skib
03-17-2009, 12:20 AM
The lure plopped in the water, sending a halo of ripples across the perfectly glassy surface of the lake. Resting the rod in the crook of my arm, I tucked my gloved hands in my armpits to ward off the cold morning air. Even in mid-July, it wasn’t unusual to see your breath before sunrise here in Wyoming, especially right down on the water like I was.
I shivered, tucking my head down into the collar of my worn Carhartt jean jacket, the one Grandma had gotten me for Christmas five years ago. The blanket lining held the warmth in, despite the cool, soft gusts of wind that occasionally stirred the tall wheatgrass on the edges of the lake. The calm was deafening. I could hear the river flowing by behind the dam at the end of the lake, and the occasional bird chirping, hesitantly, as if to not interrupt the still morning.
Wispy clouds lazily drifted by high above my head. The slanting rays of approaching sunlight were the only thing that gave them away. A flock of birds flitted by, their little wings making a heartbeat sound on the breeze. A fish popped somewhere out of my range of vision, but I knew, nowhere near my lure. The smell of cattle wafted past. Mud, manure, sweat, everything that gives them that distinct odor, an odor that, for no particular reason, makes me long for times past. I reeled in the lure a bit, partially to give the fish something to look at, but mostly to convince myself that I really was trying. Settling the rod back in its spot, I sat back and pulled my hat down tighter on my ears and stretched my legs out. The sun was beginning to peek over the mountain, casting golden beams of light on the far west hills of the valley, illuminating waking herds of cattle and the occasional herd of antelope. Calves began bawling for their mamas, their calls echoing across the hills clothed in brown grass and purple sage. The herd leaders began heading for the nearest stock tank for water before starting on their morning feeding. The first vehicle of the morning passed by on the highway a good three quarters of a mile away. Probably one of the other ranch hands from Big Creek heading out to check stock tanks and make sure the irrigation in the hay fields was adequate.
The sunlight slowly crept down the slight hill to the west, each minute that much closer to when I could relax in its warmth. Patchy fog began rising off the surface of the lake, making the distant shore across from me hazy, almost dreamlike. A blanket of nostalgia rested gently on my shoulders as I thought of how many mornings like this I’d spent out on the lake with Bill, one of my best friends in the whole world. He’d taught me a lot about life, and he had the best stories even if all they had going was a grain of truth. He had a hard loss that made him start drinking, and the last I heard he’d moved to Wichita and drank the rest of his life away.
I halfheartedly reeled the lure in, and sat for another minute watching a trout lazily pursue a bug stranded on the water’s surface, shining bright in the murky green water. Reluctantly, I stood up. The morning was still bright and beautiful, but the day was not far away, and I had work to do.
I shivered, tucking my head down into the collar of my worn Carhartt jean jacket, the one Grandma had gotten me for Christmas five years ago. The blanket lining held the warmth in, despite the cool, soft gusts of wind that occasionally stirred the tall wheatgrass on the edges of the lake. The calm was deafening. I could hear the river flowing by behind the dam at the end of the lake, and the occasional bird chirping, hesitantly, as if to not interrupt the still morning.
Wispy clouds lazily drifted by high above my head. The slanting rays of approaching sunlight were the only thing that gave them away. A flock of birds flitted by, their little wings making a heartbeat sound on the breeze. A fish popped somewhere out of my range of vision, but I knew, nowhere near my lure. The smell of cattle wafted past. Mud, manure, sweat, everything that gives them that distinct odor, an odor that, for no particular reason, makes me long for times past. I reeled in the lure a bit, partially to give the fish something to look at, but mostly to convince myself that I really was trying. Settling the rod back in its spot, I sat back and pulled my hat down tighter on my ears and stretched my legs out. The sun was beginning to peek over the mountain, casting golden beams of light on the far west hills of the valley, illuminating waking herds of cattle and the occasional herd of antelope. Calves began bawling for their mamas, their calls echoing across the hills clothed in brown grass and purple sage. The herd leaders began heading for the nearest stock tank for water before starting on their morning feeding. The first vehicle of the morning passed by on the highway a good three quarters of a mile away. Probably one of the other ranch hands from Big Creek heading out to check stock tanks and make sure the irrigation in the hay fields was adequate.
The sunlight slowly crept down the slight hill to the west, each minute that much closer to when I could relax in its warmth. Patchy fog began rising off the surface of the lake, making the distant shore across from me hazy, almost dreamlike. A blanket of nostalgia rested gently on my shoulders as I thought of how many mornings like this I’d spent out on the lake with Bill, one of my best friends in the whole world. He’d taught me a lot about life, and he had the best stories even if all they had going was a grain of truth. He had a hard loss that made him start drinking, and the last I heard he’d moved to Wichita and drank the rest of his life away.
I halfheartedly reeled the lure in, and sat for another minute watching a trout lazily pursue a bug stranded on the water’s surface, shining bright in the murky green water. Reluctantly, I stood up. The morning was still bright and beautiful, but the day was not far away, and I had work to do.