Todays Helping of Chicken Soup for the Soul

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The Secret of Going Fishing

By Melody Plaxton

In the darkness, I rubbed my weary eyes and groaned as the clatter of a

wind-up alarm clock sounded, bringing a harsh, abrupt end to my night's

rest.

Momentary thoughts drifted through my hazy brain: 'Just go back to sleep!

You

can do this later; he'll never know, and you'll have kept your promise.'

But

the nagging guilt of being less than completely honest with my husband

didn't

let the thoughts linger too long. With a sigh, I swung my legs over the

side of

our tent-trailer bunk, stretched, then gazed at the still-sleeping form of

our

six-year-old daughter. 'Perhaps she'll change her mind. She is so

difficult to

stir in the morning at normal hours. What will she be like at five o'clock

on a

cold June morning in the Sierra Nevada Mountains?'

" , " I whispered, trying not to disturb my sister, who had joined us

for

a week of camping at Hume Lake, California. " , it's time. " To my

complete

surprise, and perhaps dismay, she raised her tousled head energetically.

" Is it morning already? " she asked. No escape there! I yawned and

stretched again, watching my daughter bound from her sleeping bag with

uncharacteristic morning enthusiasm.

" Yes, it's morning, sort of, " I muttered quietly back to her. In the

predawn chill and dark, we slipped into our sneakers, donned sweatshirts and

padded off to the restrooms in silence. Returning to our campsite, we

retrieved

the fishing pole and tackle box my husband had painstakingly prepared for

the

trip. I could still see his hands, skillfully tying knots in the slippery

fishing line, still hear his patient instructions as he briefed me on how to

teach to use the rod and reel. I recalled telling him that if the line

broke, we would be finished . . . there was no way I could tie the hook and

sinkers back on the way I'd seen him do it. He just smiled.

" You'll do fine, " he told me. " I just wish I could be there to help. "

His

smile slowly faded as he gazed off into the distance. " I really should have

done this sooner, " he said. " Guess you'll have to do it for me. "

I gently reached out and touched his arm.

" I wish you could, too. Isn't there some way you can? " I asked, more

to

assure him that I understood - that I knew how badly he wanted to be with

us.

He slowly shook his head.

" The business is just too new for me to leave for the week. I have to

take

care of our customers, or I can't take care of us. " Then he smiled and

looked

at me. " Maybe next year. "

I slowly nodded in agreement.

So here I was, yawning in the dark, groping for my thermos of coffee

and

praying that this wouldn't be a total disaster. tugged at my sleeve.

" Come on, Mommy! We have to get the fish early. Daddy said so. " I

took

her warm little hand in mine and headed down a path in the direction of the

lake, hoping I wouldn't stumble into it in the darkness, literally. As we

walked, kept up a stream of happy chatter.

As we neared the lake, the coffee had begun to do its job. My head

started

to clear, and with the clearing came other awakenings: an awareness of a

sharpness in the crisp morning air chilling my nose, cheeks, ears and hands;

the

stillness of the woods anticipating the dawn; the sweet clarity of mountain

air

filling my nostrils and lungs; the utter timelessness of the moment; the

overwhelming sense of well-being that comes from appreciating the

awesomeness of

Mother Nature.

We rounded a corner and the path abruptly ended, opening up to the

shoreline. I set down the pole and tackle box and took one final gulp of

coffee. had fallen silent. Apparently she, too, was captivated by the

glorious magic of the early morning. As I turned toward the lake, I noticed

a

faint silver glow had appeared, ever so delicately, hanging about the edges

of

the jet-black Sierras across the small lake from us. Slowly, the midnight

blue-

black of the sky began to take on a lighter hue, and as it did, a chorus of

bird

songs punctuated the morning silence.

" Mommy, look! " pointed to the surface of the lake. I remember the

sight today as clearly as if a motion picture were playing in my mind. From

the

placid, motionless surface of the water, there arose in ghostly swirls and

rifts

a thin veil of white. The morning mist over the lake swelled and grew until

the

face of the water had become a dance floor, with hundreds of cloudlike

dancers

gently bowing, twisting, rising and whirling to the music of the woods.

There

in the predawn light, Mother Nature was orchestrating a natural ballet, as

wisps

of fog gently flowed and meandered in the air, covering the surface of the

lake

in an ever-churning rhythmic motion. We stood and watched in silent awe.

Recalling the camera slung around my neck for photographing the morning's

" big

catch, " I snapped a few pictures, though I realized no picture could ever

recapture the breathtaking experience we were sharing.

Years have not dimmed the clarity of how I remember that morning;

remembers it the same as I. Neither of us recalls much more about the

details

of the remainder of our fishing adventure, including whether or not any fish

were caught. But mention " going fishing " to my now eighteen-year-old

daughter,

and this moment at Hume Lake is the first thought that comes to her mind.

The

predawn experience expressed my husband's love of fishing to both of us more

than any fish tale ever could. We now understand why he can say it's not

about

where you go, your gear, your boat or even how many fish you catch. It's

more

about time, reverence for creation, Mother Nature, putting life on " pause "

for

awhile. It's about " going fishing. "