Zach Carter is a third-year journalism major and writes “Carter’s Comments” for the Daily News. His views do not necessarily reflect those of the newspaper.

“You know a dream is like a river

Ever changin' as it flows

And the dreamer's just a vessel

That must follow where it goes

Trying to learn from what's behind you

And never knowing what's in store

Makes each day a constant battle

Just to stay between the shores.”

That’s the opening verse of Garth Brooks’ song “The River.” As a child, I didn’t understand what Brooks was trying to say.

However, Jan. 14, 2022, was one of those days where it was hard to stay between the shores. 

Around 10 p.m. that evening, I received one of the worst phone calls of my life. My mom called to tell me that my grandma Marsha passed away in the hospital after dealing with a brief illness. Being 20 minutes away at the time, I grabbed my keys and raced home. 

Two minutes into the drive, I knew I was going too fast. I was in shock and a breakdown was looming. That’s when I turned down a little side road that led to a spot I was all too familiar with. When my tires hit the gravel lot, I put my 2006 Chevy Silverado in park. My head hit the steering wheel and tears began to fall on my lap. 

The spot I mourned for my grandma was my second home: the Mississinewa River. 

For some, a safe space could be anything. It could be a restaurant, a loved one’s house or even their bedroom. 

But for me, it’s always been the river. 

My grandpa Edward still lives in the only house my grandparents have ever owned. The neighborhood sits on the Mississinewa River, which became the place where I’d spend hours.

I understand that for some people, fishing is boring. I can’t argue that there aren’t times when nothing happens. But when a fish takes the bait, everything quickly goes from 0 to 60. It’s thrilling, sometimes scary and fun all at the same time. 

My grandpa and I aren't the type of fishermen that target certain fish. One day it’s bass, and the next day it could be carp or catfish. To us, it doesn't matter. What mattered was the enjoyment. 

When I was growing up, there were many life lessons I learned while sitting next to him on the bank. Telling me to attend college, to stay out of trouble. And the stories he told me about his life all remain in my mind and heart.

Nowadays, I don’t get to fish with him as often due to my busy schedule. However, I soon hope that changes. 

While I would say those moments are my favorite part of fishing, other things stick out. As a guy who has spent time walking, kayaking and camping along the water, I have started to pick up on some things. 

One of my favorite things about a river is its characteristics. Some rivers are slow-moving and shallow. Others have fast rapids, and you have to hit the holes throughout the stretch. To me, it’s always been fascinating to think about what a stretch looked like 50 years ago. Due to flooding and farming, land can change and rivers flow differently.

But it’s not just the river itself that draws me in. Seeing wildlife and the wonders of the natural world reminds me that the wilderness remains even after human contamination.

For some reason, that realization always made me happy in a way. It proves our species hasn’t ruined everything on this once-wild planet. It shows that nature prevails.

Since my grandma passed, all of those thoughts have resonated more deeply. 

I was tested once more last semester as my mental health was put to the test again. For the first time in my young journalism career, I hit writer’s block. At the same time, my great-uncle Carl was battling cancer. 

Throughout that time, two things kept me from losing it: a few friends and fishing along the river. I’d sit on the bank for hours as I tried to put together a simple lede for my next writing venture. I was constantly questioning whether or not my ability to write freely and easily would return. 

Eventually, my uncle lost his battle and was gone. The river was there once again as a place where I could cry and be away from the world. 

I write all this and think about the rest of my life. 

While my mental health has been solid for most of my 20 years, the moments where it was hard to go on were fixed when a rod was in my hand and there was water in front of me. I don’t know what the rest of my days look like, but fishing will never go away. 

According to a study by the National Library of Medicine, researchers found that anglers experienced an improvement in their mental health during the COVID-19 pandemic. That idea goes along with my experiences as the memories will never fade and the feeling of a trip’s first catch will never get old. 

However, when my life ends, I know two things. One, I hope my friends and family remember the good times. I hope they go fishing for themselves and enjoy the place where I was at my happiest. Second, I hope it ends like how another country artist, Kameren Marlow, describes the moment in his song “On My Way Out.” 

“On my way out, when it's my time to go

I hope the road to get there goes by my old fishing hole

I hope the one that broke my line is still swimming around

'Cause I'd like to try him one more time.”

Contact Zach Carter via email at zachary.carter@bsu.edu or on X @ZachCarter85

Share