They were two of a kind, right down to the name, both men were named John, John Fletcher and John Turnbull.Funny, though you always seemed to know which one someone was talking about. They grew up together in the small Nova Scotia town of Mount Uniacke. They were of an age, perhaps separated by two years. They both shared a love of the outdoors that they indulged for nearly three quarters of a century. Together they tromped the backwoods of Hants county, chasing rabbits, grouse, or fishing. It didn't matter what the season, it was an excuse to leave the town behind and spend a few precious hours or days, stolen away from work and cares. Much of that time was spent in a place called Granite lake. They had a small cabin there for over thirty years. It was here they most loved to escape.
I heard tales about "the camp" as they always called it, for years before I ever got the chance to go there. When we were young my Father would take my younger brother Larry and I fishing around the Mount, in lakes that were largely fished out. We would take a lunch and go in the hot months, July and August when Dad and Johnny had given up going back to "the camp". We would sit in the sun and drown worms, pleasant enough, but even at that young age I knew this wasn't real fishing. I dreamt of what the camp would look like. I pictured the lake in my mind and all the details from the stories my Father would tell me. I knew there was a ways to go before I would be ready and I bided my time.
I don't remember exactly how old I was the first time my Dad asked me if I wanted to go with them back to Granite. I do know that I didn't waste a second in saying yes. This was an important milestone in my life, it was a rite of passage every bit as important as my first date, my first job, my first car. There were rituals here as important as, an as codified as those of religion, like some kind of Bar Mitzvah. What was to follow would become a kind of routine that we would take every time we would go back to "the camp". About mid week a call would be placed between Dad and John, not about whether they were going, that was a given. Every weekend from ice out in April until the heat and flies got too bad in mid-June then again from late August until October brought the close of fishing season they would make the long trek back to Granite. There was no question of whether they were going, no weather, no matter how foul could stop them. No amount of nagging from their wives about lawns that needed mowing, basements that needed sweeping or houses that needed painting could stop them. This was an urge as primal as that of Salmon heading upstream to spawn. This was instinctive, today we would say "it's a guy thing!".
The call would establish who was going, Dad and Johnny had other friends who sometimes joined them men like big Bill Gill or George Williams who shared their adventures. This week it was just the three of us, Dad Johnny and ME! On the phone the exchange was quick, it was long distance in those days. There were important details to resolve, whose turn was it to bring the bait? Whose turn to bring the meat? Had Dad heard about the trout that so and so had caught just last weekend? How big? Lucky bugger. The call ended and it was decided we would be bringing the bait and some meat. Friday night was shopping night in those days as that was Dad's pay day. We went to the Sobey's store up the street and Dad bought a roast chicken from the rotisserie which had a grease stained sign which read "There's nobody here but us chickens so serve yourself". We also picked up small cans of milk for our tea and hot dogs and bacon which we would freeze. We froze the bread too so it wouldn't get crushed in our packs. After we took the groceries home we drove "down east", along the eastern shore towards Chezetcook. We would watch the side of the road for hand made wooden signs that read "bait" or "minnows". We would pull over usually to a small shack by a creek that ran in from the sea. There was usually a tank of some sort, an old freezer or an oil barrel cut in half. The proprietor would scoop a hundred or so minnows up in a dip net and dump them on a burlap strainer and you would paw through them and pick out the size you were looking for. They sold, in those days for a buck for three dozen. They would take an old tobacco can or one quart ice cream pail and pack it with dry leaves and pack the minnows in that. If we couldn't dig worms we often bought those too. We were now ready to start packing.
Dad and Johnny carried huge packs that they made themselves out of canvas and old seat belts for straps. They had only one compartment which was about the size of a 27" TV, the old kind, with a tube! Over the years I never ceased to be amazed how Johnny could dig in that monstrous pack, the third day into a long weekend and still come up with some hoe made goodies that his wife Lottie had packed in there for us. She was a wonderful cook and it sure tasted good when there was no stores or diner near. Dad had a head start as his pack would never be fully unpacked. He would take out only what he needed to when he returned and many things just stayed there. I needed changes of clothes, rain gear, bug dope, tooth paste and brush, a comb, matches, a knife, fishing gear, some store bought goodies bought with my allowance or paper route money. We left the food for morning, the meat and bread were in the freezer and the eggs and butter in the fridge. We had tins of stew and bully beef in our packs along with sugar and tea bags, etc. As the season wore on they would stockpile these items in the camp and would need to carry less stuff back with them.
Then it was off to bed, an early start meant an early night. It was useless, though. I couldn't sleep, it was like Christmas and my birthday rolled into one. It seemed like I would never get to sleep and then no sooner, it seemed, had I gotten to sleep than I felt Dad's strong hand on my shoulder gently shaking we awake. He held his finger to his lips as a sign not to disturb my brother. We crept down the stairs where my Mother was already moving around the kitchen. It was still pitch black outside. We ate quickly and Mom took the rest of the food out and placed it on the counter. She patted my head and told me to mind my Father and be careful in the boat. We moved like cat burglars and placed the food on top of our now bulging packs and did up the straps. We pulled on our boots and packed the gear to the car. I wiped the dew from the windshield as Dad filled the trunk. Mom watched from the driveway and waved until we were out of sight. We headed for the highway and took the turn off to Bedford. It always seemed like such a long drive in those days, before the new highway opened up. We drove along, Dad must have sensed my anticipation as he began to tell me once again that it was a long walk back to the camp. I couldn't get my head around that, of course because I was young and had never been there before. For me it was an adventure and I was keen to go. It seemed like forever and the first streaks of dawn were paling the inky sky when we pulled into Johnny's driveway. In those days Johnny lived near where the old train station had been, just inside Mount Uniacke. He was waiting in the driveway with this pack at his feet, a cigarette dangling from his lips. Johnny smoked rollies, unfiltered cigarettes made with Players navy cut tobacco. He would roll a whole tin full for a weekend, and smoke them all. Dad too lit one of the butt of another and I always marvelled at how they had never burned down the entire forest.
Johnny greeted us warmly, he was dressed as was Dad in a Mackinaw jacket, red check. Work pants, green lace up boots with the red and white tops of wool work socks peeking out over the top of the boots. A green work shirt with a plastic pack of cigarettes in his shirt pocket. John had eyes as blue as a China cup and a face that was creased and worn like old leather from a lot of sun and hard work. It was a friendly, honest face. They both wore ball caps, Johnny's perpetually tilted at a rakish angle. Dad always wore his square on. We slid our packs onto our shoulders and Johnny led the way across the highway and onto the rail tracks. We followed these for the better part of a mile. This was always one of the worst parts for me. I hated walking the rails. The roadbed was narrow and sandy and there was not enough room in most places to walk beside the ties. The ties themselves were too close to step one at a time and too far apart to take two at a time. So i stumbled along as best I could and waited for that part to end, which it seemed would never happen. Birds sang in the early light and you avoided the long grass where you could as it was soaked and soon we were wet to the knees. Eventually we reached a spot where the bank had been worn away by footsteps and a good deal of sand and gravel had piled up in a trail heading into the woods. I welcomed leaving the rails as the walking was instantly better. Johnny ahead of us disappeared into the darkness of the bush and soon we too passed through a layer of trees like an evergreen curtain. The trail was worn right into the forest floor. It was a mud path with tree roots sticking out making the walking often treacherous. In many places the path was full of water and its' bottom was a slippery mix of mud and clay. You had to grab the alders at the sides of the trail to steady your course as you were laden with a big pack and carrying a fishing rod in one hand. A short walk lead us to the shores of a small lake. "Five Island." Dad said as we approached. The water was a mirror, still as a mill pond. Johnny disappeared into the bush and came back with a set of oars joined by a length of cord. Dad lead the way to a boat chained to a tree. Johny unlocked the padlock, righted the boat and slid the oars into the oar locks. We took off our packs and put the gear into the twelve foot row boat. I got in the bow, Johnny sat down to row and Dad launched us and took a seat in the stern.
