Fishing

We set at the table this morning feeding on our favorite breakfast food. Eggs, sausage, home made biscuits and gravy. Apple butter sweetens things up a bit. Great food, compliments of Grandmom Patty. She accepts the compliments from my grandsons Kirkland and Kameron, and a peck on the cheek from me. She tells us to leave our dishes this time, she’ll get them. She knows we’re anxious to get to the lake and wet a line.

We thank her as we dismount the table. I gulp down one last swallow of coffee and set the leftover biscuits on the stove. With the creak of the storm door we’re gone.

We have our gear ready to go, so loading is quick. I won’t be fishing today because of my recent shoulder surgery, so we just load the boys favorite poles and tackle boxes. Soon we are on the narrow ribbon of blacktop that leads us to Jim Edgar State Park. The park is 15,000 acres of wildlife, trails and lakes. It’s borders are just over five minutes from the Chicken Ranch. I hunted and fished this area long before it was bought by the state and turned into a park. The land is a mixture prairie grass fields, creek bottoms, and heavily wooded knobs. Some creeks and lowland areas were dammed to create three lakes in addition to the farm ponds already in existence.

It is foggy this morning as we wind along the country road. Deer are in the fields. Their winter coats camouflage them as they scratch out a meal of left behind corn. Crows pepper the sky, flying noisily from tree to tree, as the sun tries to burn away the misty gray. We arrive at a lake we visit often and remark how low the water is. “We’ll be able to bank fish where you used to need a boat to reach” exclaims one of the boys. These youngsters know how to fish. They have fished since they were old enough to hold a pole in their hands and they have won fishing tournament prizes through the years. I help them unload and they go their separate ways. I sit on a shoreline bench where I can see them both, and take in the sights and sounds of the lake.

The fog is lifting slowly as it now hangs 20 feet over the water. The air is fresh and clean with just a hint of dampness and the smell of the lake. Geese are on the east end of this small lake and a couple of them fly overhead honking like impatient drivers in city traffic. The water is still and is reflects the naked trees in the shallows. The glassy surface is disturbed only by the casting from my grandsons fishing poles. Small ripples move like baby tsunamis as the cork and bait displaces the water. In the grassy field on the opposite side of the lake, a pheasant makes its hoarse whistling call over and over again. Off in the distance hounds can be heard howling on the chase. Horses and dogs are participating in running trials not so far from here today. A breeze begins to gently blow and the fog clears a little more.

It occurs to me that all the sounds of nature do not add up to a trifle when compared to noise of populated places. The natural resonance of wind and birds, streams and animal calls, all blend in a accepted chorus. It is the human voice, or the plane or automobile that interrupts. The Earth has created an orchestra of innate music that, when left untouched, is as beautiful as any written by man. God, it seems, is quite the composer. I drink in the sounds while I watch the boys work their fishing gear. They are quiet and methodical.

My symphonic thoughts are broken as my oldest grandson Kirkland catches a nice sized fish and calls to me across the lake. He reels it in while the fish slaps the water with his tail and then dances onto shore. “Nice one!” I say and wave back. I’m talking about the catfish of course, but it could have just as easily been about this wonderful morning.

The sun breaks through the fog in flashlight streams. First one, then two, then more, until a kaleidoscope of sunrays are cheering up the waters. Then the pair of geese returns and glides down from the dissipating mist, splashing upon the lake. I watch them stream across the surface just as a ray of sunlight shines down upon them. It’s as if a stage hand followed cue and put them in the spot light. The waters sparkles as the elegant birds meet up with the gaggle.

“Yes,” I think, turning to the reflections of the boys on the lake, “It is a nice one indeed.”.