The River That Taught Me How to Hope Again

This article was originally titled “River of Life” in the Feb-Mar 2026 Seasonable Angler column.

I imagine God as an outdoor enthusiast—like me. If anything was made “in His image,” it must be rivers. They too have no real beginning or end. They live on land in multiple seasonal forms, and in the sky as sometimes invisible members of a “holy trinity” of water, vapor, and ice. They too are eternal, ever changing, yet unchanged. Nature prays through the sounds of falling raindrops, rushing rivers, and rolling seas. I pray that way too. Water, wind, and birdsong connect me to the divine.

Whenever I need to find hope and joy within myself and within this all too often wounded world, I go fishing—and it makes all the difference. It’s not that I look away from the cruel ugliness we are seeing in some of humanity, but rather that I choose to look at the kindness and beauty that thrives within most of humanity. And it’s not that I choose to deny the challenges we’ve created through ignorance and shortsightedness—as much as I’ve begun to focus my attention on our innate ability to act with empathy, understanding, and wisdom, and in doing so, begin to heal ourselves and our natural world.

Hope is a guppy swimming just below the surface of the water. Even as life’s vagaries and the physics of entropy limit the continued existence of individual fish, these lovely little fishes still manage to multiply endlessly into eternity—with enduring beauty, and vibrant possibilities. We can swim this way too, if only we choose healing over hurting and active love over passive apathy.

So recently when I needed to heal, I went to the River of Life, my home waters—the waters that have always given me a sense of comfort, joy, gratitude, and mindful awareness. The Guadalupe River got its name in 1689 from the governor of New Spain, Alonso de León. Before the arrival of Spanish Conquistadors, this river flowed through the homelands of several indigenous peoples, including the Karankawa, Tonkawa, and Huaco tribes. Over the ensuing centuries this land of canyons and rivers has changed in its given name from colonial New Spain to the independent nations of Mexico and the Republic of Texas, before becoming the State of Texas, in both the Confederacy and the United States. In the 1800s, German immigrants settled the Texas Hill Country, seeking to create “enlightened communities” that shunned violence, opposed slavery, and promoted scientific understanding, spiritual knowing, literature, art, drama, and lives that were lived at least partially in partnership with the land, waters, and wildlife. But even they suppressed the natural fire cycle, eradicated apex predators, diverted the waters, and built more walls than bridges. Will we ever learn?

I suspect these clear, clean limestone rivers and streams care little for which generation or inclination of humans settles beside them, as much as that their spring-fed waters simply be allowed to flow—naturally. But today, as before, it’s just the same people with different faces—only many more of them—draining and containing these once hallowed waters. And gratefully the progeny of fishes and other wildlife still thrive in and among these ancient currents. They are the lifeblood of these hills. They are what flows through me and you and every living being. Water and sunlight—the sources of all life on Earth.

When I arrived at the river’s edge I parked my truck beneath a pecan tree, assembled my fly rod and reel, and slipped my sling over my shoulder. Before wading into the Guadalupe I paused and scanned all that was around me. I wanted to see what had vanished and what remained since I’d last seen her in the early spring. I noticed that the ranchers’ fences were completely gone, as were the cattle that those fences once contained. And the small island where the deer often slept among the tall native bunch grasses had been entirely washed away. I was relieved to see that all the ancient cypress trees that have shaded this river since long before my birth remained intact and alive. I smiled at their gnarled roots gripping the thin soil and porous limestone as if their lives depended upon it—because it did and does. Devoid of tenacious roots, we all are in danger of falling.

The waters of the Guadalupe River are most often serene and gentle in their currents, but the Texas Hill Country through which it flows is prone to flash flooding due to a combination of topography, geology, and climate. Recently, on July 4, 2025, such a destructive and deadly flash flood event hit the Texas Hill Country and particularly the Guadalupe River, resulting in the deaths of more than a hundred people—many of them children. This natural tragedy struck at the heart and soul of our riverside communities, and the grief has been palpable, as has been the wellspring of mutual compassion and loving kindness.

