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Ernest
04-01-2015, 04:41 AM
Three streams pulled the water from the high plateau above the lake. They wandered through bogs and beaver meadows. Further down they joined to make one of the fishing rivers. The brook trout in the easternmost stream were blue with red or pink bellies and orange flesh. I lay in the grass and watched small fish move over stones to catch the drifting insects. The middle stream was the longest. It had the only spring pond on the plateau, which was deep and ringed with muskeg, and needed a canoe to fish it. Insect eating plants were rooted in the wet banks. The fish were bright and firm and strong in the cold water. The western stream was the smallest, flowing through the cedar swamp where my dad and I cut fence posts and rails one winter. The water was the color of weak coffee. The trout were dark and heavy, the biggest fish in the three streams. Summer nights I slept in the shelter of black spruce and balsams. The plateau was the home of ravens and owls, porcupines, moose and bears, and to me.

I left to make a living and fished faster brown trout streams and wind scuffed lakes. Fifty years later, when I need a mantra, retreat, or release, itís enough to live again for a few minutes on the high plateau above the big lake.

Jax
04-03-2015, 03:13 PM
Ernest; You paint a beautiful picture for the mind's eye. A Pleasant read you took me with you. Thanks.

ofuros
04-03-2015, 06:04 PM
Distant memories....enjoyed.