The only ripples on the lake were the rings left by Johnny's rhythmic strokes. I soon came to understand that there was another rule here too, whoever rowed this time, fished next time. None of these rules were ever spoken. Dad and Johnny were men of few words, I was beginning to notice. Yet they had a set of rules that they had worked out on a thousand other trips like this. Dad looked at me, I must have had a puzzled look on my face. "No fish in here." He said. "We will wait until we hit the fishing rock.'" We rowed the length of Five Island in peaceful tranquility only the sound of the oars in the locks and the slight drip as the oars swept forward. Dad and Johnny were powerful men and the trip took no time at all. Soon we beached the boat and chained it to yet another tree. Johnny hung the oars and we struck off along another well worn path. I wondered how many times there feet had passed this way to wear so well defined a highway through the forest floor.
The forest smells and sounds filled my senses. The early morning air was scented with pine and the smell of damp decaying vegetation. There was the sound of crickets and peepers making their soothing almost purring serenade. Every once in a while a squirrel would blast us with his angry chatter at having his property violated. The terrain was hilly and some hills were very steep. At the bottom of one we hit a large still water. It too was like glass, living up to its' name. Dad stuck out a arm in front of me to bar my path. He raised his finger to his lips as he had done in my bedroom back home. I stared around in anticipation... nothing. No sound, nothing moved. In the still water there was a beaver lodge, a grey lump in the mist and early morning light. Beside it was a smaller black lump, about the size of a sofa. I looked back at Dad, unsure why we were stopping, when the smaller lump moved, and a bull moose raised its' head. It stood there chewing vegetation, water streaming from its' horns and head. Without seeing us it returned to grazing. The next time it raised its' head it must have gotten our scent as it turned and stepping with an odd grace, walked up the bank and quickly disappeared into the bush.
We continued to walk, more hills, crawling over fallen trees, slipping in the mud, it was tiring going. Finally we reached a clear stream where we stopped to get a drink of the cold water. Dad and Johnny smoked. I of course asked the proverbial "Are we there yet?" Dad smiled, "A ways yet, we're about halfway there." Half way? Holy cow, was he kidding? Where is this place? Taking off my pack was too much work so I just leaned against a tree. Soon we were moving again. More hills more fallen trees more mud. Eventually we reached a hill. There was a huge tree split like a pitchfork looking like a candelabra. "The lake's just ahead." Dad said. Thank god, I thought. We walked down the hill, which is just as hard as climbing. At the bottom we hit a swampy area. Again Johnny disappeared into the bush and returned with yet another set of oars we walked along a muddy trail until we came to a huge tree. Chained to it was a boat, identical to the first. Johnny unlocked the chain and we followed the same routine, with Dad at the oars this time. We slid into a narrow channel with weeds on both sides, a floating layer of leaves lay just below the surface. "No fishing here'" Dad said, "too many weeds." We rowed along the channel toward an opening where there was clear water. The lake was shaped sort of like a cowboy boot. We were in the toe. As we hit open water Johnny readied his rod, I followed suit. We fished for a bit off a large rock. This was the fishing rock, I would learn that most of the rocks, islands and other points of interest had names, like neighborhoods. You could pinpoint an island or rock, or turn in the trail, they all had names;the Fishing Rock, Pine Point, or Porter's Rock. With a minimum of words you could instantly identify a specific area. That was a theme with them, they didn't say a lot when they were together. It was like they had a code. Better yet, it was like all the really good stories were like the verses of a well known song that they had sung to each other and to their friends so many times that all they had to do was start a story and it was like humming the first few bars of a well loved song. "Remember back in '69 when Bill came walking into the camp, just in time for breakfast?" Dad would ask. "Yep." Johnny would answer "Crazy Bugger!" I of course had no clue what they were talking about so I would follow up, I loved stories of the camp, there were a million of them and I wanted to hear every one. "Tell me!" I would protest and what followed was a story of how Dad was supposed to pick up Bill Gill one Friday night in the Fall as the boys were going back to camp to cut firewood and hunt rabbits. Dad had waited but Bill did not show up. With snow threatening Dad headed to the Mount and he a Johnny walked back to the camp. That night it snowed over a foot and when Dad and Johnny were cooking breakfast next morning who walked in but a half frozen Bill Gill. Bill had missed Dad and had gotten a ride to the Mount, he started in the bush at dark and got caught in the snow storm. Unable to make any progress he cut some boughs and bedded down in an area we called The Tunnel. It was an area of dense evergreens where the tree cover was so tight that you wouldn't get wet even in the worst downpour. Bill slept in a snowbank and walked in to camp at first light. They were tough men.
I think Dad and Johnny liked having me along. It gave them an excuse to finish the stories. I loved hearing them, dreaming of the day when I would be in one. We fished off the rock a few minutes when Johnny got a fish. "You broke the ice!" Dad said excitedly. It was not huge but I was always fascinated by how beautiful a brook trout was, its' sides bejewelled with the orange dots with bright blue halos. Johnny lined the creel with damp moss and added the trout to it. We returned to the boat and made our way along the shore of the lake. In an area at the heel of the cowboy boot was a stream that splashed into the lake. We fished here for a few minutes and then dragged the boat up on a flat rock and tied it to a tree which had well worn marks on it from having this done many, many times before. We followed the stream and walked into the bush a hundred yards or so. Around a bend in the trail a small cabin appeared. Nothing fancy, maybe 14 feet square with a sloped, shed roof and a stove pipe sticking out. This was it! The fabled Camp! Not much to look at. There were piles of firewood outside and the door faced away from the lake. There was no lock, just a piece of board on a nail that turned to one side to hold the door too. There was also a hasp with a carved peg instead of a lock that held the door when no one was using it. Johnny opened the door and we stepped inside. The camp was a guy place, to be sure. Nothing fancy but neat as a pin. The bedding was rolled up in bags and we took it out to air. Dad gave me a bucket and showed me where we took water from the stream which babbled along over numerous rocks a few yards from the cabin. I stooped and filled the large bucket with ice-cold crystal clear water. I always marveled at how the water skimmers on the surface darted out of the way and avoided getting scooped up in the bucket. As we approached the cabin we could already smell the wonderful smell of the wood smoke as Johnny kindled a fire in the wood stove, from firewood stacked on the back wall of the cabin. We always refilled this supply of dry wood before we left so that we could always get a fire going in any weather.
