The Preacher's Gone Fishing. Part 3

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

     There was a busy, tinkling echo of voices, bouncing around the high, open ceiling, that displayed the huge, squared, hand-hewn timbers, of the upper architecture, of the large, hill-top lodge building. You could see small wafts of smoke rising and swirling at the peak, where the fireplace had sent some of its exhaust, with the expiring kerosene from several lamps, suspended overhead. It was a work of folk art. And with the placqued moose-head and antlers, the preserved sampling of locally caught fish, artistically mounted on varnished backboards, high above the counter, and a black bear's head, reverently posed, on a large medal-style board, hung just above the back staircase, there was definitely the feeling, and promotion, of sport and outdoor adventure ingrained here. At the same time, if it could be said, there was a rustic elegance as well, suited to the lodger, who offers no great ambition, to either hunt or fish; but rather, a passion to just sit out on the verandah, and enjoy the passing of time in a lakeland paradise. They were the urban refugees of Victorian cities, bursting with industry, and its intrusive contamination of air, water and tranquility.  

     The oldtimer, who was the unofficial bell-hop, helped the Preacher haul his small amount of luggage, up the wooden staircase of the rustic, woodsmoke scented lodge; a several story building with a long front verandah in the Victorian style, from a hillside overlooking sparkling Lake Rosseau, in the hinterland Muskoka district. The door of the Preacher's room, had a problem closing fully, for some reason of door swelling, possibly an inconvenience of seasonal dampness; or possibly inspired by a recent shift of timbers, the settling of the foundation, as the innkeep was sure was happening to his building. But the explanations changed depended on who he was talking to, at that particular time. But the new lodger wasn't at all concerned about privacy concerns. The gentleman assured him that the matter of the door would be addressed soon, by the attending carpenter, who might whittle a portion of the thick door away, along the outside edge, to allow it to fit more securely. Once again, the Preacher just nodded, and tipped his hat, that he had put back on his head, once he had begun walking up from the lobby desk; where not having a hat atop was just polite introduction.

     The room had several illuminated coal oil lamps, having been prepared by a dutiful room attendant, one on the table he would use for in-room dining, and the other, set on a lace doiley, on the nightstand, positioned conveniently beside the high headboard of the bed. The room smelled of old woodsmoke, like the rest of the lodge building, and fired coal oil, but it looked, on its own, as if it would be a comfortable respite, away from the rigors of countryside travel; his usual fare on days like this, to tend the needs of those who needed his spiritual guidance. The Preacher dropped his fishing creel, and rod in its leather pouch, and walked over to the window, looking down over the front yard of the lodge, and the sparkling early evening waters, of the moonlit Lake Rosseau. He thought to himself that it was a sort of heaven on earth, to have this opportunity, to enjoy such luxury of unfettered recreation. The first item pulled from his tattered, worn leather bag, upon settling into his new room, was the Bible he kept with him on all his travels. He set it down on the central table with the doiley and oil lamp. It looked good positioned there, in this rustic environment; much like what a travelling preacher would have had as roadhouse accommodation fifty years earlier, in the 1850's, travelling from hamlet to hamlet in the southern clime, at dusty rural crossroads. He liked that this lodge didn't have all the sophistication of the most luxurious of resorts, of the era, where he could have stayed had he not desired such picturesque isolation.

     He was advised, with a knock on the door, by a young lady wearing a style of uniform, that a hot meal had been saved for him in the dining room, if at his convenience, he would like to attend the first floor once again. He could smell what he assumed was roast beef, and Yorkshire pudding, the moment he walked into the foyer of the rustic log and plaster building. He nodded his agreement with the invitation, and took off his long coat, to reveal a more modest jacket below, that would suit him fine, for an after hours dinner in the dimly lit hall. The actual supper hour had occurred an hour earlier, but the Lodge cook had held back food for the late arrivals aboard the steamship, which had been delayed at another resort further down the lakeshore.

    The Preacher creaked his way down the thick wooden stairs, and there was no one in the building that didn't hear the footfall, and smile at the new guest, making his way to the dining room. He smiled back, and nodded as he made his formal entry to the hall, after adjusting his jacket, and sleeves, to tidy up his appearance, regardless that it was almost empty at this time of night. He chose to sit by a front window overlooking the lake. He admired the way the illumination of the oil lamp, set on the table, dazzled like a halo in the glass as reflection. He could see very little out the window, except the pathway down to the lakeshore, which was lined with small wind-protected kerosene lanterns, like the ones on the steamship, and that he had noticed on the train cars coming north. It was all very interesting, in his casual assessment, and truth be known at that moment, he would have gladly assembled his fishing rod instead of dinner, and headed down to the lake for some preamble angling, in the peace and quiet of mid-evening. He settled instead, to just sit back in the Windsor style pine chair, and enjoy the delicious meal offered him, and several others, by the dutiful cook, obviously in the last moments of his work day.

     The Preacher was enormously content, at this moment in his personal biography, but was feeling a little guilty, as many of his colleagues could also have used this lakeside recreation, to restore their spiritual reserve. He was clearly more content than he could remember of his recent past, which had seen him relocated numerous times, across the country, to infill wherever there was a shortage of spiritual leadership. He felt the lakeside respite was most perfect at this time. He had felt weaker and less resilient than ever before in his life. It took him weeks to recover from a common cold. Injuries, such as sprains and usual aches and pains, were taking months to subside and heal. He simply couldn't have refused the offer of this retreat, when it was encouraged of him, by church administration; he supposed, as a small token of appreciation for his many years of service, and resulting hardship, from bouts of recent illness. His friends assessed they were caused more from self deprivation, than simply the demands of his wide-spread congregation. He wasn't going to think about it all now, because this was indeed, a wonderful opportunity for self-discovery, in what he understood, from the locals, was already considered to be God's Country. He felt he was in the right place then, and enjoyed his meal in a gentle solitude, watching as lodge workers scurried up and down the illuminated outdoor path, loading up a couple of work boats tied to the dock. He pondered how easy it would be to fall asleep in this atmosphere, and several times, he felt his heavy eyelids pulling shut, even before his meal had been fully consumed. It was time to retire to bedlam. He folded his linen napkin, set it back up on the table, and pushed out his chair slowly, such as to make as little fuss and noise as possible, and then rose slowly to commence the cautious amble out the door, of the now darkened room, to the stairs, up to his little room; tucked near a corner on the second floor. On his way out the door, he paid his thanks to all the staff, still faithful to their stations, including the cook, poking his head out the door to bid farewell.

     This was the beginning of something he believed would be a highlight in his life. He wanted to enjoy it slowly, like a thick, sweet candy, one wants to preserve as long as possible, for the fullest enjoyment. This was his humbug, sitting on his tongue, reminding him how sweet it really was, to be liberated, even temporarily, from the rigors of the ministry. This was to be savoured, not devoured.