The North Country, Pt. 3

The Lake produced some quality fish this year; within the first three days, both Dad and I fought and released the biggest blackies we've ever caught (in a combined fifty or sixty years of fishing that water). His was six-and-a-half pounds and twenty-one inches; mine was its junior at four-and-a-half pounds, nineteen-and-a-half inches. Are all these hyphens normal? In case you aren't familiar with smallmouth, those are true monsters.

Until we got sick of eating fish, the evenings would find my brother and I at the dock, shin deep in the clear water, cleaning our catch with unbroken concentration and the utmost simplicity of mind in the gathering dark. It was usually only about 45 minutes from the time that those bass were hanging off an underwater ledge in twenty-eight feet of water at Highrock, until they were popping in olive oil and breadcrumbs in the frying pan. These fish fries were somehow uniformly excellent despite the lack of Louisiana's Finest, Crystal hot sauce. Afterwards we would watch a Cubs game, read, or sit on the porch. Most nights, after the boat had been docked at the marina, our wives, girlfriends, or family members would receive a telephone call. (It has always been fortuitous that the closest place one can get cell phone service up there is on the road into Dexter, at Jodi's Dairy Bar. Note to travellers: their "small" cones practically weigh your arm down, and one can look for deer in the dusky NY fields on the way there.)

Anyway, everyone got along pretty well throughout the week and had a good time, except that the fishing was wretched for my brother--I'm not sure he caught anything big enough to keep all week. However, Steve Okajec, the ruddy old Clevelander from whom we rent the cottage, did give Ryan the best tomatoes in history in return for doing some yardwork. (Steve is starting to lose his strength. Incidentally, he got the tomatoes second- or third-hand; they were grown by Mennonites in Pennsylvania.)

After a week we packed up, left the cottage and its slightly forlorn-looking landlord, and got a room at the Days Inn in Watertown. There was a small, enclosed courtyard or patio there that was always empty and completely quiet, save for the hum of the industrial air conditioners nearby. It was very leafy, and bordered by rocks and small trees. I wrote a couple verses there; take them or leave them. No delusions of grandeur here.

The coolness--
Raindrops collecting
On the maple leaves

Morning sunlight;
A dandelion seed-puff
Rises up into the sky

To Be Continued. We go up to the 1,000 Islands.