The cabin was simple, just a bunk bed that could sleep four men and a table built into the front corner. There was a sink built into one corner of the table consisting of an enamel basin with a hose in the bottom which went out through a hole in the log wall. Over the sink was a window with a sliding glass that had a screen on it , it was open to air the place out. The wood stove occupied the other corner of that wall, it was a 45 gallon drum, on its' side with a stove pipe welded on the back and a door welded on the front. The cook surface was a sheet of steel plate. Johnny was feeding the fire as we entered. The bucket of water went on a shelf in the other back corner of the cabin at the foot of the bed. There was a galvanized metal box on the wall with a wooden box around it. There was a gap of an inch or two between them. This gap was filled with moss and kept wet, it made a nice little fridge. We took the frozen meat out and put it in the cooler. We also carried Vinegar jugs full of water that had also been frozen. These acted as ice packs and we could drink the water as they thawed. Johnny put the trout in a bread bag and put it in the cooler. We unpacked the food and the items we did not need were left in the camp. Johnny brewed tea and we flaked our wet things on racks over the stove so they would dry. Inevitably we always ended up soaked to the waist when going through the bushes around the lake soaked with morning dew. The tea and a few of Mom's home made cookies went down well and soon we were ready to head up the lake. Johnny took the oars and Dad and I played lines out behind the boat. The rowing motion of the boat imparted a curious motion to the bait. As the back sweep of the oars allowed the bait to stop ever so briefly and this always seemed to get the fish to bite. Soon my rod tip bent and I jumped to my feet 'I got a bite!" I yelled in my youthful exuberance. "Sit down!" Dad said sharply as he grabbed the gunwales to stop the boat from rocking. " I quickly sat down, ashamed at having made so stupid a mistake. My face must have been a mask of shame as Johnny said "Keep your rod tip up! Don't lose him!". I followed directions and soon a nice sized brookie was thrashing in the bottom of the boat. My first Granite lake brookie. Dad held him up before putting him in the creel. Congratulations helped aleviate my embarassment. I had learned a lesson, never again would I stand up in the boat. We fished our way up the lake. We got a couple more fish then we landed on a small island. This was Porter's Rock. We slid the boat up on yet anoth big flat rock. Granite lake lives up to its' name. It is perhaps a mile long and its' shore is a connected series of Granite boulders. Its' bottom is a series of granite slabs which were left behind by the glaciers and look like scores of giant dominos, strewn as if by some petulant child. It is rugged and beautiful, in those days you could not hear a human sound. You could imagine there was not another human being on the entire planet. In later years the highway would cut hours off the walk and open the lake up to weekend warrios and the sound of tires humming on the 101. Back then we went to sleep at night with the sound of the babbling brook and the occasional owl. I was beginning to see why Dad and Johnny loved this place, why they could spend so many thousands of hours here, escaping menial jons, daily cares and the cluuter of city life. Trading it all for the tranquill waters, the sound of loons singing and the promise of a big trout. I too was falling in love. This place was getting into my blood. God,I love it so...
We fished the rock and Dad told me yet another story. Of course it started as a line to Johnny. "Hey John, remember the time Bill and George went back to Futlz's and left us here?" "Yep." Was the standard reply. I was begining to see a trend. "Alright." I said, rising to the bait like a Granite brookie. "What happened?" What followed was a tale of how Dad and Johnny were left behind as the fishing in Granite was too slow for Bill and George. Not long after the other two had left the fish started biting, they bit so furiously that Dad and Johnny soon ran out of bait. They had to cut fins off of the trout they caught and use them for bait. When Bill and George returned a few hours later, troutless of course, the two triumphant fishermen had more than twenty trout each spread out across the rock. There was, of course, not enough room in the creel. Like all Granite stories it was taken as gospel. There was a small plaque on the wall of the camp, made of heavy cardboard, yellowed with age and cigarette smoke, that read "There are only two honest fishermen in the world, me and you. Sometimes I am not so sure about you." The two figures in the plaque wore caps and macinaw jackets. Dad and Johnny could have been the models. After an hour or so we made our way across the channel to a large flat rock whose name is lost to my poor memory. On it was a small depression in the enomous granite boulder. The depression was ringed with berry bushes, blueberries and partridge berries. It was far too early for either. These bushes and the rim of the depression formed a small hedge and wall that kept the wind off on cold dayts and offered shelter from sun or rain. In the center was a well used fire ring. Here we made lunch. We built a fire and took out the billy can. For those who don't know a billy can is a juice can (1 1/2 quart) which you remove the lid, punch two holes at the top edge, opposite one another for a coat hanger bail (handle). This is hung over the fire by a forked stick wedged in the rock or ballanced between some stones. It gets back and sticky friom resin so you wrap it in newspaper. The black helps spread the heat more evenly. Soon lakewater is boiling in the can. Dad tosses in a few tea bags (usually more than was needed) and inevitably a bit of ash from the fire and a few spruce needles end up in the can, it all just adds to the taste. We made strong tea. "Boiling your friends away." Mom would call it. It didn't matter Dad would drown it in canned milk and add three heaping spoons of sugar. It was sweet, it was hot and it would put hair on you chest. I still love tea this way. We cut the meat off the store bought chicken and ate it on the bread which had not quite thawed on account of the cool morning so we toasted it on a wire rack that hung from a bush for just that reason. Years of caked on grease and burned on ashes galzed the grill and there was no visible rust in spite of the climate. It was simple and it was delicious we each got a wing or a drumstck to gnaw on too. We washed it down with water and tea so strong it would keep you awake in spite of the early morning. We sat on rocks arranged many years before for just that purpose. The breezes were stopped by our natural ampitheatre and after lunch we sat around and another story couldn't be far off. They talked of how they hauled all the stuff to build the camp, they did it in winter, hauling the boats down the frozen lakes and over the hills like huge toboggans. They used the hood from an old VW beetle to haul tar for the camp roof, plasic too. The stove and the boards. They built this camp to replace the first one they built, which had rotted since they hadn't peeled the logs. I marvelled at how much work this had been. They loved this place so much, it was a labor of love.
The fishing was slow. Johnny looked at Dad and asked "What about trying Fultz's" Dad nodded eagerly. The boat was reloaded and we made our way across the lake to a small swamp behind Porter's Rock. We beached the boat as the bottom was muddy here and we struck out across the marshy ground and dissapeared into the trees. We started climbing a sizeable hill, following trails worn right into the lichen eaten grantite. The trail was easily recogniozable as a pathway seemed paved with pea sized granite gravel worn by the treads of there boots over the lichen softened graniote. We climbed until we reached the crest where a small lake was visible, this was Fultz's, less than half the size of Granite. "There are less trout here, but they are bigger." Dad informed me. Soon we reached a place that must have been a regular spot as another fire circle was there and a big rock afforded a deep spot to cast a line. Johnny made his way to a rock a few yards from shore and started casting. There was enough room for Dad and I to fish side by side on the big rock so soon we were casting and waiting. We didn't have long to wait as we soon had a couple of dandies each. The afternoon sun shone and our clothes were now dry and so were the bushes. As I fished a big snake crossed over our packs and swam out into the lake, his head held above the water like a periscope. Beavers could be heard slapping the water with their tails and the afternnon was spent in this pleasnat way with hardly a word spoken. It was as if we wre in church or a monastery and it would be sacreligious to talk. Soon our bellies told us it was getting close to supper time. We decided to head back to the camp so we stowed the gear and headed back to Granite. We fished our way down the lake . Went back to the camp and built a fire for supper. Johnny puulled a huge cast iron skillet out which had no handle. Like most camp items it was no doubt a kitchen cast off. I recognized many of the items as having come from our house, Old melmac mugs, cutlery with the fake bone handles. Johnny took some of the trout we'd cleaned and rolled them in cornmeal and flour, salted them and lay them in the frying pan with some cooking oil. Soon the camp was full of the wonderful smell of frying trout and boiling potatoes. Some fiddleheads we picked by the creek simmered in another pot. We ate , Dad and Johnny sitting on two ancient woodedn kitchen chairs held together with stove pipe wire while I sat on the edge of the bunk. The food was delicious, hard walking and fresh air are the best seasoning you can get for a trout meal.
