“So take me away, I don’t mind, but you better promise me, I’ll be back in time… back in time…” -Huey Lewis and the News

I’ve always been adept at time travel. Perhaps I read too many science fiction and fantasy books as a child, and I will readily admit that one of my favorite classes in college was a literature course on science fiction and fantasy.

However, unlike H.G. Wells’ time traveller in the “The Time Machine,” my adventures never seem to go forward into future worlds filled with Eloi and Morlocks. Rather, I usually find myself transported back in time to the delineated memories of my past.

So it was that I found myself “memory hopping” one day last week as I worked placing river rocks in the newly finished landscaping around our house at the farm. As a side note, I have always been drawn to creeks and rivers, and those that feature the smooth multi-colored stones of the mountains are especially appealing to me.

My mind wanderings that day may have come more as a result of heat exhaustion than daydreaming as I somehow found myself standing in the middle of the cold waters of mountain stream in North Georgia.

Cast, mend, drift, strip the line — I was lost in the rhythm of that repetition as I fished a beautiful run along a stretch of Ticanetley Creek. My focus vacillated between watching the drift of my fly and gazing at the myriad of river rocks beneath the clear waters.

As I fished the section over and over trying to find the presentation that would entice a rainbow trout from beneath the large rocks at the tail of the run, my eyes were soon distracted from my fly line by a group of cows that had gathered at the top of the creek bank beneath the low-hanging limbs of a tree.

The bovines lined up as if entering a turnstile to board the subway and proceeded to utilize the limbs and trunk of the tree as a scratching post. If you have never had the pleasure of watching a cow scratch his or her rump on a tree, then you are missing out. I found myself smiling as I watched them each take turns. I also found my mind drifting to another creek.

I had entered Sawmill Creek just below the bridge at Mr. Glenn Millican’s house and had spent the morning wading and walking along its edge down through the field to where it joined Brown Creek. I remember seeing what looked like a trout while standing on the bridge that day and then reasoning that was not possible in the warm waters of the Mississippi summer.

Walking home, I cut through Mr. Rorie’s pasture and watched his cows, one by one, leaving after scratching on the low-hanging limb of an oak. I remember running my hand along the bark of the limb, rubbed smooth by the frequent attention of the cows.

The thought of that smooth surface brought me back full circle to my river rocks. They had come from Colorado, and as I handled each rock, I marveled at its smooth surface. What had their journey been like? They were formed by the moving water, polished smooth by the friction of sediment, smaller rocks and the current. It’s a process that takes time. Once, I reasoned, they were part of a great mountain.

Several years ago as I prepped for my first hike on the AT, I read that the Appalachian Mountains once approached the height of Mount Everest. According to an article in Conde Nast Traveler, geologists used samples from the soil of the Appalachian Basin and the sand of the Outer Banks to estimate that the “lowly Appalachians were once as high as the rugged Himalayas.”

The amount of time and erosion involved in making them what they are today is mind-boggling to me. That’s a lot of friction! Thinking about those mountains and my river rocks also got me thinking about how we are all molded and shaped by our environments.

For me, it’s like the Biblical precept of “iron sharpening iron” from Proverbs 27:17. I am grateful for the mentors who have helped both “sharpen” and “smooth” my edges over the years, shaping me into who I am today.

I was reminded (again “memory hopping”) of this fact a few weeks ago by a lifelong friend. In sixth grade my friend Marty Roberts and I were given the daily responsibility of flag duty. It was an honor and a privilege and a role that we took very seriously.

It had not crossed my mind in years until Marty mentioned it in a Facebook post in response to one of my articles. He had used it as an illustration in one of his sermons to demonstrate how we (and our world view) are shaped by our experiences.

I was honored to help hoist and lower that flag each day in sixth grade, and I was honored to be mentioned in one of Marty’s sermons. It was a great reminder that, much like those river rocks, I am always being shaped by those around me. Until next time, fly your flag proudly this Fourth of July, and I look forward to seeing you out there in our great outdoors.

Email outdoors columnist Brad Dye at braddye@comcast.net.