* * Closing in on the end of a life well lived

A timeless river. A john-boat. Camera. Canteen. Binoculars. Father and son. Elemental stuff.

Dad and I took the morning on the New River on a hot summer day. We parked and unloaded at the landing near I-81 and dropped the propeller of his electric motor into the green water. Traffic thundered overhead on the massive parallel bridges, yet it was calm and serenely peaceful on the water. As it should be.

Dad has had a terrible year, in and out of seemingly all the area’s hospitals. I joke that he should apply for the bed equivalent of frequent flier miles. He had prostate cancer twenty years ago and it was treated successfully with radiation. But at this stage, his bladder has failed, likely because of it. I’m guessing his doctors at the time never thought he’d live this long. He’s been wracked with infections since then, necessitating the hospital stays.

I mean no disrespect to the wonderful health care people of our community, as most are caring, thoughtful, and well-trained. But hospitals are awful places. Dad’s bad days have been at the hospitals. The good days have been on the river.

Bob has made a reputation for himself as an extraordinary wildlife photographer, with his specialty being birds, especially water birds. When you go on a wildlife trip, you never know what you’ll see. Sometimes you don’t see much of anything. But if you don’t go, you guarantee that you’ll never see anything.

I was hopeful of seeing an osprey or two. Ospreys, or “fish eagles,” are the avian world’s most adroit fishermen. They soar overhead on broad, massive wings and plummet feet-first into rivers and lakes, emerging with fish in their razor-sharp talons. They are dark on the back and wings and bright white underneath. They have curved beaks and piercing yellow eyes.

We went downstream first, under the bridges. Dad had me scouring the shoreline for sights of an otter or perhaps a mink. I saw an occasional great blue heron in the distance and a kingfisher, but the only good sighting was of a kingbird, a robin-sized flycatcher.

We turned upstream and the tiny motor propelled us slowly and silently through the current. Dad knew there were osprey nests on the dam’s upper structure and thought we might see a bird or two.

Dad’s resume might read something like this: Born in 1928 in Nassau County, Long Island, New York. Married Doris Sara Tatarsky of Richmond in 1950. Graduated from VPI in Forestry. Worked briefly for the Forest Service, but then made his home in the New River Valley and worked most of his career in his own company, Christiansburg Printing, which he founded in 1957. Four children: David, Michael, Richard, and Karen. Traveled to two-dozen countries. Loved scuba diving, wildlife viewing, and photography. Lived the American Dream.

Then we saw an osprey! He was a bold specimen, circling around in the area just below the dam. He flew overhead and then perched on the branch of a dead tree on the south side, near the road below an abandoned quarry. We circled towards him and he flew again to the other side, the north forested side, where the lighting was better for photos. He was a stunning, large bird, regal, as if cloaked in a tuxedo.

Dad stopped the motor and grabbed the camera from its carrying case. Attached was a lens maybe 18 inches long, dwarfing the camera. He started shooting. Click. Click. Click click click click… the bird turned towards us and stretched its wings. Click. Click click click. Dad took dozens of shots, perhaps hundreds. “Back in the film days, I’d take two rolls of 36 each and hope for a few good ones when they came back from the developer. Now with digital, I take hundreds every time I go out,” he said.

And so it went for the next hour or so. He pulled to shore so I could get out for a moment and swim to cool off. Dad used to be a good swimmer, better than me, but the risk of infection is too high now for him to swim any more.

“I’m near the end of my life,” he said in an emotionless, matter-of-fact way. “I’m not eager to go, but I know I’ll die soon. Everybody dies eventually.” He’d already beaten the odds, besting the actuarial tables.

I asked him whether he’d fulfilled his “bucket list.”

He said, “I have some short-term things I’d like to do. A couple of trips to make with friends and to see family. But I don’t plan too far ahead. If I feel well enough, I’ll go.”

We turned and headed back to the landing. The sun was hot, directly overhead.

“I’ve had a good life. I have a loving wife and four great kids. I’ve had great opportunities and done lots of exciting things. I love where I live.”

We waved at a couple of guys relaxing by their boat on the shoreline.

“And,” he said, “I love this river.”