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USA Edition | Today Is Monday, March 22, 2010 |
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USA Edition | Today Is Monday, March 22, 2010 |
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| World News At A World Class Standard | « Scan Content In The Order It Was Published » | The End Of Free Lunch America | |
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Misty Dawns, Still Waters, Warm People
For Colin, conversation was as much about having fun as it was about sharing ideas. But that was only when he was talking, for when Colin was quiet he remained, for the most part, a mystery.
This true story is the third of eight installments dealing with experiences outdoorsman Keith Bemis and I shared with Colin Montgomery, one of the most engaging characters many of us will ever meet. Although the events portrayed in this series of stories are true, they transpired over several years.
There’s nothing like the aroma of brewing coffee to get one out of bed. It was barely dawn, but fisherman Keith Bemis and I are coffee drinkers. Lucky for me, Keith nearly always gets the pot going first.
“Holy Cow!, Keith,” I muttered as I crawled out of bed. “Is it morning already?”
“Yep . . . coffee’s ready.”
I pulled on some trousers and an old gray sweatshirt. I couldn’t find my shoes in the dark so I tippy-toed on the cold floor into the main room of the family sized cabin.
Keith was bleary eyed and half dressed — but he handed me a cup of steaming java. “I thought you might need some of this stuff . . .”
“Perhaps you thought the Scots-flavored water put me down early last night?”
“Whatever it was you went out like a light.”
It took us little more than fifteen minutes to sip our coffee and finish dressing. I could feel the cold in my toes when I pulled on a pair of extra heavy weight sox. By the time we reached the Dawson house, it was two minutes ’til six — with breakfast served precisely at 6 A.M. We were the only ones in the dining room — no one else in camp seemed to be up. Soon, the town girl who worked for the Dawsons that summer, came in with our breakfast. Two eggs, four sausages, morning tea, and a high stack of buttered toast.
In fishing camp there are only two meals a day — unless luncheon sandwiches are specially ordered — so breakfast would have to stand us until dinner. When we finished breakfast, Keith and I walked back to the cabin in the dark. We picked up our fishing gear and made our way down the hill to the rickety old fish house.
“Yew ladies been sleeping in again, I see,” Colin exclaimed, as we passed under the light on the pier just outside the fish house.
“Maybe our watches are still on American time,” I retorted. Of course there is no difference at all between American and Canadian time — except to Colin who found most things American untimely, suspect or overvalued.
Keith couldn’t contain himself, “It’s only six-twenty-five,” he argued, “at least in the real world . . .”
I looked up — surprised to see that Keith was indeed in a jocular mood that morning. With two of us, Colin was surely in over his head. Or, so we thought. Colin Montgomery was sharp of mind and quick of tongue. Sometimes he might talk incessantly while at others he would be silent. No matter which, his mind was racing ahead — searching for an angle — for he enjoyed the camaraderie and teasing of people he liked. He was a most remarkable man for while he appeared woodsy and rough hewn at times, he was far more sophisticated than he cared to show.
Sometimes when he was particularly animated, he would jab and dance about like a prize fighter to emphasize his comments. For Colin, conversation was as much about having fun as it was about sharing ideas. But that was only when he was talking, for when Colin was quiet he remained, for the most part, a mystery. It was after these silences that he was at his best. At those times, Colin chose his words carefully and savored the challenge of verbal combat. Behind his ruddy face and bright eyes was an incisive mind and and genuine interest in others.
Colin was so perplexed at Keith jabbing back at him, even before the light of day, that he suddenly became quiet. He stopped loading our boat, pulled a fresh white pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, carefully unzipped the top of the pack, ripped open the wrapping paper and extracted a single cigarette. Then, in an action I had seen many times before, in one single motion he pressed the pack back into his shirt pocket and removed his Zippo lighter. Colin’s first drag set the tip of the Export bright red in the darkness. Seeing it was lit, Colin rolled the cigarette into the left corner of his mouth and commenced to finish loading the boat.
It was cold that morning — and completely still as we worked under the only light to be seen anywhere. For the longest time no one said anything — giving Colin plenty of time to size up his two prize customers. Then, he squinted at us on the wooden dock and ordered,
“You fellers better get into the boat,” motioning toward our fishing tackle, ” . . . Sun’s gonna be up by the time I get the motor going . . .”
Keith and I boarded the row boat and stored our gear and tackle boxes. Anybody who has fished small lakes has been in one of these row boats at one time or another. The ones used at Dawson’s were sturdy Cedar shells with a small shelf on the bow, two mid-body, and one at the stern for the pilot. When we were finished stowing our gear, Keith took the forward seat and I the one closer to the stern. There was plenty of room for three and all our gear.
Before we were settled, Colin set the fuel tank into position on the floor behind me, and re-checked the motor mounts to make they were secure. Then, as he had no doubt done thousands of times before, Colin leaned over the fuel tank with his cigarette dangling from his mouth, pressed the fuel line into the fuel can receptacle, and lowered the motor into the lake.
Fortunately, Colin’s cigarette rarely, if ever, stayed lit. All the better for the butt to remain in the corner of Colin’s mouth — where it could hang perilously for hours. Later, when there would be nothing better to do, Colin would re-light the butt and take a big drag — only to have it go out again.
