The phone spoke in my ear.

“Do you want to go fishing?”

Sure, I said, where are we going?

“First Lake.” The voice said.

Do you have a Fresh Water license?”

No but I’ll pick one up, on the way.

 

The truck bounced over ruts

and brimming pot holes.

Trees gathered around.

The clouds touched

the white mountain tops –

pressing down on us,

breathing cold gusts of wind.

 

At the lake, rain ringed the water.

Others packed their campers

and left; smoky exhausts.

Our boat in the water,

we fought the engine alive

then clothed in wet gear-

set off on another fishing trip.

 

Rods in action, lures plucking tips,

we went in search of small trout

but that day they were elusive.

Not a bite, not a nibble, not a sign.

Too early, perhaps, wrong bait

perhaps, wrong speed, who knows?

The trout ignored us. Good coffee.

 

My silly finger turned white, damn!

Ashore, at a deserted camp

we coaxed embers into a fire.

Warmed our hands and dried out –

soaking gloves, steam billowed.

Pitch rich Fir sputtered and spat.

Glorious warmth invaded bones.

 

The sun jumped down on us.

A rainbow grew from the lake.

Trees decked out in a million –

diamonds winked and flashed.

We were the richest men alive.

We had a lake, a boat, a rainbow,

a snowy mountain, a diamond tree

and no fish to clean.

 

Two old friends, alive and free!

 

David Garlick, Ladysmith, March, 2001