Norman McLean, of "A River Runs Through It" fame, once wrote the simple, but fetching line, "I am haunted by waters."

Thinking on that, doesn't that pretty much say it? It does for me, especially as a fisherman.

Who among us can't relate? Aren't you, like me, personally "haunted" by waters you cannot get back to as often as you'd like?

I love the old familiar lakes and streams of home, but they just don't permeate my dreams and fancies like some of those waterways far removed from my dayto day existence, those lying tantalizingly just out of reach except for a few trips a few times each year.

Some of the waters that haunt me have primitive, ages-old names like Chattooga, Nantahala, Hiawassee, Tallulah. Others' names are downright pretty: Soapstone, Snowbird, Nimblewill, Fires Creek. Still more bear titles more down to earth and admittedly unromantic, such as Wildcat, Rock, or Coleman. I love them all equally, depending upon which one holds me spellbound at any given time. "Love the one you're with," as songwriter Stephen Stills once put it.

My haunting waters are waters that flow. They move. Inexorably onward. They are at once both babbling and tranquil, wild and raucous. Some ooze gently from tiny springs in mountaintop cove forests and trickle, nimble and light-footed, toward an ultimate end in larger streams or still larger impoundments. Others rage, cutting deep, timeless gorges that give way to pristine mountain valleys. They gnaw voraciously at midstream boulders and bank strata, sculpting and resculpting ancient geologic statuary that is, at the same viewing, peace-giving and aweinspiring.

Some of these waters openly resent a twolegged creature's intrusion. They sweep me from what seemed a steadfast foothold and ravage me, intent upon grinding human bone and sinew into so much organic flotsam and sediment. If they do not kill me, at the very least they constantly remind me, "Be wary. Do not tread carelessly across my flow."

Other streams are more benign and somehow tolerantly courteous, gentlemanly waters that touch me, excuse themselves, and divert them- selves politely around the clumsy man-thing so thoughtlessly impeding their down-slope journey. These are waters for a little boy (one who grew up much too fast) to wade and wonder at. They are perfect places, into which he once long ago made a first clumsy and ungraceful cast. They are waters, too, for that little boy's father, who watched his son battle and subdue that one-and-only first all-by - himself trout. The boy's wide grin, the bright blue eyes, the laughing face, and the unrestrained joy of the moment to this day reflect from the surface of the deep pool beside the thick clump of mountain laurel.

The denizens of these waters haunt me as well. The crayfishes, the creek chubs, the banded water snakes. And, of course, the trout. Here, I do polite and sometimessuccessful battle with rainbows, browns, and the occasional brookie. Some of these "gentleman" fishes are wild and lovely, born in the stream and warily wise in its ways. Innately they know its twists and turns, its secluded nooks and crannies. They are, at times, difficult and elusive prey. Other piscine inhabitants are "tame," born and bred in the sterile concrete confines of the hatchery tank. Not so beautiful, not so wary, and not so hard to catch are they. Yet they all haunt me, be they lean, swift, and cautious or fat, pellet-fed, and naively gullible. They fight and feed me well, somehow nourishing both body and soul.

Oftentimes, as I stand knee-deep in the current of these flowing waters, casting my line and making ever-increasing memories, I pause long enough to watch the dappled light of early morning or late afternoon paint the trees and the dancing riffles with flecks of fire-tinged gold. During those moments, I think not of trials and troubles and pay not the slightest heed to past or future tribulations. Instead, I seize the day and wonder, sometimes aloud, "Is this heaven?"

More times than not, I swear I hear a still, small voice whisper in simple, yet powerful declaration an answer from the forest hemlocks and the streamside rhododendron thickets.

"Of course," it says.

At that moment, it's mighty hard not to believe.

(Email Bob Kornegay at cletus@windstream. net)