After dinner we washed dishes with water heated in a huge teapot on the stove. There was a few minutes to fish, in the failing light, at the mouth of the stream. As night fell we lit the kerosene storm lanterns. I climed into my bunk and listened to my small portable radio with an earphone, it seemed like I was listening to the world from outer space. Dad and Johnny sat at the table, it was early maybe 9:30 yet it seemed so late. Out here the sun was the clock. There was no clock of any sort in the camp, we watched the sun and ate when we were hungry, there was little need for a watch. Outside as night fell the sounds of the forest changed and intensified. The brook seemed even closer and the crickets and songbirds gave way to peepers and owls. We were in the middle of nowhere, yet we had full bellies, solid walls to keep us warm and a roof to keep us dry, we were in a safe enclave.The cabin was as much civilization as was needed and no more.
Made from local logs and built on the rocks it blended into its' surroundings. It was not on the earth it was of the earth. Safe from bugs and creatures, but safe too from the nasty world. Safe, warm, fed and tired before I knew it I was asleep.
I awoke at dawn, even before Johnny and Dad. I flew out of my bunk and ran to the door, it sounded like rain! I eased the door open and was releived when the sound turned out to be the brook. It alwats threw me off when I awoke. Dad and Johnny were stirring too and soon they had rekindled the fire from the ashes and busied themselves with breakfast. Dad cut canned potatoes for pan fries, johnny fried bacon and put the teapot on the stove. I went for fresh water. I had just returned when a rabbit hopped up to the open cabin door. "Look who's back" Dad said. Johnny rooted in a bag and took out a carrot. He placed the carrot on the floor a few inches inside the door. The rabbit sniffed a bit, hopped in, took the caarot then hopped out. He didn't go far but sat a few feet away eating. "He's been hanging around the past two years." Johnny said. "I guess it's the same one. " The rabbit seemed to have very little fear of us. He ate the carrot and some other goodies we gave him then left. "Feel like a walk?" Dad asked. "Sure!" I replied. I felt great. We ate breakfast then packed what we would need for the day. We struck out away from the lake following the stream that flowed by the camp. Again the bushes were wet and soon we were soaked again. We walked about forty minutes which is aboput two miles. Three miles an hour in the woods, was about average. We came upon a big lake and again Johnny appeared with a pair of oars. A third boat identical to the others was righted and we were soon heading out on the Lake. The lake was bigger than the last two. We trolled a while, picking up a few trout then we landed on a large island. Again well worn paths and a well used fire ring were evidence of many prior visits.
We got a fire going and had a cup of tea. Tea was accompanied by a story of how Dad once caught a 16 inch trout through the ice with a six inch trout in its' mouth. After tea and stories we started fishing. The island was seperated from the mainland by a narrow channel. I could cast almost the whole way across it with a very good cast. I was trying to catch a big one so I was putting my all into evry cast. On one such monster cast I watched in horror as the tip section of my rod shot down my line and landed with a splash a very long ways indeed from shore. If I lost my rod tip my weekend was done. I quickly started my retrieve when to my dismay I felt a bite. Oh NO! If he broke the line there goes my rod. Right away I knew it was a big one. My drag on my reel began to sing. I raised my shortened rod in an effort to stop the fish from taking all my line. I watched as the line spooled off my reel, I knew I was dangerously close to the end. Then what? Would the fish simply break my line and dissappear with my rod tip? I fought back, taking and inch or two of line back in. I waited for a lull and then tightened the drag. I knew if I tightenend too much he would break my line, but I also knew that if he took all my line he was gone too. It was easy to see where the fish was as my rod tip stuck out of the water like the conning tower of a submarine. Dad and Johnny set down their rods to offer advice. They coached me as I tried to gain the upper hand. It was hard to control the fish with my now shortened weapon. "Don't give him any slack!" Johnny offered. "Hold you arms high!" Dad reccomended. My arms were starting to ache as I held them high over my head trying to compensate for the missing leverage. It seemed like an eternity but the whole thing probably took less than ten minutes. I worked the reel with my hands over my head and gradually, inch by inch I worked the fish toward shore. Dad got down on one knee and when I had the trout close enough he took the fish from the water as it spahed us all. It fell in the bushes and thrashed free of the line. I tackled it like a halfback and held on for dear life. Dad hooked a finger through the gills and held aloft the most beautiful trout I had ever seen. "Look atr that!" He cried. "Johnny she must be all of three pounds!" "A beauty!" Johnny agreed. I felt ten feet tall. I quickly reassembled my rod. Dad laid the trout in the bottom of the creel and it dwarfed its' cousins. I was enjoying the moment. I wish that we had taken a camera with us, although I can see that fish as clearly now as I did then. Its' sides covered in stcks and small leaves from the bushes. "It looked like a submarine." Johnny said. It became a story that would be repeated in later years. Something I could mention that would make Johnny say "Yep." I had my own Granite story.
The rest of the afternoon was anticlimax. A few more fish a lot more bites. The sun soon told us we had to head back to the camp. A short boat ride and a brisk walk sharpened the appetite for supper. We tidied the camp and beagn the trek trhat would take us home. We talked less, all of us a little sad that we were heading back to the world. Back to jobs and school (for me) back to responsibilty, clocks, noise, engines, and cares. The trek out seemd a little shorter as I now had landmarks to guage the distance by. All too soon we reached Five Island and the last boat. As we slipped out of the woods the evergreen curtain closed behind us. With it closed we had reached the rails, the first sign of other human beings. Again the walking was tough, tougher I suppose as my feet were heavy, they did not want to leave that place. It was partly mine now. It was part of me now. The closing of a curtain works both ways I thought, It will keep everything special about that place safe until I come back once again and open that curtain. We reached the highway and then Johnny's yard. Lottie asked Dad and I to come in for a quick tea before we hit the road.She looked at me and I must have been beaming. "How was your first trip?" She asked "Fantastic!" I said and I meant it. Our stay was brief, the sun had set and we had to get home. There would be many more trips back to the lake. Time would march on. The new highway came through and it shortened the trip back by more than an hour. It was a mixed blessing as now all the weekend warriors could go back to the lake. Logging companies logged within a few yards of the lake. Vandals stole everything out of the camp one winter and we had to hide stuff in a wood pile. One group used up all the fuirewood then burned the bedding. One spring we came back and the boat was gone. When we reached the camp, someone had removed the prop that held the weight of the snow in the winter and the roof had cllapsed. Gone were the days when hard work and a long walk protected this sacred area from barbarians. Dad and Johnny continued to come back to the lake, if only for day trips. They remembered a time when they had come back in the spring to find a note and a twenty dollar bill on the table. The note explained that a couple of hunters had become lost, had found the cabin and had eaten some of the food and used some of the firewood. The twenty bucks was for the use of the cabin. In those days twenty bucks bought a lot of Grub. Dad and Johnny kept the note, they were proud that there cabin had helped someone in need and that the person had appreciated it. Gone were those days. Gone now are both Johnny and Dad. I went back to the cabin once and I looked for the little plaque that talked about the honest fishermen. It was gone, too ephemeral to have survived the elements. I found a small back metal fish that had hooks for haning keys on it. It read "Have Rod Will Fish" It is my souvenir of the old camp. The loggers are done and the forest is slowly coming back. The lake is still as beautiful but not as quiet. You can hear the hum of semis on the 101. The loons still calll and the trout still jump. Somehwere up in heaven Dad and Johnny are pulling on green lace-up boots, and making the long hike back to the lake. Only in heaven the fish bite and the flies don't...
