I was in Rhode Island visiting my daughter. As I rolled out of bed the house was silent, everyone either at school or work. The wind whipped and moaned around the house. A glance outside revealed a dreary, low February gray sky and drizzling rain. Flopping, slightly depressed, in a chair, there was little doubt my mood matched the gloomy weather outside.
Jane had especially disliked weather like this, her disposition more often than not matching the weather outside. Thinking of her and how little things affect us all an old, bright memory suddenly appeared unbidden in my mind. Yes, yes, I remembered that day.
We’d arisen early, arriving at the lake as a cold dawn, clear as glass, sharp and invigorating lit the sky in a golden glow.
I love the smell of morning. It’s fresh with green grass, sweet dew, clean water, ferns and wet tree bark. The air smells of promises to come and if you’re lucky, maybe a fish or two.
The lake was perfectly smooth, a light mist rising from its glass-like finish; the shoreline reflection so clear and sharp its beauty took your breath away. Unconsciously our hands touched and held, captivated by the scene before us.
It’s often the little things that touch your soul.
Despite our timely appearance and the grandeur of this morning our casts along the shoreline proved fruitless. We changed lures, tried different presentations all to no avail, not a single fish to show for our efforts. The time and conditions seemed right, what was happening?
I quit fishing and sat back, looking carefully around, attempting to attain a feel for what was occurring on the lake. The mists were dissolving before the sun’s brightening rays, the air was warmer and birds were now flying in the lighter air. An osprey soared overhead twisting his head downward as he searched for his breakfast. The fly catchers wheeled and curved in mathematically precise formulas chasing bugs and moths. As I watched a deer appeared from the woods, crossed a small meadow and stood for a moment in the warm sunshine, its summer red coat gleaming against the green grasses. The day was in full swing it seemed, a shame the fish were not cooperating.
Turning back to the lake I examined it closely, looking for any clue or sign of activity. There, in deeper water, I saw the quivering, barely seen dimples of minnows touching the surface. Looking harder still, I soon picked out several other areas where minnows were appearing. The baitfish were at least 100 yards from us. Jane saw the minnows also and we quietly picked up our paddles and soon were gliding silently closer to the first school of minnows. Where the baitfish congregates the predators can’t be far away.
Two casts later, a solid hit. A sharp hook set and a bass exploded out of the water. I set the hook a second time; the first try lacked that satisfying “thump” you like to feel when the hooks bite home. The bass bored deep and then jumped a second time before Jane expertly scooped her in. The fish was 17-inches long with clean, sharp markings; from the olive green back to the variegated black pattern running lengthwise down the lateral line and clean white belly this bass was beautiful to behold. A little later a second hard hit on a swim-bait. This bass was a twin to the first.
Poor Jane was whipping the water white, cast after cast, but hadn’t had a hit. She wasn’t thrilled about her luck or lack of it, but knew from experience she just had to persevere, keep casting and not complain. Luck comes in bunches, one person catching several fish in a row before Lady Luck smiles on the other angler. Then, the first angler bemoans their fate, but philosophically keeps casting. There is no way to figure out any rhyme or reason to this often repeated pattern. Of course, it is best when both anglers are happily catching fish, but you can’t count on it.
The sun had risen high in the clear sky by now, the temperature rising quickly. The minnows disappeared. I set my rod down and began rearranging my tangled tackle box, trying to straighten things up a bit. It was then Jane noticed a six-foot patch of weeds floating on the surface nearby. While I was occupied, she picked up the paddle and eased the canoe over to them.
Suddenly, the canoe jerked, rocking slightly; I recognized that motion from experience, Jane had set the hook. Looking up showed her rod bent steeply over and a grim smile of determination was etched on her face. She was into a fish, finally. After a lengthy battle, I netted a fat, sassy pike. What a beauty, 36-inches, but even more importantly, she hadn’t been skunked. Her smile was radiant.
As we paddled to the landing, I couldn’t help but reflect it had been a morning of the little things. First, the beautiful, picture perfect morning. Second, noticing the minnow activity far out in the lake and last, but not least of the little details was Jane paying close attention to the lake around her and noticing the weed patch floating on the surface where the lurking pike lay waiting.
Yes, it had been a memorable morning, thanks to the little things.
