Scholastic Award Winner: The Heron The Heron Silver Key in Personal Essay and Memoir By Henry, 9th Grade Something about the woods attracted my father. It all started years ago when he discovered that the little creek behind our cabin was the shortcut for migrating bass. We would come every fall during Thanksgiving break to this cabin, which was tucked away deep in the forest. As migration season neared, my father would watch the waters patiently, sometimes long after I had been tucked away and the crickets had sung their night chorus. Then they came—rapid flashes of green darting in and out of the water. He would point excitedly at them, and invite me to fish with him. I tried to fish too, but he had patience, and I had none. My short-lived excitement wandered to butterflies and smooth rocks I found on the ground, and then back to my empty bucket. My father’s bucket teemed with flailing bass that threatened to topple it over. It was as if the fish were attracted to him, too. One year, when the leaves turned golden, and the air carried a familiar warmth with hints of pumpkin pies, my father announced we were going fishing. Aha! I thought. My chance for redemption. I was eight then, confident I could brave the waters this time. So we grabbed the clunky buckets, balanced the lanky rods on our shoulders, and headed to the creek. A gold shade veiled the water, the shifting mosaic of red, orange, and yellow leaves trickling over jutting rocks. Thinning trees stretched across the sky like warm clouds drizzling us in leaves. “Here is nice.” My father patted a large rock. Setting down the buckets, we each found a comfortable spot on the rock and hooked the bait to our rods. He glanced at me and smiled. “Ready?” “You bet.” Two splashes rustled the stream briefly, leaving only the ripples as any sign of our presence. The air was neither thick like in the summer, nor biting like in the winter. The brisk, cool wind whispered birdsongs and the gentle lull of rolling water. Bobbing my rod, my face sank slightly when I still didn’t feel a tug. I snuck a peek at my father’s bucket—not filled with fish, but water. “What’s the water for?” I asked. He looked up from his rod. “To keep the fish alive, of course. We’ll throw back the extras so there’s enough for everyone.” I cocked my head, trying to make sense of the murky water that seemed anything but clear. “But… we’re the only ones here, right?” To that, he just chuckled, his sun-weathered face crinkling with a familiar smile as he turned back to the creek. Suddenly, my rod arched forward, and I would have fallen off the rock had I not planted my feet firmly. “H-hey! I think I got one!” “Oh, really?” My father asked. But before I could respond to him, I felt another tug, but this time in the opposite direction. And then I saw it, strange since I hadn’t heard it. By the line a slender, white bird tugged on the bass with its beak, its gray feathers ruffling as the hook clung firmly to its catch. “W-what’s that?” My fingers trembled, gripping the rod so tightly that a dull ache spread through my knuckles. I didn’t look away though, fearing I would be pulled into the creek with one sharp tug. My father seemed equally mystified, his voice dipping to a whisper. “A heron. That’s a heron.” I waited for it to do something. We were like the bass caught on the fishing line, frozen by fear and amazement. But the heron just strained its neck as it struggled, its stilt-like legs slicing through the water in jittery motions. The forest, which had been so lively before, stalled, and the water seemed to swirl around the heron. “It’s hungry,” I murmured, glancing at my father. “Would it be okay if I gave it my catch?” He nodded. I slowly lowered the rod and loosened the line. It tugged once, twice, and finally, the bass broke free. The heron’s eyes snapped up, suddenly meeting mine. It wasn’t the sharp glare I would expect from a predator, but a curious gaze. Its eyes flashed as it tensed its neck, eyeing me cautiously as if I would snatch the bass back somehow. Like it thought I was a heron, too—and no heron ever gave food away so easily. …there’s enough for everyone. My father’s gaze held the same gentle conviction as his words. I finally met the heron’s gaze, stared into its vivid, crimson eyes, and tried to speak to it like my father did to me. Maybe it suddenly realized I wasn’t one of its kind, or maybe it did nod back, and in a second, the bass slid down its neck. Its eyes softened, and it almost looked like it was smiling. Even the forest seemed to relax again. The water began to run again; the birds resumed their songs, and the heron spread its wings like it was offering a parting hug. And then it took off, a gust of ferocious wind hitting me as it launched into the air. After a minute, the ripples faded and only the faint avian scent remained as evidence it was ever there. But I didn’t look away for a long time, waiting patiently as if it would return for more. It was like it knew, like it was trying to say thank-you but could only cock its head and stare at me. Was that even possible? Perhaps it was then that I finally understood what my father had been trying to show me. There was a wordless acknowledgment that nature gave without inhibition or suspicion. There was peace to be found in such complex simplicity.