I heard tales about "the camp" as they always called it, for years before I ever got the chance to go there. When we were young my Father would take my younger brother Larry and I fishing around the Mount, in lakes that were largely fished out. We would take a lunch and go in the hot months, July and August when Dad and Johnny had given up going back to "the camp". We would sit in the sun and drown worms, pleasant enough, but even at that young age I knew this wasn't real fishing. I dreamt of what the camp would look like. I pictured the lake in my mind and all the details from the stories my Father would tell me. I knew there was a ways to go before I would be ready and I bided my time.
I don't remember exactly how old I was the first time my Dad asked me if I wanted to go with them back to Granite. I do know that I didn't waste a second in saying yes. This was an important milestone in my life, it was a rite of passage every bit as important as my first date, my first job, my first car. There were rituals here as important as, an as codified as those of religion, like some kind of Bar Mitzvah. What was to follow would become a kind of routine that we would take every time we would go back to "the camp". About mid week a call would be placed between Dad and John, not about whether they were going, that was a given. Every weekend from ice out in April until the heat and flies got too bad in mid-June then again from late August until October brought the close of fishing season they would make the long trek back to Granite. There was no question of whether they were going, no weather, no matter how foul could stop them. No amount of nagging from their wives about lawns that needed mowing, basements that needed sweeping or houses that needed painting could stop them. This was an urge as primal as that of Salmon heading upstream to spawn. This was instinctive, today we would say "it's a guy thing!".
The call would establish who was going, Dad and Johnny had other friends who sometimes joined them men like big Bill Gill or George Williams who shared their adventures. This week it was just the three of us, Dad Johnny and ME! On the phone the exchange was quick, it was long distance in those days. There were important details to resolve, whose turn was it to bring the bait? Whose turn to bring the meat? Had Dad heard about the trout that so and so had caught just last weekend? How big? Lucky bugger. The call ended and it was decided we would be bringing the bait and some meat. Friday night was shopping night in those days as that was Dad's pay day. We went to the Sobey's store up the street and Dad bought a roast chicken from the rotisserie which had a grease stained sign which read "There's nobody here but us chickens so serve yourself". We also picked up small cans of milk for our tea and hot dogs and bacon which we would freeze. We froze the bread too so it wouldn't get crushed in our packs. After we took the groceries home we drove "down east", along the eastern shore towards Chezetcook. We would watch the side of the road for hand made wooden signs that read "bait" or "minnows". We would pull over usually to a small shack by a creek that ran in from the sea. There was usually a tank of some sort, an old freezer or an oil barrel cut in half. The proprietor would scoop a hundred or so minnows up in a dip net and dump them on a burlap strainer and you would paw through them and pick out the size you were looking for. They sold, in those days for a buck for three dozen. They would take an old tobacco can or one quart ice cream pail and pack it with dry leaves and pack the minnows in that. If we couldn't dig worms we often bought those too. We were now ready to start packing.
Dad and Johnny carried huge packs that they made themselves out of canvas and old seat belts for straps. They had only one compartment which was about the size of a 27" TV, the old kind, with a tube! Over the years I never ceased to be amazed how Johnny could dig in that monstrous pack, the third day into a long weekend and still come up with some hoe made goodies that his wife Lottie had packed in there for us. She was a wonderful cook and it sure tasted good when there was no stores or diner near. Dad had a head start as his pack would never be fully unpacked. He would take out only what he needed to when he returned and many things just stayed there. I needed changes of clothes, rain gear, bug dope, tooth paste and brush, a comb, matches, a knife, fishing gear, some store bought goodies bought with my allowance or paper route money. We left the food for morning, the meat and bread were in the freezer and the eggs and butter in the fridge. We had tins of stew and bully beef in our packs along with sugar and tea bags, etc. As the season wore on they would stockpile these items in the camp and would need to carry less stuff back with them.
Then it was off to bed, an early start meant an early night. It was useless, though. I couldn't sleep, it was like Christmas and my birthday rolled into one. It seemed like I would never get to sleep and then no sooner, it seemed, had I gotten to sleep than I felt Dad's strong hand on my shoulder gently shaking we awake. He held his finger to his lips as a sign not to disturb my brother. We crept down the stairs where my Mother was already moving around the kitchen. It was still pitch black outside. We ate quickly and Mom took the rest of the food out and placed it on the counter. She patted my head and told me to mind my Father and be careful in the boat. We moved like cat burglars and placed the food on top of our now bulging packs and did up the straps. We pulled on our boots and packed the gear to the car. I wiped the dew from the windshield as Dad filled the trunk. Mom watched from the driveway and waved until we were out of sight. We headed for the highway and took the turn off to Bedford. It always seemed like such a long drive in those days, before the new highway opened up. We drove along, Dad must have sensed my anticipation as he began to tell me once again that it was a long walk back to the camp. I couldn't get my head around that, of course because I was young and had never been there before. For me it was an adventure and I was keen to go. It seemed like forever and the first streaks of dawn were paling the inky sky when we pulled into Johnny's driveway. In those days Johnny lived near where the old train station had been, just inside Mount Uniacke. He was waiting in the driveway with this pack at his feet, a cigarette dangling from his lips. Johnny smoked rollies, unfiltered cigarettes made with Players navy cut tobacco. He would roll a whole tin full for a weekend, and smoke them all. Dad too lit one of the butt of another and I always marvelled at how they had never burned down the entire forest.
Johnny greeted us warmly, he was dressed as was Dad in a Mackinaw jacket, red check. Work pants, green lace up boots with the red and white tops of wool work socks peeking out over the top of the boots. A green work shirt with a plastic pack of cigarettes in his shirt pocket. John had eyes as blue as a China cup and a face that was creased and worn like old leather from a lot of sun and hard work. It was a friendly, honest face. They both wore ball caps, Johnny's perpetually tilted at a rakish angle. Dad always wore his square on. We slid our packs onto our shoulders and Johnny led the way across the highway and onto the rail tracks. We followed these for the better part of a mile. This was always one of the worst parts for me. I hated walking the rails. The roadbed was narrow and sandy and there was not enough room in most places to walk beside the ties. The ties themselves were too close to step one at a time and too far apart to take two at a time. So i stumbled along as best I could and waited for that part to end, which it seemed would never happen. Birds sang in the early light and you avoided the long grass where you could as it was soaked and soon we were wet to the knees. Eventually we reached a spot where the bank had been worn away by footsteps and a good deal of sand and gravel had piled up in a trail heading into the woods. I welcomed leaving the rails as the walking was instantly better. Johnny ahead of us disappeared into the darkness of the bush and soon we too passed through a layer of trees like an evergreen curtain. The trail was worn right into the forest floor. It was a mud path with tree roots sticking out making the walking often treacherous. In many places the path was full of water and its' bottom was a slippery mix of mud and clay. You had to grab the alders at the sides of the trail to steady your course as you were laden with a big pack and carrying a fishing rod in one hand. A short walk lead us to the shores of a small lake. "Five Island." Dad said as we approached. The water was a mirror, still as a mill pond. Johnny disappeared into the bush and came back with a set of oars joined by a length of cord. Dad lead the way to a boat chained to a tree. Johny unlocked the padlock, righted the boat and slid the oars into the oar locks. We took off our packs and put the gear into the twelve foot row boat. I got in the bow, Johnny sat down to row and Dad launched us and took a seat in the stern.
