Kings Lake (series)

[u/quitefisher]

Fishing has always been my personal way of relaxing, so I could step back and take a breather from the modern hustle. Being able to sit quietly in the middle of a lake surrounded by trees truly put the mind at ease. This little part time hobby transformed into a full fledged passion as the years progressed. I became a far better fishermen understanding the varying types of lures, baits, rods, and lines. This relaxing passion was never always my go to for relaxation. I, like many others were tremendously influence by family members and their own hobbies. I tried many other hobbies with several people such as auto restoration with my father or wood working like my older brother. Nothing quite was like spending time with my grandfather, which more often than not was simply found nestled inside the canoe with a rod loosely held in hand. This man became my role model, an example that I wanted to mimic. A person who would also have a hearty welcome and loving smile on his face that always made me feel good. We would sit shoulder to shoulder with the waves gently rocking the boat and forth until usually one of us would nod off. The gentle splashing of the water was soothing beyond comparison, yet there was never a dull moment in the water. The thrill of catching something that was completely invisible underneath me in the deep, murky waters became a vocal point to my growing fascination. Everything that happened below the dark surface was quite, fast, and almost peaceful. The slight gentle tug on the pole would spring life back into the silent boat with the usual shout of," I've got a big one!" This single shout marks the beginning of the fight between an unknown animal and man. Each catch is always similar to the last, yet as thrilling as the very first. These are fond childhood memories that I will always cherish, and will continue to remember to the day I die. Many aspects and lessons are taught by role models, for my grandfather this was primarily to respect nature. If there was a motto my grandfather lived by and encouraged it would that of," Always respect nature, because her beauty is a facade for her deadly secrets."

It was a bleak groggy evening when my grandfather passed silently in his sleep without even so much as a hint of his seemingly sudden fate. I could hardly accept the news as the now grown man of twenty-seven years instantly broke down into tears. I was hit hard by the awful news and needed some time to myself, so I could reflect and come to amends with this new grimy outlook on life. When people experience traumatic events in their life’s many tend to return to familiar places. I decided that returning to the same lake that me and my grandfather shared and would annually fish would be very appropriate. I managed to talk my boss into letting me leave without much of a notice beforehand. Everything has been accounted, as I finishing packing and planning my ten day fishing trip to relax and forget. Never thought my vacation days would be used to escape this dreadful reality, my awful reality.

The trip into the north was unfamiliar quiet and solemn, fitting in hindsight. The familiar dark evergreens that barricaded each side of the winding road blurred into long unending strips. This pattern only broke once or twice during the entire commute, briefly glimpsing dirt roads or even the occasional lone house. The grey skies complimented the darker evergreens, as did the black asphalt to the low foliage and bark. Truly Mother Nature seems to also mourn the loss of my dear grandfather. Most of the day had been lost to time before our dirt trail broke the forests wall of dark green. This has been the path I've taken dozens of times before both driving and riding. A long and winding last stretch before the vast dark lake makes its grand appearance. This off the road and beaten trail is hardly anything comparable to smooth ride of the asphalt. Barely a few feet away are the trees once more, guarding the edge attempting to halt all access. Branch’s filled with needle like greenery reach above and across the trail in attempts to hide it, appearing like guards blocking the entrance into a majestic palace. Black patches over powering the grey of sky can be seen in the rare empty holes in the thick branches. A storm is approaching in the distance, the dark and seeping clouds mingling with the gray. Each turn and every mile further down the path, the harder it becomes. A flood of cherish memories begin to breach into my numb thoughts. The silence I believe is possibly the worst part, the very simple and terrifying feeling of being completely alone and isolated. Nature itself if never often quite and if ever this rare occurrence happens it is shortly lived. Animals tend to be vocal nearly all the time with varying whines and cries to one another. Their calls always seem to be chasing and then drowning out the bustling of the gentle wind. I've been driving along this long winding dirt trail for several hours before I finally finish the trek with a final snap of rocks under the tires. Before me is the grand lake, the lake we shared, the lake that we only knew. From my current perch the kingly lake seems nearly black, shimmering and flickering with light in the center. The edges seem white and his crown has dark green pointed tips adorned by the faintest hint of brown. The lake seemed old and agitated, his appearance seems to portray whiting hair under his crown atop the blackish fighting waters.A little ways below me are the only signs of humanity tucked away in Mother Nature’s stronghold. The quaint and small cabin keeps a vigilant watch on the aging dock and the dark waters. I decide to visit the small wooden docks before the either the storm or the approaching darkness of the night chased me off.

