A couple of weeks ago, I went on a fishing trip with my Dad and my brothers to celebrate my dad’s sixtieth birthday. We went backcountry camping and fly-fishing in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. This was one of the more remote things we’ve ever done. We hiked miles into the wilderness with our supplies, planning to live on the fish we caught. After our first day of fishing, we felt like we might be in trouble. We didn’t catch enough fish. Dipping into our emergency rations on day one wasn’t exactly the plan. The next day, we decided to split up.

Normally, we fish in pairs, each taking one side of the river. But on this day, we were fishing alone. It was nice because no one knew how many times my fishing line got hung up in the trees. At one point, while untangling myself from a particularly angry shore-bush, I heard a loud THUD come from across the creek. I thought a tree had fallen. Thankful that it missed me, I looked across the water and saw something shocking.