The only ripples on the lake were the rings left by Johnny's rhythmic strokes. I soon came to understand that there was another rule here too, whoever rowed this time, fished next time. None of these rules were ever spoken. Dad and Johnny were men of few words, I was beginning to notice. Yet they had a set of rules that they had worked out on a thousand other trips like this. Dad looked at me, I must have had a puzzled look on my face. "No fish in here." He said. "We will wait until we hit the fishing rock.'" We rowed the length of Five Island in peaceful tranquility only the sound of the oars in the locks and the slight drip as the oars swept forward. Dad and Johnny were powerful men and the trip took no time at all. Soon we beached the boat and chained it to yet another tree. Johnny hung the oars and we struck off along another well worn path. I wondered how many times there feet had passed this way to wear so well defined a highway through the forest floor.
The forest smells and sounds filled my senses. The early morning air was scented with pine and the smell of damp decaying vegetation. There was the sound of crickets and peepers making their soothing almost purring serenade. Every once in a while a squirrel would blast us with his angry chatter at having his property violated. The terrain was hilly and some hills were very steep. At the bottom of one we hit a large still water. It too was like glass, living up to its' name. Dad stuck out a arm in front of me to bar my path. He raised his finger to his lips as he had done in my bedroom back home. I stared around in anticipation... nothing. No sound, nothing moved. In the still water there was a beaver lodge, a grey lump in the mist and early morning light. Beside it was a smaller black lump, about the size of a sofa. I looked back at Dad, unsure why we were stopping, when the smaller lump moved, and a bull moose raised its' head. It stood there chewing vegetation, water streaming from its' horns and head. Without seeing us it returned to grazing. The next time it raised its' head it must have gotten our scent as it turned and stepping with an odd grace, walked up the bank and quickly disappeared into the bush.
We continued to walk, more hills, crawling over fallen trees, slipping in the mud, it was tiring going. Finally we reached a clear stream where we stopped to get a drink of the cold water. Dad and Johnny smoked. I of course asked the proverbial "Are we there yet?" Dad smiled, "A ways yet, we're about halfway there." Half way? Holy cow, was he kidding? Where is this place? Taking off my pack was too much work so I just leaned against a tree. Soon we were moving again. More hills more fallen trees more mud. Eventually we reached a hill. There was a huge tree split like a pitchfork looking like a candelabra. "The lake's just ahead." Dad said. Thank god, I thought. We walked down the hill, which is just as hard as climbing. At the bottom we hit a swampy area. Again Johnny disappeared into the bush and returned with yet another set of oars we walked along a muddy trail until we came to a huge tree. Chained to it was a boat, identical to the first. Johnny unlocked the chain and we followed the same routine, with Dad at the oars this time. We slid into a narrow channel with weeds on both sides, a floating layer of leaves lay just below the surface. "No fishing here'" Dad said, "too many weeds." We rowed along the channel toward an opening where there was clear water. The lake was shaped sort of like a cowboy boot. We were in the toe. As we hit open water Johnny readied his rod, I followed suit. We fished for a bit off a large rock. This was the fishing rock, I would learn that most of the rocks, islands and other points of interest had names, like neighborhoods. You could pinpoint an island or rock, or turn in the trail, they all had names;the Fishing Rock, Pine Point, or Porter's Rock. With a minimum of words you could instantly identify a specific area. That was a theme with them, they didn't say a lot when they were together. It was like they had a code. Better yet, it was like all the really good stories were like the verses of a well known song that they had sung to each other and to their friends so many times that all they had to do was start a story and it was like humming the first few bars of a well loved song. "Remember back in '69 when Bill came walking into the camp, just in time for breakfast?" Dad would ask. "Yep." Johnny would answer "Crazy Bugger!" I of course had no clue what they were talking about so I would follow up, I loved stories of the camp, there were a million of them and I wanted to hear every one. "Tell me!" I would protest and what followed was a story of how Dad was supposed to pick up Bill Gill one Friday night in the Fall as the boys were going back to camp to cut firewood and hunt rabbits. Dad had waited but Bill did not show up. With snow threatening Dad headed to the Mount and he a Johnny walked back to the camp. That night it snowed over a foot and when Dad and Johnny were cooking breakfast next morning who walked in but a half frozen Bill Gill. Bill had missed Dad and had gotten a ride to the Mount, he started in the bush at dark and got caught in the snow storm. Unable to make any progress he cut some boughs and bedded down in an area we called The Tunnel. It was an area of dense evergreens where the tree cover was so tight that you wouldn't get wet even in the worst downpour. Bill slept in a snowbank and walked in to camp at first light. They were tough men.
I think Dad and Johnny liked having me along. It gave them an excuse to finish the stories. I loved hearing them, dreaming of the day when I would be in one. We fished off the rock a few minutes when Johnny got a fish. "You broke the ice!" Dad said excitedly. It was not huge but I was always fascinated by how beautiful a brook trout was, its' sides bejewelled with the orange dots with bright blue halos. Johnny lined the creel with damp moss and added the trout to it. We returned to the boat and made our way along the shore of the lake. In an area at the heel of the cowboy boot was a stream that splashed into the lake. We fished here for a few minutes and then dragged the boat up on a flat rock and tied it to a tree which had well worn marks on it from having this done many, many times before. We followed the stream and walked into the bush a hundred yards or so. Around a bend in the trail a small cabin appeared. Nothing fancy, maybe 14 feet square with a sloped, shed roof and a stove pipe sticking out. This was it! The fabled Camp! Not much to look at. There were piles of firewood outside and the door faced away from the lake. There was no lock, just a piece of board on a nail that turned to one side to hold the door too. There was also a hasp with a carved peg instead of a lock that held the door when no one was using it. Johnny opened the door and we stepped inside. The camp was a guy place, to be sure. Nothing fancy but neat as a pin. The bedding was rolled up in bags and we took it out to air. Dad gave me a bucket and showed me where we took water from the stream which babbled along over numerous rocks a few yards from the cabin. I stooped and filled the large bucket with ice-cold crystal clear water. I always marveled at how the water skimmers on the surface darted out of the way and avoided getting scooped up in the bucket. As we approached the cabin we could already smell the wonderful smell of the wood smoke as Johnny kindled a fire in the wood stove, from firewood stacked on the back wall of the cabin. We always refilled this supply of dry wood before we left so that we could always get a fire going in any weather.