“OK, yew guys,” Colin said, as he untied the bow rope, “let’s get agoin’ here . . .”
No more had we slipped away from the pier than the first glimmer of dawn shown in the eastern sky. Slowly, but not at all silently, our tiny boat puttered toward the twin islands not far from camp — leaving a gentle wake behind that little disturbed the mirror-like surface of the lake.
Dawn on Manitoulin is something to behold. Maybe it’s the clean air, or the northern latitude, or even our own imagination, but the first bite of the day always tasted best. For those who love the outdoors, these moments are priceless.
Our route took us between the twin islands. I had forgotten that the channel between the islands was only a few hundred yards wide. As we approached, Colin preceded at trolling speed until he had placed us precisely where he wanted. Then, the motor stopped and the silence of dawn again engulfed us. Colin looked around in the eerie first light to make certain we were at the right spot. As near as I could tell, we were just off shore of the smaller island — still far from the main body of the lake.
“Let’s see what’s-a-doing here,” Colin said as he opened his little tackle box, “. . . got some nice bass around here a couple a days ago.”
Colin gently plopped our small anchor into the icy blue water. In a matter of minutes all of us had our lines in the water. It was still cold at that hour, but the bright morning sun would soon be dancing on the nearby tree tops and yielding warmth to the night air.
In the silence of morning I could hear songbirds as well as the occasional splash of a surfacing fish. For the longest time nothing was said. It’s not that we were busy catching fish that morning, for there was little evidence as I recall to suggest that the fish were up at that hour. Even Colin was quiet — plying his line with his fingers to detect the slightest activity below. Perhaps we were not yet fully awake, but memory suggests that we were more likely hypnotized by the developing sights and sounds around us.
As we waited in silence, the stillness and tranquility around us slowly transformed dawn’s early light into a gorgeous Canadian morning. Before long I could see nearby treetops taking on a bright yellow cast as their leaves were bathed in the warm morning sun.
We Weren't The Only Fishermen On Kagawong At That Hour
“Pretty as a pitcher, ain’t she?,” Colin said, breaking his long silence.
“Yessir,” I replied, “it surely is beautiful this morning” — for by then Keith and I were reveling at the iridescent blue reflections on the still waters. Not far from our boat two loons appeared out of nowhere, then swam away as a pair all the while eying us carefully. Soon they we back under water, leaving us to contemplate the wonders of nature all around us.
Fishing is as much about being at one with the outdoors as it is about bait, tackle and landing fish. Being on a cold boat in the early dawn is as good as it gets — at least until the fish start biting.
Suddenly, the bass were hitting our bait. From then on, the business of fishing increasingly consumed our attention. Sometimes they would steal our bait, but for the most part we landed those who found our wiggly bait an attractive breakfast. We were fishing with worms that morning — the kind everyone who has ever fished has used. We had more exotic bait with us, but night crawlers are the mainstay of shallow lake fishing.
Every few minutes one of us would snap our rod to hook another hungry bass. Most of the time we set our hooks and reeled in the surprised fish. Sometimes we landed a pesky yellow perch, but mostly we’d find a small mouth bass wiggling on our hook. Once we had the fish out of the water, our audience was fast to react with plenty of laughs for the little ones that we dropped back into the lake while the bigger ones were sent plopping into the fish bucket. Truth be told, while these fish were bass, most of them were pretty small fish. After a while the routine of constant activity gets boring. It was at such a moment that I reminded Colin that we also wanted to land some lake trout that morning.
“They ain’t up yet!,” he snapped with a broad smile. Then, pointing towards our fish bucket, he sarcastically inquired, “How come yew fellers ain’t catching bigger fish?” The impish smile and his flashing Irish eyes revealed his delight at our expense. When I turned to answer, I saw he was reeling in a fish twice the size of any Keith and I had landed. That did it. The bass fishing began in earnest.
The morning went fast. We all caught plenty of bass — but, truth be told, few were really worth cleaning and gutting. As the sun rose higher in the morning sky, we changed location from time to time searching for a hot-spot of hungry lake trout. No matter what we tried, there were no lake trout to be found. Maybe Colin was right about the trout sleeping in. Who knows? Colin was among the very best fishermen I had ever known, but I doubt even he knew when the trout were biting — if at all.
By noon our meanderings in search of lake trout had taken us far into Kagawong’s west lobe. We finally found a little action perhaps a kilometer off the west shore. While strikes on our bait were infrequent, they were suggestive of larger fish. Unfortunately, as is sometimes true, as the sun got higher the fish bit less often. In a matter of perhaps an hour, our fishing had gone from being too busy to something far closer to boring.
It was great being on the lake, but this was our first day out and Keith and I had the fisherman’s urge to catch a whale — something not even Colin claimed to be possible on Kagawong. By lunch time there was little activity below which was reflected above by our boat becoming increasingly quiet. Being fishermen, we stayed the course, repeatedly baited our hooks, plopped the bait into the water and waited — oblivious to nearly everything around us. That proved to be a major mistake, for while we caught nothing, fate was soon to catch us.
