Our evening on the water was pleasant though the fishing was slow by Wedge standards. Northern here. Walleye there. Uncle Emil said it was a reprieve. A pardon from the burden of having never ending fish on the line. We worked our way up lake, not far from camp, me casting the shore, Emil my guide. Islands and reefs floated by and beneath my flashing spinner.
An hour's drifting from camp Emil turned us into a tranquil bay. A small half bowl with steep shoulders and night black water that may as well have descended forever. The water appeared dense enough to slice into cubes and bring home in my pocket.
Uncle Emil chuckled but felt the same, "The water of bays like this appears so black and oily at times I've used it to grease the gasket in the Coleman stove, kept my knife blade from rusting, combed it in as a hair tonic and even smoothed out my delivery when spinning yarns. Oh yeah, it's some slick stuff alright. Definitely not water as we've come to know it."
The cut we'd entered proved as fishless as it was beautiful. Instead, we caught a stringerful of gazing. A few listless casts was enough. My rod went down.
Quietly, as though talking to himself, Emil broke the silence, "Reminds me of lakes I've fished in my dreams. Dreamt of fishing out of the way waters much like this bay many a time. More often in the weeks after Lena passed. For years I shore-fished those lakes with friends when the sun was high. Waste of time. Always skunked. No hits, no bumps, not even a bullhead. Finally sucked it up one moonless night and paddled out alone on a little bowl of a lake surrounded by shadow trees. Two, maybe three in the morning. Stars above backed by a night that looked to stretch forever. Also black below with a dusting of stars sprinkled on the glass. Couldn't see the hand in front of my face. Yeah I was scared floatin' there in the middle of all that nothingness. Good sign though, at least I was sane enough to know I was crazy. Caught a few walleyes that night. All by feel. Threw my tipped jig out and then let instinct take over. Had to go as deep as the lake'd allow. Then slowly, slowly gave life to the lure. Yeah I caught a few. Once in my hand I could only feel them and see the glow of the stars in their eyes. Like they were there and not there at the same time. Didn't matter, some things are meant to remain mysteries. Guess I was lucky enough to see that. Released them all."
We'd drifted, paddles silent, for five minutes when Emil caught sight of a white rump. Caribou. Not thirty yards away. His paddle tapped me on the shoulder and gestured uphill. By now I'd learned enough to speak only when spoken to. If Emil wanted my attention yet made no sound, he meant for me to remain lip bound. Pay attention. And do nothing to draw notice our way.
Quietly, as though talking to himself, Emil broke the silence, "Reminds me of lakes I've fished in my dreams. Dreamt of fishing out of the way waters much like this bay many a time. More often in the weeks after Lena passed. For years I shore-fished those lakes with friends when the sun was high. Waste of time. Always skunked. No hits, no bumps, not even a bullhead. Finally sucked it up one moonless night and paddled out alone on a little bowl of a lake surrounded by shadow trees. Two, maybe three in the morning. Stars above backed by a night that looked to stretch forever. Also black below with a dusting of stars sprinkled on the glass. Couldn't see the hand in front of my face. Yeah I was scared floatin' there in the middle of all that nothingness. Good sign though, at least I was sane enough to know I was crazy. Caught a few walleyes that night. All by feel. Threw my tipped jig out and then let instinct take over. Had to go as deep as the lake'd allow. Then slowly, slowly gave life to the lure. Yeah I caught a few. Once in my hand I could only feel them and see the glow of the stars in their eyes. Like they were there and not there at the same time. Didn't matter, some things are meant to remain mysteries. Guess I was lucky enough to see that. Released them all."
We'd drifted, paddles silent, for five minutes when Emil caught sight of a white rump. Caribou. Not thirty yards away. His paddle tapped me on the shoulder and gestured uphill. By now I'd learned enough to speak only when spoken to. If Emil wanted my attention yet made no sound, he meant for me to remain lip bound. Pay attention. And do nothing to draw notice our way.
Our silence was profound. Back then I had an undamaged fourteen year old's ears. Hadn't yet been scarred by the explosions of war and the howl of rock music. Whatever the reason, the breathing of the caribou stood out from the soft background rustle of leaves far above. At the same time I could barely hear its breath over the thundering of my heart. The animal was keenly aware we were there and was checking us out as surely as we were it. What can I say? It was a shared moment in our lives. Maybe more than that. Maybe not. A seed of awareness was planted in me. A seed and nothing more. Sure took a long time for it to sprout. Decades.
A snort and the caribou was gone. Guess it'd had its fill of us.
A snort and the caribou was gone. Guess it'd had its fill of us.
"Wasn't that something? Like being in the zoo of real life. Archie me lad, there's a world of stuff happening around us all the time. Most of it too small to notice. But a caribou? That's worth the price of admission any day."
