The time for gathering in the mountains is upon us. We are here, amidst ageless Appalachian majesty and the inexorable unceasing flow of cold, crystal waters. Brother trout is here, too, awaiting our challenge.

It is a gathering much like all the others we have known. We shall fish all day, breathe clean mountain air, bask in mountain sunshine, and cool ourselves in mountain shade. We shall rest at streamside atop ages-old boulders or upon soft hemlock-needle carpets.

Come day’s end, we shall drift in ones, twos, or threes back to the house on Hightower Creek. Apple Tree House, our mountain home for one week each year. There, we shall eat well, evolve from merriment to mellowness with the aid of fine spirits, and, in a word, enjoy ourselves in capital fashion.

We shall tell fishing tales, a smattering of which even contain a grain or two of fact. We shall gather on the back deck and recount good times past.

“Hey, y’all remember that year when…..?”

Yeah, we do. The recollection brings smiles, some mirthful and amused, some pleasantly nostalgic. Another drink, another story. We enjoy ourselves and each other. It isn’t just about fishing anymore. We’ve reached that point. It’s being here, together. Tradition, ritual, comfort.

Yes, comfort. Even the insults are comforting. In this group, they are a rite of passage. One earns them over time. At that point he is accepted, and loved.

Yeah, we love each other, I reckon. There, I said it.

How pleasant, this annual gathering in the mountains. How sweet to gather at dusk at the groaning board and the flowing bowl. How sweet to simply be here yet again.

But, wait. It is not quite the same. There is, it seems, one empty chair. I count heads. All here save one.

He is conspicuous by his absence. The old sprung recliner is more than just empty. It seems deserted, forlorn somehow. Why is he not here? Of all of us, he seemed the most indestructible.

Sitting here alone right now, within arm’s reach of his favored great-room resting place, I find myself very angry at Death. How did he find our covey? He’s never shot into it before now. We always seemed so safe and sequestered. Now he shows up. Who gave him hunting rights?

Why is there no longer an old worn-out Zebco 33 with a mismatched fiberglass rod standing in the corner? He always insisted on using it, despite our “expert” advice concerning the latest ultralight fishing technology. He always caught fish, but we never shut up about it.

Why is there no one here to ask about the funny noise my truck is making? If he was here, he’d fixit. He could fix anything.

Where are all the “Robertisms?”

His opinion that not so pretty women look like “burnt stumps,” for instance. Or his favorite (unprintable) vulgarism, the one with which he punctuated nearly every spoken sentence. He used it the way fundamentalist preachers use “amen.” Somehow, though, it was never offensive. And, God, how hilarious to hear him use it to describe everything from fish to fowl to driving through Atlanta to the discomfort of acid reflux.

Where is his smelly old fish creel, the one with the mouse holes, the receptacle he called his “little bag?” It should be there on the back porch, emitting toxic fumes and making everyone cuss, laugh, and gag.

Where are the ever-present can of Skoal, the old cleat-soled waders never meant to be used in a trout stream, and the landing net with holes through which Moby Dick could escape? Where in the refrigerator is the “sweet milk” with which he never failed to begin each day? Where’s the snoring? Where’s the bottle of Lord Calvert? Why am I now cooking cabbage and getting those you-can’t-do-it-like- Robert looks?

Yeah, I’m really angry at death right now. Forget the fact that we’re honoring him this week. Forget that no one was allowed to sit in “his” chair the first night. Forget the toasts to his memory. That’s all good, but it isn’t enough. No matter what we do, the fact remains one of us, one who should by all rights still be here, is not. And that chair is so, so empty.

Damn you, Death. Damn you.