Walnut Run Marina is silent and still at 6 am on this Fourth of July. The surface of the water, gray like the predawn sky, is swathed in a mist of gray tulle. It swirls seductively, enticing our fishing boat out into the heart of Smith Mountain Lake.
Mark sets the course on the boat’s gps, moves the throttle forward and our boat picks up speed. The bow tilts upward as we begin to slice the water’s surface like a blade. The hum of the motor rises in both volume and pitch with our acceleration.
I flip the front of my sunhat up to keep it from blowing off in the breeze. As I do so, the hair on my forearms stands up in the chill. It is cold, but I love it… The shock of the sudden temperature drop coupled with the increase in speed compel me to hold on to Mark’s waist a little tighter. I am sitting to his right at the helm. I feel so alive…
We come to one of many crossroads in this labyrinthine lake and reduce our speed as we pull up close to a dock where Mark has spotted some large fish on the sonar screen. He pivots to the perfect spot, sets the Smartlock on the trolling motor, and we are engulfed by loud silence once again.
A dog barks from one of the lakefront homes and it echoes through the trees on the shorelines all around us. The other prominent sound is a woodpecker hammering away. Songbirds near and far complete the chorus.
The lake is like glass once we’ve stopped drifting. Water bugs are the only movement on the surface. Like little dancing diamonds in the morning haze which is now beginning to burn off as blinks of sunlight twinkle through the tree line in the east on the horizon.
The sun crests over the trees and a boat passes. Serious fisherman… Mark is focused on the sonar.
I close my eyes, take a few deep breaths, and when I open them I tune in to my surroundings even more fully. So much input on this still morning. Infinite shades of green: American beech, oak, maple on a shag carpet of ferns, weeds, and occasional wildflowers. A pair of brazen does tiptoe where the forest’s edge meets a dock.
Now crows have joined the call, drowning out a myriad other song birds who’ve joined the cacophony. I count two.
Fish are literally jumping now. Large shad break the surface here and there creating ripples and bubbling plop sounds that draw my awareness here and there. It’s as if the fish are the ones luring us and not the other way around; luring our awareness, anyway.
A black mass skitters across the rocks at the water’s edge. The stones change change color half way down indicating low tide. I thought perhaps I saw a water rat. As he slinked into the morning light, his ferrety body revealed him to be a happy mink.
An enormous blue heron that had been circling above swoops down low just past our boat and freshly dropped fishing lines. The tips of its expansive wings touch the water twice before he soars over the trees and out of sight.
The display screen at the helm reveals a series of orange streaks. These supposedly indicate that there are indeed fish just below us here. I wouldn’t tell Mark but I almost hope they don’t bite and disrupt the peacefulness.
We pick a new spot closer to the shoreline. Here you can see the sunlight reflecting back up onto the trees from the water like light coming off of a disco ball. It looks as if the bark of the trees and the leaves themselves are rippling.
Now my favorite of all summer sounds…. With the rising sun and heat come the cicadas. Like two sides of an ancient Greek amphitheater; chirping from this section, then a reply from that section.
And just like that… A fish! A tiny little bass but a fish, nonetheless. Mark doesn’t want me to take the picture but it is cute. He releases the wriggling creature and I fight the urge to dive in after it. The water looks so cool and clean this morning.
I pull off my hat and let my hair down. The sun immediately plays upon my scalp. Her gentle rays are like fingers drawn into the chocolate brown to massage my scalp. It’s comforting. A cool breeze like a kiss on my face. And the gentle, slow rock of the boat, hypnotic.
I like seeing Mark like this. In flow. He is completely immersed in his task. Alert, yet at ease. Checking the viewfinder, watching the surface of the water, casting and reeling with easy skill.
We drift closer still to the land’s edge and are now floating under the shade of trees. The water looks black from here and eerily smooth until a huge wake boat sends us tossing much to my delight and Mark’s chagrin; the bow of the bobbing up and back the way Mark’s head does when he laughs.
An ancient beagle comes traipsing down toward the lakeside from one of the houses. He is untethered and no one is watching him. Totally free. The owners of this home managed to carve out a nice sloped patch of lawn. At this time in the morning the light picks up the morning dew in each blade.
Our great heron is now perched on a nearby roof and I can see that it must stand at least 4 ft tall. Mark argues it’s only three. We’ll bring the binoculars next time. And a hoodie for me. And a thermos of fresh coffee…
Leave a comment