Leaving the bay we paddled to the shallow, swamp edged, end-of-lake bay. There we stirred up and lost a pair of heavy pike. Enough to get our blood flowing. I was coming to understand fishing's not so much about catching as it was about making contact with unseen life on the other side of the surface. Like grabbing onto a dream for a moment or two. She's a thrill alright and goes to the core.
"On the other side of the swamp we're passing, sits a small lake. No more than a few hundred yards of bog-slog away. It's a good backup plan should we chicken out tomorrow, though I doubt we will. Archie me lad, you're a tougher kid than you think you are. Just never had the need. Tomorrow will provide that need. And, hopefully, the reward."
We drifted. Shared the joy of evening before our return to camp.
I wasn't a kid who asked for a lot. Pretty much took it as it came. Didn't need a campfire at night. No s'mores. Didn't even know what they were. Besides, Uncle Emil said night was a gift. Something to be absorbed in and absorbed by as it gathered around us. Back at camp we slathered down with bug juice and waited for night to come.
I've never figured out exactly when evening becomes night. Maybe when the first star can be seen. Or the gibbous moon hanging over the treetops across the lake exposes its shadowed side. Or when the loons said day was over and commenced their celebration of song.
Don't know how many loons were on the water in the dark. Four for sure. Two strung out in the distance up lake. One nearby. And a single down lake. A conversation arose among them. One solo speaker at a time. Calls reverberated and echoed the length of the shore. Were they talking to each other? Maybe it was a singing contest? As voices go I'm sure no two loons sound alike. At least to the loons they don't. One calls, the next tries to top it.
Then I figured each was just getting off on the sound of its own voice as it caromed fom the islands and bays. Then would pause as if to say, "Is that me? Um-um, don't I sound fine. Give it a minute 'til my turn comes around again. Then I'll treat the world to my wonderfulness one more time."
Uncle Emil and I were enjoying the concert as much as the birds. Then we decided to join in the fun. Of course there was no way I could duplicate the melodious sound of the loon. Emil almost could but his call lacked volume. So we fell back on the age-old means of hoot and holler. At the top of our lungs. Waited for an opening in the arias around us, then bellowed out. Paused and counted our echoes. Three, sometimes four. Like skipping stones and counting the padiddles on a skim of lake water.
At first the loons seemed to be spooked and quieted down. But as the minutes passed they came to accept our off key intrusion and allowed us space in their rhythm. Four loons, a kid and a gray hair, all giving it a go and saluting the rising moon. If that wasn't fun I don't know what was.
Leaving the bay we paddled to the shallow, swamp edged, end-of-lake bay. There we stirred up and lost a pair of heavy pike. Enough to get our blood flowing. I was coming to understand fishing's not so much about catching as it was about making contact with unseen life on the other side of the surface. Like grabbing onto a dream for a moment or two. She's a thrill alright and goes to the core.
"On the other side of the swamp we're passing, sits a small lake. No more than a few hundred yards of bog-slog away. It's a good backup plan should we chicken out tomorrow, though I doubt we will. Archie me lad, you're a tougher kid than you think you are. Just never had the need. Tomorrow will provide that need. And, hopefully, the reward."
We drifted. Shared the joy of evening before our return to camp.
I wasn't a kid who asked for a lot. Pretty much took it as it came. Didn't need a campfire at night. No s'mores. Didn't even know what they were. Besides, Uncle Emil said night was a gift. Something to be absorbed in and absorbed by as it gathered around us. Back at camp we slathered down with bug juice and waited for night to come.
I've never figured out exactly when evening becomes night. Maybe when the first star can be seen. Or the gibbous moon hanging over the treetops across the lake exposes its shadowed side. Or when the loons said day was over and commenced their celebration of song.
Don't know how many loons were on the water in the dark. Four for sure. Two strung out in the distance up lake. One nearby. And a single down lake. A conversation arose among them. One solo speaker at a time. Calls reverberated and echoed the length of the shore. Were they talking to each other? Maybe it was a singing contest? As voices go I'm sure no two loons sound alike. At least to the loons they don't. One calls, the next tries to top it.
Then I figured each was just getting off on the sound of its own voice as it caromed fom the islands and bays. Then would pause as if to say, "Is that me? Um-um, don't I sound fine. Give it a minute 'til my turn comes around again. Then I'll treat the world to my wonderfulness one more time."
Uncle Emil and I were enjoying the concert as much as the birds. Then we decided to join in the fun. Of course there was no way I could duplicate the melodious sound of the loon. Emil almost could but his call lacked volume. So we fell back on the age-old means of hoot and holler. At the top of our lungs. Waited for an opening in the arias around us, then bellowed out. Paused and counted our echoes. Three, sometimes four. Like skipping stones and counting the padiddles on a skim of lake water.
At first the loons seemed to be spooked and quieted down. But as the minutes passed they came to accept our off key intrusion and allowed us space in their rhythm. Four loons, a kid and a gray hair, all giving it a go and saluting the rising moon. If that wasn't fun I don't know what was.
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