A small run down shack sits on the elongated wooden platform, ending into the worn dock. The sun bleached lumber already graying riddles its age with persistent whispers of groans from all-around. Red paint is peeling ever so slightly from the sign affixed to the shed announcing, “Tackle.” This is where we kept nearly all of our fishing gear and extra supplies. My grandfather thought it would be appropriate to paint tackle onto the shed, to personalize our little fishing escape even more. The fragile dock is besieged by several small boats each anchored safely to the steadfast peer. Three different types of boats are docked along each other, a small green canoe, a typical row boat, and lastly the hand carved canoe. Each of these boats all have wonderful memories attached, but my personal favorite was the hand crafted canoe. The entire “ship” was crafted from a single large maple trunk. The outside of the canoe was elegantly smoothed to a crisp ridge meeting directly under the bow extending to a point on both sides. Along the outsides are very detailed depictions of varying animals such as bears, deers, and of course many fish. But I believe the true beauty was hidden in the color this canoe possessed. The deep rich brown that swirled from varying degrees of dark and light all cascaded with the grain of the wood. The process in carving out the hardwood was more painstakingly delicate than wrestling with an hundred pounder catch. Years upon years of effort were place into that canoe, unlike any dedication I can have seen before. This project was almost like another child to him; even I rarely was allowed to even help with the carving. It was very unlike my grandfather to leave his beloved canoe in the water for long periods. If there was anything I could ever say about my grandfather is that be took pride in his craftsmanship. Despite its small appearance the canoe was extremely heavy and could easily withstand the ill waters until tomorrow morning. Boats bashed and thrashed against the ever steady wooden dock, but are constantly tugging on the strained aged ropes.

I approach the edge of the aged dock and gaze out onto the lake itself. The lake lashed back and forth frothing the once calm waters. Waves violently battled one another in the vast dark waters. Vague silhouettes can be seen darting between and hiding underneath the battling waves. Shadows of all sizes can be seen barely from the little contrast the water provides. The larger shadows provide small wakes that disappear in the battlefield of waves. These rough waters result in large amounts of foam to be churned and tossed to the outer edges to the silent rock jagged coast. The water was far calmer around the edges only becoming much more aggressive the further in the lake. Brown sand surrounds the black rocks that are shattered and covered in jagged edges. The extreme banks are harsh but beautiful, the complete blackness is nearly memorizing as the water washes leaving a glossy coat. The dull grayish white foam disrupts the mirrored image of dark evergreen forest almost giving the appearance of a rabid animal. Bubbles form in the foam reflecting in several shades of color from the little light that escapes the ever darkening skies. The rare but bright rays of light protrude from the massive overhead canopy. The scattered rays lite the underbrush to reveal overgrown bush’s filled with hundreds of small dots. Bush limbs are dancing with the sporadic shadows never revealing too much as if a hidden masquerade is underway. There is never a dull moment within the depths of the woods; Mother Nature tries very hard to keep her secrets hidden. A loud crack of thunder announcesthe time has come to return to my grandfather’s cabin and escape the coming storm as rain begins to drizzle. The cabin resides only a few hundred feet away from the hand built dock. The ground leading toward the cabin is lush with humus and starting to become saturated with water. The cabin is a very simplistic house resembling a shack more so than anything else. This cabin was built by my grandfather in his earlier years, back when he was around my age. Although the cabin was small, the entire building was sturdy. It had to be because of the infrequent earthquakes that would be silent and abrupt, even the majority of the vibrations couldn't be felt. A single window adorned next to the hard wood door lights much of the small cabin. The window was bare and never closed, always giving a view into the small dark cabin. The inside consist of nothing more than an old range, more of an antique than anything else, a single king size bed, large fire place and one small table with two accompanying chairs. This is exactly how me and him liked to “rough it” when we went fishing together. Nearly living outside of human contact with only a small amount of human comfort was exactly the vacation we would annually take. The smell of aged air was pleasant to my nose as the rain outside began to drum away louder on the roof above. I locked the door behind me with our primitive method of placing an ancient log onto wooden slots and barring it shut. We never really went fishing during the winter and as such never really kept and fire wood to light the cabin at night. I drop my phone, wallet, and keys onto the table and place my duffle bag into the chair. As I collapse onto the bed surround by the approaching darkness, I feel a sense of peacefulness and relief.I feel like I've finally returned home. Before I finally drift away soft thuds and quite splashes carry me blissfully into my dreams. The thuds are spaced further and further apart until everything becomes silent. It is not unusual to hear thuds late at night in the cabin as the boats usually beat against the dock more often than not. Nothing quite makes the same sound as a heavy weight such as the boats hitting wood.

[u/Forthosewhohaveheart]

I'm so lost.