"THE PREACHER HAS GONE FISHING," THE STORY OF AN ANGLER AND A HAUNTED MUSKOKA LODGE, CHAPTER SEVEN OF TWELVE
The deep black-water of the small Lake Rosseau bay, protected from the chill wind, this morning, by rugged shoreline and trees, made the deep green alcove that much more enchanted; although he seldom thought in these terms, as he had once, as a child, been so profoundly inspired, when his mother read stories to him, detailing with great patience, the mysteries of the natural world. It was as if, he pondered, while looking out over the sanctuary of lakeshore, she had, very much predicted the future, preparing him for just such an out-of-doors adventure. It mattered not that it was so much later in his life. This, to him, was rare poetry come to life, as if Sir Walter Scott, the great bard of the old country, bonnie wee Scotland, was sitting there, in place of the guide, reciting insightful passages about legends and lore. Any why, pray tell, he should leave nothing to chance, and enjoy life for the moment, and at this moment, the deep water and its mysteries beckoned.
The Preacher untied the cloth ties from the tight bundled canvas, wrapping around his fishing rod, and took great care removing the lengths, and the reel, that would have to be fastened together carefully, with precise movements, so as not to rock what appeared a very unsteady vessel. He had very little experience as a canoeist, but the capable guide was in complete control, balancing with his paddle placed firmly down across the gunnels, to counter the movements, and shifts of weight, of the Preacher, putting his fishing rod pieces together. In only a few moments, he had the rod secured in place, and the small blackened cork removed from the tip of the hook, he kept there for reasons of safety, where he would soon attach the bait, snatched from deep in a metal pail, stored below the guide's plank seat at the stern.
The guide nodded approval, when the Preacher looked back to see if, where the canoe had ceased to be propelled, was the place on the bay, to drop in the silken line with now baited hook. He let it slide into the water, barely making a ripple on the surface, and through his fingers, he felt the weighted hook falling deeper, and deeper, down into the black water; and into a world he could only imagine was crowded with fish of all kinds, weaving through the strange underwater growth that was their natural habitat. The Preacher sat patiently for what seemed an eternity, awaiting some minor tug on the line, indicating a fish was nibbling on the offered feast of a fat garden worm. It was tranquilizing, to rock in the canoe, as the gentle movement of the water, invisible to the eye, created a feeling of flight through the reflections of sky, and forest, in the up-side-down fiction of the moment.
The guide talked quietly about fishing, and his work at the Lodge, but the Preacher was answering only with unintelligible muttering in return, too intently occupied, watching the fishing line, to engage in general conversation. It came suddenly, and at a time, when he had been looking up at blue jays, flitting noisely about, in a gnarled shoreline cedar. The line pulled sharply down, with considerable weight, and the Preacher reacted like a veteran angler, assuming control of the rod as if his life depended on navigating this extension of himself, to a successful landing, of what he believed would be a magnificent fish; like the ones his father talked about netting in youthful sport. He knew the trickery of the catch, and that the fish would try everything, to snap the line, even if it meant tangling it on obstructions, old logs, sunken, and embedded on the bottom of the bay. This one was putting up a strong fight. It made it all the more interesting, and alluring; the mystery of what kind of aquatic beast, it was, now trying to pull him down into the water. The struggle between man and fish went on for quite some time, until finally, the fish was brought up close enough to the canoe, for the guide to dip in a long-necked net, to scoop up the still struggling fish; its species unknown by the story teller.
The catch was held up by the Preacher, with one hand on the rod, the other on a length of line above the hook, so the fish swung like a bell in the open air. This scene would repeat numerous times on this sunny August morning, and his creel was soon and happily overflowing with bounty, from a most generous lake. Arriving back at the lodge, to some envious stares, from other guest anglers, would make him feel senior amongst them, and one to offer sage advice on the fine art, and refined philosophy, of fishing for trophies.
He had offered some of the catch to the guide for his personal use, but it was suggested by him, that the fish be given to the cook at the lodge, for the benefit of those other lodgers, who might enjoy the fresh catch. Even for his own meal, the cook would prepare the best of the lot, for the Preacher's supper that evening. This really delighted him, as he would be proud to take credit for the supper fare, set out on those attractively decorated tables, in the big hall overlooking the lake.
In heart, there was joy, and if there hadn't been a crowd at the entrance way to the lodge, who would judge such a thing, he thought it would have been appropriate, under the circumstances, to give a little hop and click of his heels; but they would judge this as excessive by a Preacher, who was supposed to be even to all events and interventions. He assessed however, that if he did it in his mind, but his feet weren't intimately involved, God would understand the profound joy of this, the angler's finest moment. It was then with great enthusiasm, that he headed straight toward the kitchen, attached to the dining room, to present the cook with his solidly packed creel, that stopped the lid from fastening securely. He was also pleased to have given the guide six other goodly sized fish for his own family's supper. It had been a most perfect day for him, and the weariness he arrived with, had now departed, and he was looking forward to spending the afternoon, sitting out on the great verandah, watching over activities at the lodge, and reading one of several books he had brought along, in his few bags of luggage.
All was good in the universe, he thought, at least for now.
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