Breaking Ground

He went to the woods on Thursday. He had decided that it was necessary to get a fresh perspective. To go back to nature, clear the mind and breathe fresh air. So he made some really strong coffee, ground the beans and got out the thermos and prepared an elixir to stimulate the creative juices.

After walking the dog in the neighborhood and getting the mail, he packed up his stuff and went to the nature preserve. You know, one of those county parks that are larger and have more trees. There was one of these parks near his home, so the drive wasn’t too long.

Once inside the park he parked the van and took a moment to set his agenda. First, he would take a walk in the woods. There were plenty of good trails and the sounds and smells and bright sunshine and breeze would be good for his soul. Spending too much time indoors he was, and the exposure to the elements would do him good.

After the walk, he would do his routine. The tai chi in a natural setting would still his mind and focus his life energy, ‘chi’ as they called it. And then after the routine he would find a nice spot by the lake there and write his 20 minute assignment. And with all good intent he proceeded to carry out his plan.

The park wasn’t crowded, what with the 40ish temperature and cool breeze, no more than a dozen cars in the various parking lots. He anticipated the solace and quietude. He started out from the lot and was quickly in the woods walking down a well worn and slightly eroded path, going a short distance with his trusty walking stick to the west end of the lake. He skirted the shore and scanned around to find it was deserted save for a single angler on the far east side. He decided to circumnavigate the lake. It wasn’t more that a mile around. Easy enough. Along the way he would scout for the optimum spot for his routine, somewhere flat and smooth. No ruts or tree roots poking out of the ground. Walking along he rounded the west end on toward the north, stopping occasionally to check each vantage point. On he walked until almost around to the east end and there he saw it on the south side, a dock with a platform. Perfect. All was perfect, but not quite. Directly behind this dock and up the hill a ways sat two dump trucks. On the sloping path coming down the hill to the lake was a grading machine, busily spreading gravel and dirt. Back and forth it went, as the dump trucks piled up the fill and the tractor spread it out on the path that had been eroded the past winter.

He stopped and stared in disbelief. What in the heck are those things doing here in my park? Not on my day, not here and not on that spot. Sitting on a bench a hundred yards around the shore, he decided to wait them out. They appeared to be finishing up. So he waited and sure enough in about 15 minutes, the machines were moving off toward the shelter houses and parking lot. He quickly made way back to his van where he could gather his thermos of coffee and notebook and return to the lake to write. As he walked back up the path to the lot, he noticed his footprints in the newly graded path. So this is a nature path, he thought. It may be natural for a while maybe. but it’s really just a layer of dirt created by man to look like nature. He surmised that not only the path, but everything else in the nature preserve was man-made. The lake was dug, and forest planted by man. What he had sought in nature was a facade. Or was it?

He gathered his coffee and notebook quickly and returned to the south side of the lake where he could now do his routine and then write his lesson in peace. As he rounded the bend and looked over the hill down to the dock, there stood the angler directly in the middle. That one lone fisherman on this huge lake had taken up a post there. He made a quick decision. This guy will probably keep moving, looking for a better spot. He had noticed the angler doing this earlier. So he took a bench on the end of the dock and took in the panorama. But after a few minutes the angler was still there casting into the same spot. Over and over he would cast, always in the same spot. Strange, he thought, that the guy wouldn’t even vary slightly to the right or left, but always straight ahead. Occasionally the angler would go to his tackle box a few feet away and change lures. But always he would return to the same railing and cast to the same spot.

Time went on and he poured his coffee and started to write. He would just wait until this guy moved on then do his routine. And still the angler stuck to the spot. Cast after cast, minute upon minute, fishing the hell out of that area before him. As the sun grew higher, he continued to write and the angler continued his casting. A standoff had ensued, each trying to outlast the other. It occurred to him that a battle was raging here, beyond the solace and nature and peacefulness. Now the reason to be there was the struggle to see who could outlast the other.

He knew that by all rights the fisherman should go first. There was a mile of shoreline, for god’s sake, and he could surely find a better spot than this to catch a fish. Surely he would eventually get bored and tired of fruitless casting and move on to where they were biting. He continued to write page after page, recording this epic struggle for all posterity. And he continued to drink his coffee and hold his position no matter what. He had no place to be and nothing else planned that morning. He could just stay and wait this turkey out. He speculated as to why this angler would want to waste so many casts into this ‘dry hole’. This spot seemed so devoid of wild life that you could have dropped a depth charge in there and nothing would have died.

And then it occurred to him. The angler had been there first. Even though there were a hundred better places to fish on this very lake, it didn’t matter. By squatters rights, the angler owned this ground and he wasn’t going to give it up to some yahoo who wanted to take it away from him. The angler had come to this place for the same reason that he had, for solace and nature and peacefulness to help him contemplate life. And so this angler would just wait this writer person out.

As it goes in the fog of war, conditions and calls of nature sometimes change the tide of battles. He suddenly realized that all that coffee had worked its way through and he had to relieve himself pretty badly. How much longer could he hold out against the angler. As it became apparent that the angler was still very much intent on casting, he made preparations to find the nearest restroom. Ah, but fate had a kinder hand. For just as he was screwing the lid back on the thermos, the angler let out a great yelp. Heeey, a hit, he had a hit as his pole bent and the line went taut. With skill and precision the angler began to reel in his catch. A runner this fish was. Back and forth it fought valiantly, until it managed to wind the fishing line around a submerged log. Suddenly the line went slack, and he saw a splash as the great fish rolled, threw the hook, and dove for the safety of the bottom.

The angler wasted no time, packed his gear and in a flash, had turned to walk up the hill on the newly graded path. On his way now, the battle over, the angler turned to him, smiled, and waved a fond farewell.