I went fishing with Knuckle on Sunday. Bright and early. I got up with the sun shining in a clear Eastern sky, but when I looked out the bathroom window I was surprised to find the horizon looked a threatening gunmetal gray. As has happened before in conditions like this , the trees on the park hill were glowing as if gilt with silver or gold and vibrant against the dark sky.
It was going to be a magical day.
I settled the dogs at home and headed out. We had agreed to meet at the ponds of Possum Creek. I’ve never been there before and was excited about the adventure of somewhere nearby that was somewhere new. As I often am, I was surprised how quickly I left the city behind and found myself in fields of golden wheat grass growing wild against a changing sky.
I took a deep breath and smiled thanking God I was alive. I waved to the park ranger who was opening one of the entrances and wound my car slowly to the pond parking.
Gathering my fishing gear, I decided to leave my mittens in the car. How does a person fish with mittens? What kind of person thinks that’s possible? And white mittens at that… Instead of chiding myself, I laughed.
As I climbed the embankment, I saw Knuckle across the pond.
It appeared the west side of the pond was the easiest and fastest way to meet up with him. Then I noticed the geese on the path. Maybe the east would be better. … No, I’m sure the geese would leave me alone if I left them alone. As I neared, I calmed myself and then tried to speak as gently as I ever had to greet the geese. “Good morning. May I please pass around you? I promise, I mean you no harm.” I waited and made eye contact with the goose closest to me. The lightning I saw in his eyes made me stop in my track, and I briefly realized that if I needed to run that would mean my back would be turned to the geese…a position I didn’t really want to find myself in.
Fortunately, the geese stepped slowly toward the pond and let me pass without any trouble. Thankfully.
Knuckle and I greeted each other gently as well. It seemed only right in the quiet stillness of the morning. We set our stuff on a nearby picnic table. Knuckle pulled out the tin of earthworms. I picked up one and admired how long and plump he was. Knuckle suggested we just pinch off part of the worm since they were so large. I momentarily wondered if I would be brave enough to do that. I felt the worm wiggling in my hand and was surprised how energetic he was. I decided now was not the time to be a chicken. I pinched and (apologizing) threaded him on my hook. So much stuff came out of the worm I was momentarily horrified looking at it on my hands. Knuckle nudged the towel over to me so I could wipe them clean and laughed at the childish disgust on my face.
Then, easily, I forgot that I just killed the worm, I adjusted my lead sinker and my red and white bobber, then tossed hook, worm, and sinker into the mirror-faced pond. The ripples of the splash subsided as quickly as my guilt for killing the worm, and I could once again see everything happening in the sky above by looking at the water where my bobber lay still and gentle on the surface. A bird flew high above, and clouds moved over us as if covers being pulled up so early in this morning.
My fishing line coiled across the pond top as if it were a telephone cord. I almost laughed at the thought that I was indeed “calling” the fish hoping the worm was temptation to connect.
Waiting. Watching. Still.
The world was so very still. The pond. The air. My body. I imagined my mind settling like the worm on the hook hidden below the mirrored surface. I wondered what I might “catch” if it took the time to let it soak there.
That’s when the swans began making noises that sounded as awkward as the swans were graceful. I looked over at the pair and suddenly realized how large they were. I secretly hoped they wouldn’t come close to us. But they were brilliant against the glass-top pond.
Other fishermen were appearing, all clad in thick coats and hats and gloves. They seemed overly dressed for what I felt was just a chilly morning. But Knuckle told me how much he hated being cold, and I was reminded that I don’t mind being cold. “Cold means no mosquitoes,” I said simply. “But mosquitoes lure blue gill to the surface because they feed on them,” Knuckle responded.
I was once again reminded how different everything is from others’ perspectives. I said a silent prayer that my innate curiosity would help me connect with other people and see new perspectives. Maybe especially with one person who has been popping into my thoughts randomly and often these days.
I shook my head to push out thoughts of that someone far away and perhaps for the future and re-centered my attention on my worm and my brother, both of whom were here in the present at the pond. Our conversation was easy enough, if superficial. Kids. Jobs. Travel. Family. The silence between each topic was comfortable and as still as the water.
The sound of clapping turned both of our heads, and we watched the swans beating their wings against the pond as they gathered speed and height enough to make flight look and sound effortless. They sailed gracefully a few feet and then sank back into the water on the opposite side of the same pond.
We laughed as we agreed the noise and effort seemed disproportionate to the end result. Kind of like my life has often been up to this point, I realized.
The wind began to blow creating ripples that broke the spell of the mirror-reflection. My bobber bobbed cheerfully as it was pushed back toward me. When it reached the spot where my vision of the rocks below broke into deep green, it gave a significant duck and weave. I tried to set the hook. Maybe it was the ripples. I reeled in the line anyway and discovered my worm was now partially freed from the hook. Something had definitely been investigating.
Knuckle brought his hook over and we both aimed for that spot. The wind picked up a bit more. The bobbers dipped more frequently, but we were no longer sure if it was from a fish or the wind. I noticed my hands were stinging. And every time the wind gusted, even a little, it felt like a razor on the dry skin of my hands.
A clapping noise started and startled me. We turned to watch the swans repeat their earlier takeoff. This time, however, we could see that the swans were running on top of the pond as they beat their wings. Running! On top of the pond! They covered at least a third of the pond running on the water before they lifted their legs and the sound of clapping became a gentle whisper of wind. They circled the pond, then made a wider circle around the lake to the north of our pond.
My hands began to ache from the cold.
Knuckle shared one of his hand warmers with me. We took a coffee break. The wind or a fish continued to play with our bobbers for awhile longer. After an attempt to set my hook, I cast and watched my worm fly free of the hook into the pond area behind me.
I laughed and took another coffee break. I enjoyed the warmth of my pockets and marveled at how alive I felt. No, not alive. I felt positively radiant. I was thriving.
We agreed to try a different spot and headed to the east side of the pond. The way was muddy, but also frozen. The trees encircled us looking sleepy. I wondered how I could tell they looked sleepy.
We stopped on an embankment between the pond and another pond. It was unprotected from the wind, but looked promising. I cast into the deep dark green waters to the East. Knuckle tossed his line long down the embankment where the swans had started their two flights in the pond to the West. The wind seemed to laugh and took full advantage of us, whipping, cutting, curling, pushing and biting.
A young man came along with a white curly-haired dog. We made friendly fisherman talk, and I cooed over the dog who stopped to accept my adoration with the countenance of royalty accepting his fawning subjects. They moved on. We decided to move on too to a more sheltered area.
My coffee was cold now and tasted extra bitter in the cold. My hands ached. We found a shelter and settled in a bit as the sun came out. Protected from the wind and embraced by the sun, our conversation warmed up as bodies did. Dreams for the future. Revelations about life to this point. What is the meaning of life?
Knuckle noted that the ice that had covered the corners of the pond had melted. I noted the parking lot was nearly full. Our bobbers were careless and listless letting the tiny ripples of the wind move them as it willed without any resistance, and the new worm on my hook looked peaceful.
I felt peaceful. It was time to go home and warm up. I tossed the worm into the pond. And I marveled as Knuckle strode confidently toward the geese in our path without any concern.
Back in my car, I felt the heat burn my hands more than soothe them. The wheat grass of the field around us was taller than the car. And the sun was now in full control of the sky.
This is the closest I’ve been to the answer yet. And yet, I forgot what the question was…
Leave a comment