the hardest thing to do in life is wake up early…read more
that said, sometimes there's no other way to experience what needs to be experienced. so i took a deep breath, set the alarm for 5 am and prepared for hell. fishing at the break of dawn.
when i got up it was dark, the sky just beginning to lighten. it was cold. oh man. i pulled back the curtain and saw that the lake was still a sheet of glass, not a ripple anywhere. my heart leapt. i got dressed, gathered my gear, and headed out to the boat. i piled everything in, primed the gas, set the choke, and pulled the cord. the outboard roared, i cut it to low, unhooked from the dock and pushed off.
gliding through the vapors still rising from the surface of the north cove, it was a little brighter in the morning twilight, but still no sign of the sun, slowly working its way up from the other side of the mountain. now out of the first cove and into the second, the magic gateway was crossed and suddenly the whole world opened in front of me. the full grandeur of the mountain, the open expanse of water, the feeling of limitlessness, the inverted scream of too much being absolutely right all at once, the unlimited power of a lifetime of emotion packed into a too small body.
i revved the motor to its full 8 horsepower and set off into the open lake, a mile across to Branbury Beach, the wind in my face, until i was lining up the boat between the mountain's big patch of bare rockface on one side and Sunset Lodge way over on the other. the mist was tendrils, rising gently, obliviously, airily.
i powered down to neutral and cut the engine, and once again everything became unearthly still. there was a sound of soft gurgling, dripping, a little rocking as the boat settled in. everything bristled. there was only a low light that seemed to come from everywhere, the lake a chorus, silent, giant.
and then there was marlowe. i couldn't believe it.
trenchcoat, plaid hunter's cap, woolen gloves, scarf, he was in an old-fashioned flatbottomed wooden rowboat, hunched over, earflaps down, staring at the mountain, shivering, blowing smoke, runny nose, sleep still in the corners of his eyes, three-day beard, but somehow a regal air about him. stoic.
holy mother of god, i whispered, marlowe what are you doing here? i mean, well, HERE???? i just couldn't help myself.
he didn't smile. instead he turned and looked at me.
thinkin', he said. i'm just thinkin'. what a mountain, huh? it ain't the biggest and it ain't the spectacular edgy west coast kind, but it's got some kind of soul, don'tcha think? that's one helluva big hulking mountain, that's what it is.
i had to agree. after all, i was there too. salmon trout are a decent draw, but when you think about it there are just as many in the lake at two in the afternoon as 5 am, even if they're not particularly hungry then and a good deal deeper and more skittish in the full brightness of the day. not to mention that i hadn't really caught one in 15 years.
look at this lake, he went on, with a voice that had the sound of a 33 rpm lp playing at 16. just look, everything reflected in it, like that alice whatshername's looking glass, totally still, stretching out for miles, misty and icy and just layin' there. it's a goddam camelot, that's what it is. one of these days i'm gonna come out here and i swear excalibur is gonna be sticking out of the middle of the lake from a hundred feet down and i'm gonna paddle over and grab it. but that mountain, man, i just can't get enough of it. really makes a guy think about things, you know what i mean?
and with that, he turned away to face the mountain again.
the thing of it was, i knew exactly what he meant. because of all the many wonders of this occasionally too small world, this one here was the one that was within reach, this was the one that was saying hello right here, right now. and if ever i've learned anything from this all too often wretched life that i've had the privilege of leading, it's that when one of life's wonders passes in front of you, you goddam better stop, open your eyes, and shake its hand, because otherwise what's the point.
i mean, what's the goddam point.
marlowe, i said, jockey that boat of yours over around here closer, c'mon man, bring it over here closer. he dipped the oars and our boats bumped.
hold on a second now, just hold on and gimme a second.
then i stood up, leaned over, and shook his hand.