The cabin was simple, just a bunk bed that could sleep four men and a table built into the front corner. There was a sink built into one corner of the table consisting of an enamel basin with a hose in the bottom which went out through a hole in the log wall. Over the sink was a window with a sliding glass that had a screen on it , it was open to air the place out. The wood stove occupied the other corner of that wall, it was a 45 gallon drum, on its' side with a stove pipe welded on the back and a door welded on the front. The cook surface was a sheet of steel plate. Johnny was feeding the fire as we entered. The bucket of water went on a shelf in the other back corner of the cabin at the foot of the bed. There was a galvanized metal box on the wall with a wooden box around it. There was a gap of an inch or two between them. This gap was filled with moss and kept wet, it made a nice little fridge. We took the frozen meat out and put it in the cooler. We also carried Vinegar jugs full of water that had also been frozen. These acted as ice packs and we could drink the water as they thawed. Johnny put the trout in a bread bag and put it in the cooler. We unpacked the food and the items we did not need were left in the camp. Johnny brewed tea and we flaked our wet things on racks over the stove so they would dry. Inevitably we always ended up soaked to the waist when going through the bushes around the lake soaked with morning dew. The tea and a few of Mom's home made cookies went down well and soon we were ready to head up the lake. Johnny took the oars and Dad and I played lines out behind the boat. The rowing motion of the boat imparted a curious motion to the bait. As the back sweep of the oars allowed the bait to stop ever so briefly and this always seemed to get the fish to bite. Soon my rod tip bent and I jumped to my feet 'I got a bite!" I yelled in my youthful exuberance. "Sit down!" Dad said sharply as he grabbed the gunwales to stop the boat from rocking. " I quickly sat down, ashamed at having made so stupid a mistake. My face must have been a mask of shame as Johnny said "Keep your rod tip up! Don't lose him!". I followed directions and soon a nice sized brookie was thrashing in the bottom of the boat. My first Granite lake brookie. Dad held him up before putting him in the creel. Congratulations helped aleviate my embarassment. I had learned a lesson, never again would I stand up in the boat. We fished our way up the lake. We got a couple more fish then we landed on a small island. This was Porter's Rock. We slid the boat up on yet anoth big flat rock. Granite lake lives up to its' name. It is perhaps a mile long and its' shore is a connected series of Granite boulders. Its' bottom is a series of granite slabs which were left behind by the glaciers and look like scores of giant dominos, strewn as if by some petulant child. It is rugged and beautiful, in those days you could not hear a human sound. You could imagine there was not another human being on the entire planet. In later years the highway would cut hours off the walk and open the lake up to weekend warrios and the sound of tires humming on the 101. Back then we went to sleep at night with the sound of the babbling brook and the occasional owl. I was beginning to see why Dad and Johnny loved this place, why they could spend so many thousands of hours here, escaping menial jons, daily cares and the cluuter of city life. Trading it all for the tranquill waters, the sound of loons singing and the promise of a big trout. I too was falling in love. This place was getting into my blood. God,I love it so...
We fished the rock and Dad told me yet another story. Of course it started as a line to Johnny. "Hey John, remember the time Bill and George went back to Futlz's and left us here?" "Yep." Was the standard reply. I was begining to see a trend. "Alright." I said, rising to the bait like a Granite brookie. "What happened?" What followed was a tale of how Dad and Johnny were left behind as the fishing in Granite was too slow for Bill and George. Not long after the other two had left the fish started biting, they bit so furiously that Dad and Johnny soon ran out of bait. They had to cut fins off of the trout they caught and use them for bait. When Bill and George returned a few hours later, troutless of course, the two triumphant fishermen had more than twenty trout each spread out across the rock. There was, of course, not enough room in the creel. Like all Granite stories it was taken as gospel. There was a small plaque on the wall of the camp, made of heavy cardboard, yellowed with age and cigarette smoke, that read "There are only two honest fishermen in the world, me and you. Sometimes I am not so sure about you." The two figures in the plaque wore caps and macinaw jackets. Dad and Johnny could have been the models. After an hour or so we made our way across the channel to a large flat rock whose name is lost to my poor memory. On it was a small depression in the enomous granite boulder. The depression was ringed with berry bushes, blueberries and partridge berries. It was far too early for either. These bushes and the rim of the depression formed a small hedge and wall that kept the wind off on cold dayts and offered shelter from sun or rain. In the center was a well used fire ring. Here we made lunch. We built a fire and took out the billy can. For those who don't know a billy can is a juice can (1 1/2 quart) which you remove the lid, punch two holes at the top edge, opposite one another for a coat hanger bail (handle). This is hung over the fire by a forked stick wedged in the rock or ballanced between some stones. It gets back and sticky friom resin so you wrap it in newspaper. The black helps spread the heat more evenly. Soon lakewater is boiling in the can. Dad tosses in a few tea bags (usually more than was needed) and inevitably a bit of ash from the fire and a few spruce needles end up in the can, it all just adds to the taste. We made strong tea. "Boiling your friends away." Mom would call it. It didn't matter Dad would drown it in canned milk and add three heaping spoons of sugar. It was sweet, it was hot and it would put hair on you chest. I still love tea this way. We cut the meat off the store bought chicken and ate it on the bread which had not quite thawed on account of the cool morning so we toasted it on a wire rack that hung from a bush for just that reason. Years of caked on grease and burned on ashes galzed the grill and there was no visible rust in spite of the climate. It was simple and it was delicious we each got a wing or a drumstck to gnaw on too. We washed it down with water and tea so strong it would keep you awake in spite of the early morning. We sat on rocks arranged many years before for just that purpose. The breezes were stopped by our natural ampitheatre and after lunch we sat around and another story couldn't be far off. They talked of how they hauled all the stuff to build the camp, they did it in winter, hauling the boats down the frozen lakes and over the hills like huge toboggans. They used the hood from an old VW beetle to haul tar for the camp roof, plasic too. The stove and the boards. They built this camp to replace the first one they built, which had rotted since they hadn't peeled the logs. I marvelled at how much work this had been. They loved this place so much, it was a labor of love.
The fishing was slow. Johnny looked at Dad and asked "What about trying Fultz's" Dad nodded eagerly. The boat was reloaded and we made our way across the lake to a small swamp behind Porter's Rock. We beached the boat as the bottom was muddy here and we struck out across the marshy ground and dissapeared into the trees. We started climbing a sizeable hill, following trails worn right into the lichen eaten grantite. The trail was easily recogniozable as a pathway seemed paved with pea sized granite gravel worn by the treads of there boots over the lichen softened graniote. We climbed until we reached the crest where a small lake was visible, this was Fultz's, less than half the size of Granite. "There are less trout here, but they are bigger." Dad informed me. Soon we reached a place that must have been a regular spot as another fire circle was there and a big rock afforded a deep spot to cast a line. Johnny made his way to a rock a few yards from shore and started casting. There was enough room for Dad and I to fish side by side on the big rock so soon we were casting and waiting. We didn't have long to wait as we soon had a couple of dandies each. The afternoon sun shone and our clothes were now dry and so were the bushes. As I fished a big snake crossed over our packs and swam out into the lake, his head held above the water like a periscope. Beavers could be heard slapping the water with their tails and the afternnon was spent in this pleasnat way with hardly a word spoken. It was as if we wre in church or a monastery and it would be sacreligious to talk. Soon our bellies told us it was getting close to supper time. We decided to head back to the camp so we stowed the gear and headed back to Granite. We fished our way down the lake . Went back to the camp and built a fire for supper. Johnny puulled a huge cast iron skillet out which had no handle. Like most camp items it was no doubt a kitchen cast off. I recognized many of the items as having come from our house, Old melmac mugs, cutlery with the fake bone handles. Johnny took some of the trout we'd cleaned and rolled them in cornmeal and flour, salted them and lay them in the frying pan with some cooking oil. Soon the camp was full of the wonderful smell of frying trout and boiling potatoes. Some fiddleheads we picked by the creek simmered in another pot. We ate , Dad and Johnny sitting on two ancient woodedn kitchen chairs held together with stove pipe wire while I sat on the edge of the bunk. The food was delicious, hard walking and fresh air are the best seasoning you can get for a trout meal.
