Summer Stock

As summer approaches my husband begins busying himself in the garage dusting off his old rubber boots, checking his fishing line, sorting mepps from hochies and thinking about tying flies. With his Peggy’s Cove bonnet placed firmly on his head and a cigar hanging from his mouth he prepares lists for his trip to the “Fishing Hole” and dreams about sunsets on the lake, the tug on the line and the bend of the rod.

This ritual of inventory taking, cigar smoking and anticipation mystified me for years. The garage is cold and damp, the rubber boots are stiff and cracked, and the tackle box stinks of live bate. What’s the appeal? Why the dress rehearsal for a few days with the boys at a northern lake? It didn’t make sense until I agreed to try it. And what an experience that was.

It happened just a couple of years ago when the trip was about to be cancelled because a number of the boys couldn’t make it. My husband, heart broken and disappointed quickly decided that an alternate had to be found. He found the alternate icing her swollen, arthritic knee in the living room and made his pitch with passion and enthusiasm. He set the stage by describing the beauty of the Canadian Shield, the northern lakes and the call of the loon. (I knew something was up when he included the loon.) The house lights dimmed and the curtain rose on Act One with him inviting me to accompany him to ogle the newest models of rods and reels, rapellas, and spider wire at the “Fishing Hole” and ended with the promise of a side trip to the Co-op for licenses and Gortex rain gear for me. I wasn’t impressed with any of the offerings and couldn’t imagine four days at the fish camp. But what could I do? I had nothing planned. I threw my arms in the air and told him to count me in.

Act Two was fraught with uncertainty. My dress rehearsal didn’t have any of the romantic appeal obviously enjoyed by my fisherman husband. My stiff and swollen old feet didn’t like sliding into new rubber boots. My hat twisted on my head and my fingers (not to mention my mind) recoiled at baiting a hook. My shoulders ached at the thought of casting and reeling, casting and reeling, casting and reeling under the bulky restrictions of a life jacket. I had serious second thoughts. Was I up to it or did I need a stand in? My husband was almost convincing. He made outrageous promises including telling me that I could drive the boat in his attempt to reassure me that this would be the best holiday we had taken in years.

Act Three opened at the lake with me decked in t-shirt and shorts, rod in hand, and bare feet resting on the gunnel. The heat of the sun soothed my aching limbs and when I became too hot, the ice cold water of the lake cooled me. To my delight and my husband’s astonishment, I caught the first fish before he had his line in. It was just as well - I needed him to land it. It was a three-pound walleye that we cooked over an open fire on a bed of pine boughs for shore lunch. This first catch was just one of many as we were able to catch our limit. I must admit that as a young girl I did fish but I had forgotten just how luscious ‘fresh caught’ could taste particularly over an open fire. And loons, well they did frequent the lake. Sometimes we would hear them calling in the early evening.

The curtain came down on an adventure that would be repeated again and again. My questions had all been answered. The fresh air, the quiet, and the tug of the line had me hooked.