Joined: Jan. 2005
||Posted: July 01 2005,19:58
There is a lake in the High Sierra Mountains of California, Echo Lake. Fed by the winter snows, it lies in a cradle of granite mountains,cut and polished by passing glaciers at about 8,000 ft. elevation. My grandfather homesteaded a cabin here, long before it became national forest land, along with a handful of others escaping the press of San Francisco and the Bay. Built on a low cliff overlooking the narrow channel that seperated the upper and lower sections of the lake and only to be reached by a 3 mile boat ride from the road and chalet which served as the gateway to the Desolation Wilderness. My earliest memories of grandfather are from the bow seat of his wooden Willits canoe, a fishing rod in my hand, listening to the long, measured strokes of his paddle coming from the stern. Early in the morning, we would head down the lake to pick up the morning paper at the chalet, about a 45 minute paddle down, and more often than not, as the winds picked up through the mountain passes, about a 2 hour trip back. He had a motor boat tied to long dock below the cabin but that was only used for packing in at the start of the season and out before the first snows started; he hated the bouncy ride and the noise, and quite frankly, it was always about the gettin' there, not the destination.
Years passed and I could hear those same measured strokes coming from the stern, the paddle now in my father's hands. He would pause and in the still quiet of the duck pond in the first morning light, the only sound coming from the drops of water off the paddle blade and a quick rush of wings.
Now I ride the stern.
(Capn's Note: beautiful contribution. Thank you)
Edited by Capn Jimbo on July 02 2005,00:12
... and that's why I hate treble hooks...