The Preacher's Gone Fishing Chapter 5

 "THE PREACHER'S GONE FISHING," THE STORY OF AN ANGLER AND A HAUNTED MUSKOKA LODGE, CHAPTER FIVE OF TWELVE

     He hovered for some extended period of time, in that sanctuary nirvana, a much friendlier limbo, between the last haunting motions of evening slumber, pulling at him, as if he was a near drowning man, on the fringe of survival; being hauled roughly onshore by forces unknown. Awakening slowly, starkly to the chirping of reality, from the newly heightened state of alertness. The encouraging refrain coming this morning, from the beaks of many birds, of different feathers, flitting through the branches of the shoreline evergreens. He opened his eyes to the engulfing brightness of dawn, and his ears were already ringing with the chirping of resident wildlife. The Preacher didn't want to move from this warm place, beneath the heavy quilts, and the thought of the cold floor meeting with his sockless feet, seemed an unfair circumstance, of returning to full vigor; the kind of restoration that would see him, an hour later, hustling from the dining room of the lodge, to the waiting canoe, for that morning's fishing excursion.

     The Preacher opened both eyes to the vast and engulfing brightness of a Muskoka morning, the sunlight beams star-lighting in the dark hues of hardwood leaves, and through the needles of evergreens that lined the shore. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he could see much of the tree canopy, brushing against the deep blue sky, and watch the wavering pine boughs set in motion by the strong morning breeze, such that even amidst a covering of blankets held against his chest, he could feel the draft through the closed window on his exposed arms. He sat there for a short period of time, drinking it all in; the sensory perception that he was in the locale the residents refer to as "God's Country," because of its heaven-like adornments of great beauty yet peaceful solitude within the husky bosom of nature. Even after only a short experience, travelling along the Muskoka waterways, from Gravenhurst, he had understood just how picturesque it all was, unfolding as it did to the voyeaur, leaning over the rail of a chugging old steamship with its plume of smoke reflecting on what had been remarkably still waters.

     The Preacher finally raised himself off the edge of the bedstead, and moved closer to the window, in order to see what was happening below on this beautiful morning of deep, robust August. There were already two loaded canoes moving away from the Lodge dock, and he could see another rowboat being loaded with baskets, roped to the big iron rings of the dock posts. It got him thinking he might have slept in, and missed his pre-arranged fishing trip with a Lodge guide. He was quick about the business of washing his face and hands, and combing his fringe of hair, while estimating what the well dressed angler might adorn himself, on this first day of adventure. He had a warm, lined vest he assumed would be fitting for the angler, and he'd even brought his well used Wellingtons, to keep his feet from getting wet, as he expected all boats to leak just a little bit. When fully dressed, and having admired himself in the mirror above the dresser, he couldn't help but notice his fishing rod had fallen to the floor, and the line pulled from the reel, as if an intruder in the night, had been trying to flee with his gear, but been scared off before it could be taken apart to make for an easier exit from the room. The line had even become wrapped around a rung of the small rocker, where he had thrown his overcoat. He never thought it the work of a wayward spirit, because, at this moment of near departure, he had been sinfully tempted by the scent of hotcakes and eggs, pork and potatoes, permeating the upper hallway, and into his room; and of course, the allure of what was turning out to be a perfect day for the fisherman-him!

     He clomped down the staircase, wearing his boots, and was welcomed by a Lodge attendant at the bottom, and ushered with kind intent, a hand on his elbow, to encourage him to enter the dining room, where a country breakfast was being served at that moment. The aroma was intoxicating to the hungry soon-to-be angler, and as he entered the high-ceiling room with great expectation, he wasn't disappointed when he glanced at the full plates served to other patrons. He again chose to sit at the same table he had, the night before, politely turning down requests to join other guests, who he assumed were just being sociable, and not taking advantage of the fact he was a Preacher, brimming with inspirations for all occasions of cultural intercourse. He chatted with numerous lodgers on the way past, and engaged a few others who dawdled on the way past his own table by the front window, where he had a panoramic view of the lakeshore, and all that was happening there, at that early hour of the day.

     "Did you sleep well sir," asked the gentleman server, who brought to his table, the hot teapot of freshly made brew, and set out the tea cup and saucer in front. "It was fine indeed, thank you very much," he answered. "No hobgoblins to bother you," he added in jest, although the Preacher did pause for a moment, wondering if it was the occasion, that he might inquire about the noises he had heard in his room in the hours after midnight. Then he thought better, when he saw that several women, in another party, at a table to his side, were looking at him, as if awaiting his answer to the question; as to whether hobgoblins existed, in his experience. He quipped, "Aye, just the wee sounds of the tiny critters of the night, scampering about, that's all." The server smiled, nodded, and stepped aside for the waiter, who was bringing a full plate of breakfast foods, to fill an empty stomach, and restore strength for a busy day out on the water. It was a feast fit for a king, but alas, he was just a Preacher. He enjoyed his meal, but not at the expense of missing what was going on, down along the lakeshore, where he could see at least a dozen engaged watercraft, being propelled about the bay by paddle and oar, with assorted occupants; some just observing, while others propelled the crafts here and there, over the rippling water blown rough by the rising wind.

     He dared not hurry through this magnificent meal, but he could be forgiven for being anxious, to join those in the boats below, with his fishing creel and rod prepared for a most incredible angling adventure. To remind him of the excitement yet to come, the Lodge proprietor himself, came to tell him, at his table, that a boat would soon be ready for their departure, to several fishing holes that had proven lately, to be of considerable profit, in terms of fish to be landed; and potentially served as dinner in this same hall, later in the evening. What joy was this? The fulfillment, it was, of many dreams, thatched together over many years, when it was impossible to leave the work of the church, and region, for any recreation beyond the spiritual respite of doing God's work.

     It was already becoming one of the most memorable times in his life. Angling brought back many fond memories, mostly from his childhood, fishing along the rivers and creeks of old Scotland. He was finding many parallels in this beautiful region of Ontario, in what was still a very isolated inhabitation of hardy souls, many of Scottish ancestry themselves.

    It was time to fish. A time to be absorbed by this boundless beauty of water and land; of much pleasure on a universal scale. He had to admit, in the deep sanctuary of his heart, that he was almost feeling too good, about vacating, even temporarily, God's work. The temptation to feel guilty, was short-lived, the moment he stepped out and heard the lapping of waves onto the shoreline rocks.