or get away from it all. I'm too much of a city kid for that. But even so, you drive past the half dozen or so houses on this road, and your mind can't help but go, "What's it like ... ?"

After what seemed like quite awhile, we came upon the covered bridge and the empty parking lot, which was still mostly snow covered. There was not a soul in sight, other than the crows and the occasional goose. Dear lord ... it was right how we left it, a year ago. We got out our cooler and our chairs and made our way out to the rock, jutting out into the river. This is what it looked like from my chair :

There is a stillness in this one spot, a peace that feels beyond time and space. Of all the places we've visited, of all the beautiful places we've sat and talked and listened, of all the gorgeous places I've taken pictures of, this place is the quietest, the most pristine, without question the most peaceful and beautiful. We sat for several hours, talking about everything and nothing, listening to the water and the birds. The hell with the houses. I could live on that rock forever, with nothing but the wind to embrace me and the stars to keep me warm.

Leaving a place like that is near impossible. You're living one of the great moments, for the second time no less, and you just know you won't see it again for awhile, if ever. Was it a dream? A mirage? Can the heart and mind and soul really be that still, that happy? But the sun starts to set and you know you're almost three hours from home, and you give thanks, and make promises you're not sure you can keep, and you turn away, and you don't look back. All you can do is trust that it'll be there when you return. If you return. If the world is that just and fair and good.