After dinner we washed dishes with water heated in a huge teapot on the stove. There was a few minutes to fish, in the failing light, at the mouth of the stream. As night fell we lit the kerosene storm lanterns. I climed into my bunk and listened to my small portable radio with an earphone, it seemed like I was listening to the world from outer space. Dad and Johnny sat at the table, it was early maybe 9:30 yet it seemed so late. Out here the sun was the clock. There was no clock of any sort in the camp, we watched the sun and ate when we were hungry, there was little need for a watch. Outside as night fell the sounds of the forest changed and intensified. The brook seemed even closer and the crickets and songbirds gave way to peepers and owls. We were in the middle of nowhere, yet we had full bellies, solid walls to keep us warm and a roof to keep us dry, we were in a safe enclave.The cabin was as much civilization as was needed and no more.
Made from local logs and built on the rocks it blended into its' surroundings. It was not on the earth it was of the earth. Safe from bugs and creatures, but safe too from the nasty world. Safe, warm, fed and tired before I knew it I was asleep.
I awoke at dawn, even before Johnny and Dad. I flew out of my bunk and ran to the door, it sounded like rain! I eased the door open and was releived when the sound turned out to be the brook. It alwats threw me off when I awoke. Dad and Johnny were stirring too and soon they had rekindled the fire from the ashes and busied themselves with breakfast. Dad cut canned potatoes for pan fries, johnny fried bacon and put the teapot on the stove. I went for fresh water. I had just returned when a rabbit hopped up to the open cabin door. "Look who's back" Dad said. Johnny rooted in a bag and took out a carrot. He placed the carrot on the floor a few inches inside the door. The rabbit sniffed a bit, hopped in, took the caarot then hopped out. He didn't go far but sat a few feet away eating. "He's been hanging around the past two years." Johnny said. "I guess it's the same one. " The rabbit seemed to have very little fear of us. He ate the carrot and some other goodies we gave him then left. "Feel like a walk?" Dad asked. "Sure!" I replied. I felt great. We ate breakfast then packed what we would need for the day. We struck out away from the lake following the stream that flowed by the camp. Again the bushes were wet and soon we were soaked again. We walked about forty minutes which is aboput two miles. Three miles an hour in the woods, was about average. We came upon a big lake and again Johnny appeared with a pair of oars. A third boat identical to the others was righted and we were soon heading out on the Lake. The lake was bigger than the last two. We trolled a while, picking up a few trout then we landed on a large island. Again well worn paths and a well used fire ring were evidence of many prior visits.
We got a fire going and had a cup of tea. Tea was accompanied by a story of how Dad once caught a 16 inch trout through the ice with a six inch trout in its' mouth. After tea and stories we started fishing. The island was seperated from the mainland by a narrow channel. I could cast almost the whole way across it with a very good cast. I was trying to catch a big one so I was putting my all into evry cast. On one such monster cast I watched in horror as the tip section of my rod shot down my line and landed with a splash a very long ways indeed from shore. If I lost my rod tip my weekend was done. I quickly started my retrieve when to my dismay I felt a bite. Oh NO! If he broke the line there goes my rod. Right away I knew it was a big one. My drag on my reel began to sing. I raised my shortened rod in an effort to stop the fish from taking all my line. I watched as the line spooled off my reel, I knew I was dangerously close to the end. Then what? Would the fish simply break my line and dissappear with my rod tip? I fought back, taking and inch or two of line back in. I waited for a lull and then tightened the drag. I knew if I tightenend too much he would break my line, but I also knew that if he took all my line he was gone too. It was easy to see where the fish was as my rod tip stuck out of the water like the conning tower of a submarine. Dad and Johnny set down their rods to offer advice. They coached me as I tried to gain the upper hand. It was hard to control the fish with my now shortened weapon. "Don't give him any slack!" Johnny offered. "Hold you arms high!" Dad reccomended. My arms were starting to ache as I held them high over my head trying to compensate for the missing leverage. It seemed like an eternity but the whole thing probably took less than ten minutes. I worked the reel with my hands over my head and gradually, inch by inch I worked the fish toward shore. Dad got down on one knee and when I had the trout close enough he took the fish from the water as it spahed us all. It fell in the bushes and thrashed free of the line. I tackled it like a halfback and held on for dear life. Dad hooked a finger through the gills and held aloft the most beautiful trout I had ever seen. "Look atr that!" He cried. "Johnny she must be all of three pounds!" "A beauty!" Johnny agreed. I felt ten feet tall. I quickly reassembled my rod. Dad laid the trout in the bottom of the creel and it dwarfed its' cousins. I was enjoying the moment. I wish that we had taken a camera with us, although I can see that fish as clearly now as I did then. Its' sides covered in stcks and small leaves from the bushes. "It looked like a submarine." Johnny said. It became a story that would be repeated in later years. Something I could mention that would make Johnny say "Yep." I had my own Granite story.
The rest of the afternoon was anticlimax. A few more fish a lot more bites. The sun soon told us we had to head back to the camp. A short boat ride and a brisk walk sharpened the appetite for supper. We tidied the camp and beagn the trek trhat would take us home. We talked less, all of us a little sad that we were heading back to the world. Back to jobs and school (for me) back to responsibilty, clocks, noise, engines, and cares. The trek out seemd a little shorter as I now had landmarks to guage the distance by. All too soon we reached Five Island and the last boat. As we slipped out of the woods the evergreen curtain closed behind us. With it closed we had reached the rails, the first sign of other human beings. Again the walking was tough, tougher I suppose as my feet were heavy, they did not want to leave that place. It was partly mine now. It was part of me now. The closing of a curtain works both ways I thought, It will keep everything special about that place safe until I come back once again and open that curtain. We reached the highway and then Johnny's yard. Lottie asked Dad and I to come in for a quick tea before we hit the road.She looked at me and I must have been beaming. "How was your first trip?" She asked "Fantastic!" I said and I meant it. Our stay was brief, the sun had set and we had to get home. There would be many more trips back to the lake. Time would march on. The new highway came through and it shortened the trip back by more than an hour. It was a mixed blessing as now all the weekend warriors could go back to the lake. Logging companies logged within a few yards of the lake. Vandals stole everything out of the camp one winter and we had to hide stuff in a wood pile. One group used up all the fuirewood then burned the bedding. One spring we came back and the boat was gone. When we reached the camp, someone had removed the prop that held the weight of the snow in the winter and the roof had cllapsed. Gone were the days when hard work and a long walk protected this sacred area from barbarians. Dad and Johnny continued to come back to the lake, if only for day trips. They remembered a time when they had come back in the spring to find a note and a twenty dollar bill on the table. The note explained that a couple of hunters had become lost, had found the cabin and had eaten some of the food and used some of the firewood. The twenty bucks was for the use of the cabin. In those days twenty bucks bought a lot of Grub. Dad and Johnny kept the note, they were proud that there cabin had helped someone in need and that the person had appreciated it. Gone were those days. Gone now are both Johnny and Dad. I went back to the cabin once and I looked for the little plaque that talked about the honest fishermen. It was gone, too ephemeral to have survived the elements. I found a small back metal fish that had hooks for haning keys on it. It read "Have Rod Will Fish" It is my souvenir of the old camp. The loggers are done and the forest is slowly coming back. The lake is still as beautiful but not as quiet. You can hear the hum of semis on the 101. The loons still calll and the trout still jump. Somehwere up in heaven Dad and Johnny are pulling on green lace-up boots, and making the long hike back to the lake. Only in heaven the fish bite and the flies don't...
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