From the floodwaters arose the best of humanity, and neighbors came together without a thought about how anyone voted, prayed, or loved. We were One Tribe—our ultimate truth. A sense of community and compassion is the key we must hold if we are ever to unlock the self-imposed barriers to lives worth living. All the rest is just noise.

There’s no telling how many wild creatures were lost as the river became a raging torrent sweeping away family homes and native habitats, along with so many lives—human and nonhuman. That night the rain fell in a cyclonic deluge and the floodwaters struck my Texas Hill Country homeland without mercy toward any living being in its path. Along with the terrible loss of human life, generations of wild creatures and plants, both aquatic and terrestrial, were either destroyed or washed many miles downstream—most never to return.

When I stepped into the river for the first time since the flood, I stood there in quiet reverence for the lost lives and wounded hearts that surrounded me in form and in spirit. Rivers, like lifetimes, are ever changing, and even after decades of fishing this river and knowing every bend and eddy, none of this matters once the river or the life path begins to bend differently. I decided from the start that my objective was not so much to catch even a single fish, but rather to do no harm and simply be with the river, awake, aware, and grateful.

I tied on a simple hopper fly and purposely smashed the hook flat and harmless into its foam body. Then I began casting into the likely places along the roots of ancient cypress trees that had survived the deluge. I knew very well that this section of river might have been rendered devoid of fish. After all, the floodwaters had laid this river barren—for a time. It mattered not for my intended purpose. I simply wanted to see if anyone was home. Each cast was an invitation, not an expectation. This was not an exercise in prideful sporting prowess but rather one of mindful acceptance, hopeful exploration, and enduring gratitude. It was an exercise in hope and healing—the first attribute being a choice and the second being an intentional process.

As I cast into the soft and gentle waters, I thought back to the violence and terror they’d engendered just a few months prior. It reminded me of a peaceful morning when I watched the sunrise over the Gettysburg battlefield, where so many had suffered and died so needlessly. But as I sat there sipping my morning coffee and gazing across the field where Pickett’s Charge ended in slaughter . . . I noticed the grasses bending softly in the breeze and the brightly colored warblers singing love songs from the trees as white-tailed deer browsed among the now silent cannons. It was the same pastoral place, with different chosen paths and perspectives—and wildly different outcomes. We can’t change our collective history, but we can change our unified future.

So I cast into these waters that have so often given me life, and where I might return someday when this mortal journey ends. And in time, a single surviving fish rose up, and for an instant we were joined together before she let go. Neither of us was harmed by the encounter. We simply greeted each other . . . fellow travelers in different forms. And within that quick connection lives the hope of the world because we are one, even when we swim in different currents. Cast after cast I connected ever so briefly with a small, bright sunfish, and my feelings of hope grew because now I knew that at least these feisty little fish had survived.

It was about then that I began to wonder: “What about the Guadalupe bass?” Had any of these rare fish managed to resist being washed downstream into oblivion? With my next cast, a bucket-mouthed Guadalupe bass inhaled my hookless fly and pulled my fiberglass rod into the shape of a question mark before letting go and swimming home to the deep, cool pool that he now considered home.

In every place where humans exist, which is almost every place, there are those who through the emptiness of their souls choose to cause harm, and those who, no matter the challenges they might face, do their best to heal themselves and the world. These latter people are my tribe. They are the wellspring of hope for our children’s future and the future of our planet.

We need a healthier connection and sense of community with each other and with this vibrant living planet. A New World has always been within our reach. We create our own heavens and hells. Just like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, we’ve always had the power to “go home.” But before we click our heels and say those magic words, “There’s no place like home,” let’s all agree to be committed to doing our part in imagining and creating a wiser, braver New World. A world built upon healing each other and our home. Our greatest adventure begins. Now.

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Steve Ramirez is a Texas master naturalist, poet, and U.S. Marine Corps veteran. He is the author of four books published by Lyons Press: Casting Forward (2020), Casting Onward (2022), Casting Seaward (2023), and Casting Homeward (2024).

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