The Day Winter Came
By Jennifer Gordon Gray

The size of the waves depends upon the wind that raises them. The height of the flames depends upon how much firewood is piled on. The size of the Lotuses depends upon the pond in which they grow and the volume of rain depends upon the dragons that make it fall.  The deeper the roots, the more prolific the branches.  The farther the source, the longer the stream.

"Repaying Debts of Gratitude," Major Writings of Nichiren Daishonin, IV, 272

It is a chilled, late-fall day. The first snow has rested on the ground for nearly a week, and your favorite mountain stream, normally rushing with freedom, is now struggling to move under its new icy cap.

You stand there in shock, fishing pole at hand, creel strung over your vested shoulder, worms packaged in a Styrofoam dish at your feet.

"I've never seen it like this before," you mumble to your companion, who has never been here before. She shrugs her shoulders. What does she care that the stream is halfway frozen? It's such a far removal from the rancid, turgid waters near her former home in the Florida Everglades that she sees it as beautiful, while you stand there in disbelief. She knows that the journey never completely matches the one you had planned.

"Maybe if we go upstream a little...," you hope as you bend down for the worms and move off, up the narrow valley. She follows, sliding a little here and there, her hiking boots not quite suited to the rough Utah terrain.

She swears a little; you pause to let her catch up. "Aggressive soles, Scottie," you tell her, shaking your head slowly from side to side. "What you need are aggressive soles."

She laughs, face flushed from the effort of keeping up and a tiny bit of embarrassment.

You turn and continue leading her up, through the pines and underbrush.

The girl lags behind again—not just because of the failing boots but also to soak up the atmosphere. It's so quiet, so clean, so different. Just what she needs.

You watch her watching the forest. Her hair is woven into an impromptu braid down her back, a tan fleece tied around her waist by its arms. You don't know what to think. She's an attractive woman, nicer than you'd hoped, but she would certainly distract you from your everyday life. Still—the world would be a little different when she got on that plane tonight and flew east, away.

On up the valley, the situation is even worse. As the stream narrows and shallows out, the ice has gotten a firmer toehold. She—Scottie—is still coming up behind you. You study the ice—there are a few holes where a fisherman can dip a line and hope for the best. You set the Styrofoam bowl on a rock and open the lid. Slowly, carefully, you inch one fat specimen onto your tiny hook. Then you bait hers. "I don't know how much luck we're going to have today, Scottie." She just sees the stream, thinking it is like life. The narrower the focus, the icier—the more bottled up—one becomes.

The tops of the mountains, too, are always colder than the warmer, sheltered valleys. She smiles at you. "Let's try anyway," she says.

You're having more success than you'd reckoned, despite the circumstances. The water is cold, the fish are slower, but you still manage to entice three or four into your canvas creel. Scottie's downstream a little way, trying to figure out the reel, where the fish are hiding, footwear forgotten. The sun glints on her gold hair and you look away.

Another bites — another brookie destined for the frying pan. This hole is fished out.

You move down, past the girl. She isn't having your kind of luck, but still, there is a contented smile on her face. You can tell she is happy just to be there.

In a moment, she too moves downstream. She's surprised to see your retreating footprints in the snow. She didn't hear you pass. Now she passes you.

Her next hole is better; she's had a hit and you come down to join her. A tiny brook trout, no more than six inches long, lies on the ice, gills working in the frigid air, just out of reach. It must have fallen off her hook.

She looks at you sadly. "Don't worry, Scottie, it'll find its way back to the water." She just sighs, unsure. You study the prostrate fish. "Then again, maybe not." You prod it with the tip of your fiberglass pole until it finally falls through a hole in the ice with a little plop.

Now she looks happy again.

"I don't seem to be doing so good," she says as you check her worm. It doesn't matter, you assure her. "You're right," she suddenly grins. "What a beautiful place this is."

You catch two more fish as she looks on, trying a new hole nearby. She doesn't want to risk catching the same fish. She figures he's already had a bad enough day.

Now she finally, successfully catches a brookie. You help her with the hook extraction—she didn't even have to ask.

Although small, it's a fine fish. She likes the glistening dapples on its heaving belly. It joins the others in your creel, others you will have to eat alone because she's leaving tonight.

