A Morning in August

It is cold in the morning. August can be so different from July.

Waiting for the coffee to brew, I watch the mist gather on the lake as the sun rises. Within an hour, it will have been burnt off by the rising sun. At the moment, it coats everything in its dew-like drops. An hour from now it will be equally beautiful, but somehow a little less.......awesome.

The bench of the boat is wet. The lifejackets are wet. I turn them over one at a time to find a dry side to use as a seat cushion. The alluminum bench can be a tad uncomfortable and I'm beyond the age where I'll tolerate a wet "seat" for my morning fishing trip.

A summer pilgrimage to this northern Ontario lake is mandatory for me. My father used to take me fishing for the opening of Walleye every year. I have no conscious recollection of the moment where fishing became so special to me. My father and I certainly never landed any trophy fish. I guess that it was one of the few times that I had my dad all to myself.

I have taken my kids to Northern Ontario every year since they were born. Something inside me thinks that I may have failed as a parent if my wife and I hadn't done so. To me, this is more Canadian than hockey.

The coffee is ready. I take a cup to the boat with me, placing it on the dock until I've safely navigated into the seat I've prepared. The mist is thick. There don't appear to be any other early risers out with me this morning. Just the lake and the remote possibility that this little venture might result in landing the "big one". Truth be told, I religiously practice catch-and-release fishing, but I secretly welcome the fish that will challenge that theology. To date, nothing has come close.

This morning, I am alone. My own children had a late night of campfires and card games. Cottage nights have a way of playing to multiple audiences.

The silence of the lake at this hour is deafening. I momentary interrupt the solace by cranking the outboard and quickly dashing over to my favourite spot. I've picked the place, not because of the likelihood that a monster pike lay somewhere in the area, but because I can drift for some time before I need to restart the motor, disrupting the morning silence.

I sip from my cup, shake the cold from my shoulders, and select my favourite lure from the tackle box. I like this lure for the distance I can cast it. It hasn't landed me any giants.

The silence settles in on you and you realize this is the first stage of the lake's summer cycle. The mist hides the fish jumping some distance from where I've chosen to fish. The loons cry out from somewhere nearby. Nature seems to like to have the lake to herself. For now anyway.

After some time, the loons pay me a visit. An adult pair surface not far from the boat and look at me in a way that makes it clear that I've disturbed them. Up close, they are pretty large birds and I am keenly aware of the fact that I am a stranger on their turf. I see they've positioned themselves between me and this year's nestlings. The couple soon escort two young loons away from my boat and the danger I represent.

I chuckle and smile at the thought that I seem to continually meet the loons out here. Given they are a fish-eating bird, I must be choosing my fishing holes well.

I float, casting my line out again and again, and then reeling the lure back to the boat. The distant splash of the lure hitting the water tells me it was a good cast. After a dozen casts, I change the lure. After many more casts, I change the lure again. I go to have another sip of my coffee and realize that the cup is empty. I wasn't aware of it, but some time seems to have passed.

I look around the lake. The mist is gone. I now seem to be joined by other fishermen. Quiet conversations from the other boats float across the water like ghosts. There are no victorious shouts from the other boats to grab a net. I only hear the quiet chatter of folks enjoying each other's company.

Soon the quiet will be replaced by the first water skiers of the late morning. Then by the jet skis. The lake will surrender itself to the weekend warriors who take it over and use its waters relentlessly.

Later, after dinner, the lake will calm and the fisherman will re-emerge. At least until the dark drives them from the lake. The silence returns. Songs from distance campfires occasionally break the evening calm. I rarely try to outlast the younger folks these days. Late into the night, the lake carries the sound of campfires, radios, and evening card games.

This is the daily cycle of a cottage country lake in Ontario.

For me, the morning is special. It is when I feel closest to the lake. I seem to have it to myself.

I never caught a single fish this year. Many people ask me why I bother and tell me that they don't get the "fishing thing". I would like to tell them that, for me, fishing is the perfect balance of prayer, meditation and the need to get back in touch with nature.  Usually, the words fail me and I just take the regular jibes about being a lousy fisherman.

I would love to catch my trophy and silence my critics, but I am aware that, for that one hour or so on an August morning, I am completely alone, completely at peace, and completely in love with the country that I live in.

I think everyone should know that feeling at some point in their life.