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Oh you know the place well, and known it since your grandparents took you there for the very first time, and they waited until you were old enough to get a grasp of where they took you and more importantly, why.
You recall clearly the winter you shoveled every sidewalk you could find to earn the cash to book that small log cabin off breachers point, the one roomer, you didn’t need a bigger one, it was your first pickup truck, your dog, and that cabin, that you rented all on your own.
Over the years, every time you drive in you look, hoping not one single thing has changed, you want to step out of the truck, open the cabin door, your nose takes over. Oh man, my cabin, sorta, is that reminiscent of fresh brewed coffee, not sure why the cabin’s interior is so intoxicating, but luckily, your nose knows. You feel great, you toss the two screen windows open, the cross breeze in minutes is nostril pure northern Minnesota pine tree essence, you can’t suck enough in.
The gravel you park on, soft sandy brown with enough agate chips to make you look down many times hiking back and forth to the dock, as many nights that you look up at star chips, that some years the fishing was what we all dream about all winter, only then it happens. Tank pike, slabbed shore lunched eyes, and yes some were horrible, the bugs insane, but the loons call, coming in the silent night’s window, waves splishing along the shore.
When did I fall asleep? Thunderstorms to rip you out of bed as the lightning roars across the lake’s surface bedazzling the entire dark night a brilliant second of eye shocking white. Tent, oh I like this roof. The morning dawn’s wet dew dripping clear, the dog on the floor is itching to get outside, sometime early morning you were back sound asleep, one of the owners tied a bag of fresh cake donuts for you to start the day with, one you hope you have over and over again, at a place, again, you hope never, ever, ever, changes.
- The Trout Whisperer
