The sun was beginning its gentle descent, casting a golden glow over the tranquil waters of the Baroro River. I found myself on its banks once again, in the small, unassuming village of Sta. Rosa in San Juan, La Union. This river holds a special place in my heart, a repository of memories from my past visits. It was here that I first learned to fish, to ride a carabao, and to appreciate the simple, unhurried pace of rural life.
I walked along the riverbank, the soft earth cool beneath my feet. The rhythmic gurgle of the water and the distant chirping of crickets created a symphony that soothed my soul. It was a stark contrast to the cacophony of the city, a welcome respite.
My mind drifted back to the time I learned how to use a push net, a remarkable tool that's as effective as it is simple. The net is attached to a sturdy, X-shaped bamboo frame, designed to be pushed along the riverbed. The lower part of the frame glides on the sand, while the top of the frame, where the net is secured, acts as a handle. The net itself is a fine-meshed nylon fabric, tapering into a bag-like shape at the end. As you push the net forward, it scoops up everything in its path, from small fish to, most commonly, shrimp. I remember the thrill of pulling up the net, the wriggling, translucent bodies of the shrimp sparkling in the sunlight.
Another unforgettable memory is of catching "ulang", a freshwater prawn or crayfish, with my bare hands. It's an art that requires patience and a good sense of touch. I would wade into the shallow water, moving against the flow of the current, my hands exploring the spaces underneath submerged rocks and fallen leaves. The "ulang" are surprisingly fast, but if you're quick enough, you can trap them against a rock with one hand and scoop them up with the other. The feeling of their smooth, hard shells against my fingers is a sensation I will never forget.
Then there was that one cold November night when I joined my wife's nephews to catch goby fry. We used a large, fine-meshed mosquito net, stretching it across a shallow part of the river to form a makeshift trap. The goby fry, a silvery swarm, would get caught in the net as we slowly pulled it toward the bank. The air was crisp, the moon was full, and the river was alive with the glow of our headlamps. Those were truly magical moments, filled with laughter and the joy of a shared experience.
And of course, I can't talk about the Baroro River without mentioning my father-in-law's carabao. I would often ride the gentle giant to the grassy portion of the riverbank to let him graze. The carabao's immense strength and calm demeanor always amazed me. Perched on his back, I felt like a king surveying his kingdom, the world moving at a slower, more deliberate pace.
As I walked back, the golden glow of the sunset giving way to the soft light of the moon, I realized that the Baroro River is more than just a body of water. It is a source of nourishment, not just for the community that depends on it, but for my soul as well. It is a place where time slows down, where memories are made, and where the simple joys of life are celebrated.
What's a memorable place you've visited that holds a special meaning to you?
This is my composition for this week's Wednesday Walk by 
DISCLAIMER:
This composition was created with the assistance of an AI, with all details and memories provided by me.
MUSIC:
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