She takes a picture of you, as you are reaching around a bush trying to free your hook where it drifted down to lodge under a rock. You look up and smile just as the lens snaps open and shut. One second of your life, frozen on film.

Hook freed, you work over to her again. "Let me take one of you, Scottie," you say, reaching for her Olympus. She pats her unruly hair nervously. "Oh, I don't know, I'm sure I look like hell." You look at her objectively for a second. She stands out, special, from the rest somehow. But you can never tell her how. You smile to calm her nerves.

"Anyone who fishes is beautiful, Scottie," you tell her. She lets you take her picture.

The girl catches another, too small to keep. You gently toss the fish back, wanting it to grow so you can catch it again next spring.

The biggest fish she ever nearly caught was a six-foot tarpon off Sanibel Island. She had it snuggled up close to the boat where girl and fish met eye to eye. "Then it took off, and I had to let it go," she says, looking far away, remembering. The fish took a giant leap into the tropical sky, silver against blue, then spun around, cleverly cutting the filament line with the sharp edge of a fin. She was secretly glad it went free, she tells you, looking sideways at your face. "Something that glorious deserves to make its own decisions," she adds.

Fish stories. A companionable silence falls between you. You are bonded for an instant.

Then you admit, "The biggest fish I ever caught are these right here." You laugh, and she wonders if you are serious. Her eyes hold the tiniest bit of regret. She knows that, although you like these brookies right enough, there are bigger fish you'd like to fry.

Back at the bottom of the valley, the stream widens, flowing stronger now, making it harder for the encroaching ice to clot. She's already there, trying for one more fish. But her worm is nearly gone, and she finally leans her pole against your car door, content with what has happened already at this little Utah stream. She points at your creel as you emerge through the trees. "How are the brookies?" she calls.

You pat the damp bag of fish resting against your hip. "They're fine. They're not moving much." You sigh, and she picks up the tender edge to your voice. Her heart turns over, melting, as you continue, "They're cold. And they're dying."

You don't see the tears at the corner of her eyes as you dig into a blue-jean pocket, pulling forth two pieces of wrapped chocolate. Out of your trunk you snap open two cans of Coors beer and hand her one, along with the chocolate. You sit on separate boulders, looking at the pine trees and the ever-flowing trout stream.

The girl is moving to Scotland next week. Not just across the country, but across the Atlantic. You can't believe she's actually going. "Scottie," you begin, somewhat hesitant.

"What is the attraction in Scotland?" She looks closely at you, but you refuse to meet her gaze.

Finally she spreads her right hand out to encompass the miles of forest, the oceans of streams, the mountains of boulders. "All of this," she whispers, hoping you understand.

Ask me to stay, she pleads silently. Just ask. You hear her unspoken words.  You've thought about it, nearly said it several times over the last few days; such a short visit, really. But no, let her go, get on with your life, and maybe someday you'd meet again.

Maybe someday the ice will thaw in the warmth of the sun, the brookies would once again activate, and you'd fish together under better conditions, maybe in the spring.

At the airport, after she loads her shoulders with her miscellaneous rucksacks, you turn to face her goodbye; confused, sad, and glad at her departure. Your lips move slowly after you kiss her. "Aggressive soles," you say. "Remember next time, Scottie.

"Aggressive soles."

And she just laughs and walks away. She walks through the chilly October oxygen, into the terminal, gone now, just like that, from your vision.

You start the car, waiting for the engine to warm a little before driving off. There was a lot of snow in the woods today, you think. A lot of snow, it will be a cold winter.

Jennifer Gordon Gray is an award-winning writer who has worked as a writer, editor and photographer in the newspaper industry since 1983. She is also a correspondent for several publications serving members and friends of Soka Gakkai International, both in the United States and the United Kingdom.

She has been published in many literary venues and recently won an award in a Writer's Digest competition.

Jenny is also a horse-driving and dressage enthusiast, and owner of a homebred Oldenberg filly, Caledonia. She was a staff worker for the 1996 Olympic equestrian games in Atlanta, working on the fields of play for both the dressage and three-day-event competitions.

Visit her site, Tartan Pony Publishing