The Preacher's Gone Fishing Part 1

 

Vintage, circa. 1968, Winter Seasons In Windermere

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

     This particular "great expectation," wasn't inspired by a book or an author. In fact, there were very few stories he knew of, from antiquity, except from the Bible itself, that he could draw on, philosophically, to navigate the intricate map of possibilities, this adventure into the wilds might well hold, for the liberated heart. Spiritually he knew the way. If he could inch over the exhaustion he was feeling, having, for long and long, captained the outreach work of the church, the Preacher would have a chance of enjoying every minute of this unfolding, moment by moment adventure, pushing through the reflective images of this amazing peace on earth.

     The soot-belching, vibrating steam engine, lowly thundering in echo, down, and through the forest-lined narrows, plied the still and dark waters of the lake, with considerable authority, as if it was gliding along a submerged railway track. It's steam whistle shattered the calm of the lakeland, and the plume of smoke and steam vapor, clouded and spiraled down over the wake, giving it the appearance of being on fire, from the setting sun; or that the ship was being pursued by some great mythical beast, the sparks clear evidence of the dragon's cranky disposition, at being startled from slumber by the churning, slow moving vessel.

     The Preacher, on his first recreation in over a decade, hung over the railing on the ship's stern, seemingly more enthralled by where he had come from, than where he was headed up the lake. The only slightly occupied, small size steamship, had only one stop left for the day, and that was to land at the lodge's long wooden dock; pulling-up parallel, and then being roped to the iron fittings anchored to the wood frame. Moored over an ample amount measure of water, to accommodate the depth of hull, sitting below the surface. When the steamer would come to dock, at the Lake Rosseau shore, to dispatch its passengers, and their trunks and suitcases, and parcels for the lodge, it would do so, as if sliding silk across silk, with barely a whisper of collision, as the wood bumpers of the vessel, connected, and slid smoothly against the wood timbers of the dock. So gentle was the merger, of boat and dock, that most passengers, who had been sitting inside, conversing, hadn't known of their arrival until it was announced to them, by a roaming ship's mate, letting everyone know it was finally time to disembark. The Preacher, as well, had only noticed the visible slowing down of the passage, and the increasing size of the wake, as the boat sank deeper into the water with a slower speed.

     Still occupying what he thought, was a privileged position at the stern of the steamer, the Preacher turned around, and leaned back onto the railing, to look down upon the activities taking place on the dock, as the boat was quickly and efficiently lashed to the iron relics, fastened themselves, to the huge square timbers. He took his straw hat off, to avoid it being torn from his head, by a gusty August wind, rising from the northwest. He couldn't help then, noticing the soot from the stack, that had come to land upon his head, now a large smudge on the top and rim of the wide brimmed hat. He would have to get assistance from someone at the lodge, who understood such domestic science, to help rid the hat of the smudges, some that imprinted perfectly his fingers.

     The preacher wasn't at all bothered by the state of his now blackened straw hat, that could be cleaned later. He began to head down the stairs to the gangway, that would connect passengers to the lodge dock, where he would have to claim his small amount of luggage, his near-legendary fishing rod and the wicker basket, or better known, creel, that had been passed down to him by his father, that had before this, belonged to his grandfather, a well known Scottish angler, when not tending his flock; as he had also been a preacher. The basket that would trustfully, soon hold the bounty of the lakes, had its visible wear, holes, and broken wicker, yet it possessed the spirit of those memorable angling days back in the old country, so aye, it had its inherent charms. All that were now pleasantly, and trustfully attached, to this most contemporary of occasions, at this grand Muskoka lodge; the architecture just visible at this point of departure, the roof line witnessed only a few measurable feet, above the evergreens clustered along the shore, and the still rising plume of smoke coming from the ship's stack.

     The man, his gear in hand, fishing rod neatly packed away in a short canvas sleeve, had placed his soot-covered hat, back onto his balding head, a little askew from the trip up the lake. He stopped a few feet off the boat, to drink-in the ambience of this beautiful setting, on a cool, late summer night, just as the sun began slipping below the horizon rocks, and stately pines, inherent of this vast northern lakeland. He inhaled deeply the invigorating country air, and quite enjoyed the wafting scent of woodsmoke coming from the lodge chimney, only partially visible through the evergreen needles, wavering in the millions, seemingly as a kindly gesture, all the way up the hillside path toward the main building. He would wish to sit by the hearth of that great fire, in this rustic centre hall of the lodge, as the early evening chill, brought by the gusts of wind across the water, had caused the Preacher to shiver, and pull his jacket tightly around him.

     On his way up the path, falling behind the other passengers, now guests of this Muskoka lodge, he stopped momentarily, to look back upon the last of the sunglow, striking up at the sky, as if from the crushing blow of a blacksmith's hammer, sparking as natural fireworks, into the darkened universe. It was a beautiful scene, that might have struck the outdoorsman, Thoreau, to pen something remarkable, about nature and the soul. There was a subtle, invasive calm, yet excitement in the man, who had travelled days to get to this remarkable little place in the north. Now though, the rumbling in his stomach, and ache of his feet, were more important to tend to, as he turned and began, once again, his climb upwards, giving every appearance that he was heading skywards into the stars.

     He must attend to his registration at the front desk, and as he smelled supper in preparation, presumably deep in the lodge's kitchen, it was time to move his feet to a more progressive and uphill momentum.