The Preacher's Gone Fishing Part 6

 

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

     It was a feast for the senses. It was as if he had suddenly looked up, and seen a world he had never known previous. He had seen it, but not with any real clarity, other than through the eyes of a working missionary, tending the needs of everyone else but his own. But it had been his choice of vocations. He oftened wondered what it would have been like, had he taken up the pen as a writer, or better, as a poet, which he had entertained for some time, while at university. This was offering him a sort of liberation from his normal life and work, and it felt as if a minor reawakening of his spirit; and he pondered penning some of his inner-most thoughts, before leaving this charming place on the lakeside.

     On that first morning at the Lake Rosseau Lodge, the sky was a universal deep blue, appearing more heavenly than usual, to the Preacher, who had just finished a sumptuous breakfast in the busy dining room. He had enjoyed sitting at a table overlooking the bay below, and watching the rowboats, and canoes, setting out for a morning of exploration, and possibly even precarious adventure. He was anxious to take his fishing creel and rod, down to the large wooden dock, where he expected to find the boat he had been promised, and the guide, to lead him to the fishing hole only a few intimates of his, a preferred group of kindred spirits he assumed, knew where to find the angler's paradise.

    He folded up the linen napkin resting across his lap, but sensed something had fallen out, onto the wood floor, but he couldn't see it from his angle at the table. But before he could get up from his chair, he felt something brush against the leg of his trousers, and a definite weight on the toe of his right shoe. He lifted the table cloth, to see what was happening down below, and he spotted the wee orange kitten, he had seen the night before in the lobby, and it was, at this moment, eating a portion of egg that had fallen from the napkin. The Preacher had actually stepped on the kitten's tail the evening before, and feeling that was unjust to the little creature, found another morsel of food on his plate, and purposely sent it tumbling below, hitting the kitten on the end of the nose. It was a small act of charity, he thought, to make up for stepping on its tail earlier in their relationship. The kitten devoured the offering of egg, and then scampered away, when another diner, dropped a portion of potato onto the floor boards.

     With his fishing gear gathered up at the Lodge entrance, straw hat tipped back, and to the side of his head, the Preacher nodded farewell to the innkeep, and the guests crowded at the top of the porch, and began the short hike down the rock-bordered path, to the water's edge; with great anticipation etched on his face, of the good fishing yet to come. There was a joy in the air that morning, as Muskoka unfolded to him, as further evidence why so many he had met, referred to the landscape as God's Country. There was a music playing, but with no evidence of an orchestra, or solo musician, it was manifesting by lapping waves, and cool breeze hushing through the needles of pine boughs; the paddles gurgling against the water, and the rowboat bows, trickling the incoming waves, raising in the wind on the broader expanse of lake. There are blue jays flitting in the row of waterline cedars, three squirrels and a venerable old crow, exchanging pleasantries from the upper boughs. He thought it was indeed, one of God's remarkable days.

     The guide was ready for him, with the canoe securely lashed to an upright post of the dock. He crouched as low as he could get, and then sat on the edge of the structure, feet stretched out over the canoe; then putting his feet on the bottom of the vessel, sensing its stability, trying to balance onto the seat at the bow, but not before the guide was in place. In a few measured moves, and a slow immersion into the spirit of the watercraft, the Preacher was firmly positioned, as the guide maintained the balance against the dock. In only a few moments, the pair would be off over the lake, the Preacher and the Guide, paddling up the glistening waterway, black in the shadows of a brightly illuminated August morning. The anticipation was huge, in the Preacher's mind, as the guide provided deep and powerful pushes from the paddle, to his modest jabs at the surface; not having had much experience paddling canoes in the past. He thought the image would have made a fine portrait for his study at home, a painting of this canoe, and paddlers, against the brilliant greens of the Muskoka forest. He would have wished it to be hung above the mantle of the old rock fireplace. It would remind him of this splendid respite, at a time in his life when he needed it most.

     This was poetic to him. There was something within, that was trying to pull him in, and he was willing, at this point in his life, to venture forth.