A GOOD DAY

By

Liz Radisich

All week we planned our trip to the meadows. We gathered all the gear, like old men sure of their wisdom, we debated all the bait. The perfect lunch, always the perfect bait, was prepared and skillfully packed. The preparations provoked our anticipation; like buying ice cream, but waiting to eat it until after dinner.

The day finally arrived. After a hurried breakfast, we packed up, headed west towards the mountains. Anticipation filled the cab. We marveled that the space could contain it. We became giddy and boastful, like little children bragging about what Santa would bring for Christmas. Our confidence made us kind and we listened generously to each swaggering story.           

Going always takes longer than returning; I guess because we must again memorize each landmark. We check the map; we tick off each landmark then try to guess when we will arrive. Off road, when the way loses its sides and the bottom vanishes in haze and mist, I close my eyes, as if not seeing is a fitting talisman to oppose gravity.

Finally, arrival sounds and I open my eyes and gaze around, angst and anticipation replaced now by awe and peace. Before settling in, we wander the familiar trails; stop to examine each treasured spot of memory. Reassured, we wander back to the truck, once again anxious to test our skill, or luck, with the rest of the anglers.

Since most of the action is happening below, we too head out for the lower lake. The edge is rimmed with men and boys, spaced discreetly so long held secrets are safe from prying eyes. We find a spot, careful to secure our own secrets, and with precise ritual, prepare our offering to the lake. Boldly we cast out; set our lines, then like cats circling a hearth, look for places to sit.           

Seated now, we relax and begin committing to memory the beauty around us, absorbing each detail like greedy sponges. Mindful of our poles, we keep them in our sight, and when mine bows and bobs, we both jump for it. Good hit! I grab the pole, jerk back to set the hook, start reeling in my prize. My masculine audience watches stoically, like statues with only eyes that move.    

Good fight! The fish jumps and plays my drag, twisting and spraying water, scales flashing rainbow in the morning light. I play my drag, letting him tire. Finally he lets me bring him in. Amazed and delighted by his size, I whoop and holler, gloating like any predator celebrating her kill. The eyes of the statues drop back to their poles, and I re-bait. I am excited now for the hunt and cast out again.

Time passes…no bites from any quarter. But my pole bows and jerks again. Again I set the hook and play my catch. Again masculine statues with eyes watch, this time statue lips quiver just so slightly. Landed, this one proves as awesome as the first, my victory dance more garish still.