The Preacher Has Gone Fishing Chapter 11

"THE PREACHER HAS GONE FISHING," THE STORY OF AN ANGLER AND A HAUNTED MUSKOKA LODGE, CHAPTER ELEVEN OF TWELVE

     When the Preacher stood, pondering the view, perched at the edge of the hillside, looking out over the expanse of Lake Rosseau, he felt a great calm come over him, as if by divine intervention, he had been touched by the heavenly aura of this enchanted place on earth. It gave him reason to relax his anxious mind, and weary soul, and it did cross his mind, that he might retire to this lakeland some day soon, and fish to his heart's content. Nature was proving quite a temptation to him, but a good temptation. It was for his betterment, and he gave himself willingly, to speed-up the transition, of the weary and uninspired, to the thriving and highly motivated. It was his awakening, and he was being very poetic, as if the second coming of the great bard, Robbie Burns. He wanted to write, and he had a lot of empty pages in his folio in which to apply the ink.

     By his own admission, the toils of his profession, and sharing all the stresses of those in his charge, had over time and thousands of miles travelled, along those dusty, terrible roads, dulled his keener senses. He had simply been too exhausted in many circumstances, to stop for any length of time, to truly appreciate all that surrounding him, every day of his travel and outreach.

    The Preacher found himself by this intimate questioning, a much less enthusiastic envoy of God, and it unsettled his perspective on the future. Was he losing his zeal to spread the word? Was he becoming a liability, with his old bones, and old ways, and possibly letting God down somehow. He noticed that even in the short time he had been residing, in this Lake Rosseau encampment, his sensory perception had improved. He had seen a hundred thousand chipmunks in his travels, yet he had never really studied their appearance up close. He had enjoyed their company up on the verandah, even to the point of one little fellow taking a peanut off the toe of his boot. The chipmunk was comfortable enough, to sit up on its haunches, at his feet, and with two front paws, slipping the nut into its pocket cheeks. The Preacher was amazed by this, and provided numerous other peanuts, in order to watch how the tiny brown and black-striped creature, was able to store away so much food in its cheeks. He had awakened to many new realities, while on this gentle respite in Muskoka, especially about the intricacies of nature he had known, but never really studied up close. He felt disadvantaged in this way, because he was much too old to re-school about everything, he had somehow missed through all the years.

     That late afternoon, the Preacher, still rejoicing at the morning's successful fishing adventure, and the fact he had been able to bring back another full creel of fresh catch, for the benefit of the Lodge kitchen, he settled into the deep, soothing depression of a wooden chair, positioned near the entrance on the verandah, and contented himself watching out over the lakeland scene, and enjoying the warmer temperature than the days previous. He watched as other anglers returned from their trips, looking less enthused about their successes, than he had returned with bloated fishing creel, such that the wicker lid would fastened down. He studied the guests and their habits around the property, and the running of youngsters playing hide 'n seek in the adjacent woodland, that looked a little bit like forests he had known growing up in Scotland. He thought that at any moment he would hear the faint echoing skirl of the bagpipes, from somewhere beyond the smokey hillsides.

     The Preacher talked to several guests, two ladies in particular, who had sat themselves down beside him, on the great length of verandah, fronting the Victorian style building, nestled tightly into the pinery of this minor hillside, above the lake. They had a fascination for his stories of Scotland, as he remembered it, and his days there as a young lad, running through the heather-laden hillsides, and of course, there was the great Robbie Burns, another of the country's legendary bards. The women wanted to know what "haggis" was all about, which of course was the traditional, savoury fair, stuffed into a sheep's stomach, with a curious blend of oatmeal, onions, organ meats of the subject sheep, suet, spice, salt, and stock from the boiled-down carcass. He was happy to oblige, with stories he had been told by his grandmother on the subject, of stuffing such traditional fare. The Preacher enjoyed the friendly chatter, and spent the rest of the afternoon enjoying their company, and others, who by happenstance, joined in the conversation.

     At supper hour, the Preacher again sat at his usual table, and enjoyed a delicious fish dinner, as did many other lodgers gathered in the great hall. He made sure, to fulfill his promise, and had his server, on this occasion, seek out the orange kitten he had injured, earlier in the morning, when he had stepped down from the staircase, onto the main floor, catching its tiny tail beneath the heal of his boot. Being of considerable body weight, he understood how terrible this pain must have been, on the frail kitten, and had promised he would bring it a special fish treat that evening, as compensation for the misadventure. She was able to take the broken up portions of fish, from the Preacher's plate, to where the kitten had curled up on a portion of old carpet, rolled in the corner of the foyer of the lodge. He was told later, by the server, that the gift of cooked fish, had been devoured quickly by the wee beastie, but as for forgiveness, he would have to assume, amends had been somewhat achieved by the act of generosity. There would be more at breakfast, when he would allow a few portions of his scrambled eggs, to hit the floor by his chair. This, he had, done, earlier, and the kitten seemed to appreciate the charitable act.

     When the Preacher, that long, long August day, decided it was time to retire to bedlam, he once again, as a last duty of the wise angler, took his fishing rod a part, and gave it a thorough cleaning from the day's activities. He would then, put it back together just as slowly, and carefully, so as not to stress any of points of union, and eyelets for the line, that he also cleaned of dirt brought up when the fish was reeled up to the boat. For a while, he sat in the big arm chair of his chamber, practicing his fly fishing moves, because he expected the guide would take him to a river in the area, to seek out trout from the shallows. He had gone fly fishing many times with his father and grandfather in Scotland, and always felt they had very much enhanced his opinion of nature, and the opportunities being outdoors afforded the hungry soul. A lot of time, between strikes, was spent pondering life and times. There had always been a spiritual aspect about fishing, especially fly-fishing, but he couldn't have explained it simply, or even at all; as it was just wonderment and didn't require dissection. He placed the fishing rod in the corner, where he had situated it previously, and made sure the cork was securely placed on the sharp barb of the hook. He didn't want to step on it, when he got up in the night for a glass of water. 

     He had nodded off in the great chair several times, and finally thought it was time to extinguish the lights, and fall into the soft mattress afforded him on the wooden bedstead, with its warm wraps of wool blankets and colorful exterior quilt. When he sat on the edge of the bed, and enjoyed the sensation of softness against his stiff back, he offered a silent prayer of thanks, for God having provided such a precious day, and trip for him; with the generous bounty of the lake, and the kindnesses bestowed by so many folks at the Muskoka lodge. He even thought, momentarily, about the little cat, he had as a regular visitor at his table in the dining hall, as being pleasant on this vacation to this rural clime, in what was still a pioneer community.

     In only moments, of the Preacher's head hitting the feather-filled pillows, his deep snoring had commenced. If a voyeur had looked through the still partially opened room door, they would have witnessed a very peaceful respite indeed, of the satisfied angler, after another day of fulfilled ambitions. Possibly he would be dreaming of that full fishing creel, for a second day, and find himself, dreamily so, standing in the gentle rapids of a shallow river, casting for the evasive trout he most desired. There was no doubt, by the peaceful scene, that this respite, at the Muskoka lodge, had done his physical and emotional self considerable good, after only a few days immersed in the pleasures of ruraldom.