The crisp morning air stings my fingers as they tightly grip the ice cold metal on the fishing pole. I bite down hard as I begin to hear my teeth chatter. I anxiously wait for the sun to come up to give me some warmth. The tug, tug of the trolling line lulls me into the mist of my childhood.
Wrapped up like a cocoon, the warmth of the sleeping bag keeps my eyes from opening. Nature's alarm clock sounds and the singing birds tell me I need to get up. It must be about five thirty in the early morning. I struggle to emerge from the coziness of my sleeping bag, yet the lake calls me. The brisk early mountain air sends a chill through my body as I reluctantly slither like a cautious water snake out of my bag. I interrupt the natural sounds of nature as I unzip the tent. The brook that runs through out campsite babbles as it hurries down the mountain side as if escaping from danger. The crunching of dirt and rocks beneath my feet bring a feeling of freedom from the constant everyday walking on man-made concrete and cement. We are silent as we make our way down to the lake; taking in the beauty nature has to offer. The smell of pine awakens our senses and a magical excitement reflects in our eyes as we see the lake.
The mountains tower over the south side of the lake. As the sun rises, the mountain is reflected off the lake as if to take a morning swim. The water is as smooth as glass, giving the impression you could walk on top of it. We climb into the small metal fishing boat. The smell of fish slowly floats past our noses. The cool crisp mountain air whips our faces as we zoom to the other side of the lake. The motor pushes us to top speeds of 15 miles per hour. With that style of speed it only takes us 15 minutes to reach the opposite side of the lake. We unwillingly accept the shower given to us as the boat comes to a halting stop. But, this is when the magic begins. We ungrudgingly wipe the water drops from our faces. The white Styrofoam cup of worms is passed from person to person as if it is champagne and we are celebrating a special occasion. I stir the worms with my finger looking for a fat juicy one. I am only 8-years-old, but I prefer to worm my own hook like a true fisherman. The worm wriggles through my fingers as though it knows this is its last chance to escape its fated doom. As the hook pierces through the flesh of the worm, I know I have won. I drop the hook into the clear, frigid water and allow the boat to drag out my line. I watch as it is swiftly let out down into the depths of the lake. The icy water drips onto my leg from the water-soaked line as it unwinds from the reel. My thumb becomes numb and feels raw as the line slides under it. I count the line colors as they change. Seven is a good number to let out. The game can now begin.
We patiently wait. With our eyes closed and our faces pointing toward the sky, we rest our heads on the backs of the old, orange safety vests awaiting the arrival of the sun's rays to warm our faces. The hum of the motor sings to us like a lullaby and the tug of the pop gear rocks us into an indescribable peace just long enough to sooth our tired souls. We are quickly brought back into reality when we are bitten with excitement - a fish has decided that worm for breakfast is a special treat. Hearts pound with excitement as we wait to see the size of the fish on the end of the line. And then, without
seconds to think, two more fish decide to join in on the morning's "worm breakfast special". The feeling of franticness embodies us as three poles start reeling in at once. My Grandpa struggles to net the three fish and keep the boat steered in a straight line as to keep the lines from tangling. Yet, he always accomplishes it like a professional fisherman who could do it all in his sleep.
Not an hour passes and we are already up to 14 fish. As I sit, I admire my Grandpa. He looks like he belongs on the lake. He is humble as he teaches us the art of trolling. He is dressed in his flannel coat and his white lips are covered in zinc oxide. He never fails to break the silence. He bursts out into song and starts singing about beans and how they are the magical fruit as though nothing has happened.
The morning passes by quickly and we easily reach our fish limit. The sun is now high in the sky. The white clouds resemble cotton candy and it feels as though we can reach out and grab some for a tasty treat. The leaves on the Aspen trees start to whisper as the afternoon wind comes for a visit. We watch the eagle as it soars above us in search for food. Its nest is in sight and not far off from where we are. In this moment, I take in my last breath. What I have experienced for the last few hours was a bit of a fairytale. There is no doubt in my mind that a higher power has created such beauty.
The motor revs as we begin to leave and I am quickly brought back to the present. I am not in an old metal fishing boat, but on a pontoon boat. It has been hours and we haven't caught one single fish. The lake looks the same. The eagle's nest is still there. The white clouds are just as fluffy, but the feeling is different. I am much older now. The fish must have gotten tired of the "worm breakfast special". The orange fishing vests are gone and we are now sporting life jackets. The metal boat has been upgraded and the maximum of five people on the boat has been transformed to 15. My Grandpa has since passed on and I feel alone. So much has changed since I was a child, but the memories of Fish Lake will stay unchanged. As I return, year after year, and the crisp mountain air travels across my senses, I will always see my Grandpa sitting in his metal boat with white lips, singing crazy songs, and creating amazing memories which I will never forget.
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