It’s early. Far earlier in the day then I would normally be awake, but at ten years old there is little that could get me as excited to be out of bed before sunrise as today. No one else is awake yet, my little brother is still well asleep in his Winnie the Pooh sleeping bag in the tent next to me. He never has been much of a morning person, regardless of the day. I climb out of my sleeping bag, putting on my biggest sweater and warmest socks. Despite the fact that it is the end of July, it is cold out on the lake in the early morning, especially before sun-up. As I struggle with my shoes, my brother stirs before rolling over. I don’t have to worry about waking him, he has been known to sleep through my mother vacuuming his bedroom.
I leave the tent and walk around front of my grandparent’s trailer, situated just across the old campground dirt road from Benoir Lake. Across the calm morning water, the beginnings of morning light are starting to rise from behind the small wooden cottages and the many trees surrounding them. This is my favourite part of the mornings here. The mist on the morning lake, where nothing has yet disturbed the water. Some mornings, if it is especially quiet, you can hear the loons calling to each other. I remember one particular early morning, out on the dock, seeing a moose swimming across the lake. One small disturbance trailing behind such a large creature, with it’s large antlers being the only real part of it that can be seen above the water.
This particular morning, there is not a sound, nor a movement anywhere to be seen or heard. It is peaceful, dark still, especially amongst the tall pine trees surrounding the trailer. I walk back from the dock towards the trailer just as my grandfather steps out. He is especially careful as to not wake my grandmother who is still fast asleep inside. Without saying a word, we both walk over to the shed to get out our tacklebox and fishing rods. We each pick out our rods, both having been set-up and cleaned by my grandfather the day before. We make our way down to the dock, with the smallest hint of the red sunrise beginning to peak over the trees at the far end of the lake. With the gear loaded into the boat, we slowly undo the moorings tying the small bassfishing boat to our wooden dock and begin to cast off. Quietly, as to not wake the neighbours, my grandfather starts the engine and we cruise out onto the open water, creating the first small waves across the lake.
The lake is small for cottage country in Northern Ontario. It is farther north than most of the Muskoka and Kawartha Lakes that Torontonians flock to each weekend, being just south of Algonquin park near the small town of Wilberforce. My grandfather knows the lake like no one else, having spent every summer for decades taking his children and grandchildren on the five and a half hour journey north from our home in St. Catharines.
We do not need to discuss our destination, as it has become routine on our mornings out on the water. Barely a word is spoken throughout the entire journey, but that is how we both prefer it. Morning fishing out on the lake is less about catching the fish, as is about beginning the day in the most relaxing way imaginable. We arrive at our familiar stretch of water, through the small channel separating the two parts of Benoir. Grandpa effortlessly guides the boat in towards the edge of the lake, careful not to go through the small patches of lily pads that will be our fishing grounds. He cuts the engine, leaving nothing but the calm sound of the wake of our boat as it collides with the rocks on the shore.
We both cast out our lines, with my grandfather’s gentle reminders of the proper technique being the only words spoken between us. The minutes pass, both of us taking in the quiet as we wait for the bobber tied to the end of the line to dip below the surface. Grandpa has promised that this summer I will learn how to use some of the other lures in his tacklebox out on Elephant lake which is connect to ours through a long and winding series of wetlands, but for now I am perfectly content to be out in our usual spot waiting for that red and white floating bobble to get pulled under by today’s first catch.
The lake system connected to Benoir is large, with Baptiste being nearly an hour away on the other side of Elephant lake. We do not usually venture much past Benoir, as we prefer the smaller of the lakes with our little fishing boat. We do however, on occasion, venture up the small river connected to the lake near our trailer. It is only on the most special of occasions that my brother and I can convince my parents to take us up the long and winding river in our canoe. At the end of the river is the most spectacular of playgrounds. High Falls, as we call it, is a cascading set of small waterfalls created by the river as it meets a large Northern Ontario mass of rocks in its path. The gentle angle of the rocks create a near perfect natural waterslide as opposed to actual falling water. Most summers, the rocks are a place to find other families enjoying a picnic while the smaller members of the clan are frolicking about in the water.
As my mind drifts off, with thoughts of petitioning for an afternoon canoe trip, suddenly I am brought back to the small patch of weeds I had been staring at. My bobber has disappeared and I can feel a gentle tug a the end of the line. I give the rod a small jerk to the side, as my grandfather taught me to make sure the fish is hooked, and I begin to gently reel in. By this time Grandpa has noticed as well, and has reeled in his own line. He grabs the net from the back of the boat and gets ready to help my bring in our first catch of the day. Based on the pull from under the dark and murky water, this might be the biggest fish I have ever had on the line, and I am extremely careful to make sure it does not get away. I get the line up next to the boat as we see a silver/green shimmer beneath the surface. Grandpa carefully guides the fish into the net and pulls it into the boat. It is a large mouth bass, the biggest I have ever reeled in.
With this being a momentous occasion in a young fisherman’s life, we prepare to pack up the boat and head back to the trailer to show off the prized bass. We will not keep the fish, merely store it in the livewell long enough to take a few pictures to show to my mother and father when they arrive later today. Afterwards we will release it back into the lake to perhaps be caught again next year.
We have been gone for well over two hours at this point, and when we arrive back at the dock we find Nana and my brother cooking breakfast in the trailer for all of us. I run off the dock, excited to share the news with both of them. Nana gets the camera and my brother runs back with me, just as my grandfather finishes tying the moorings back on to the dock. We both jump into the boat, and I proudly open the livewell door for my little brother to peer into. The fish flops around in the shallow water, slightly spooking my brother. Grandpa asks us to step out of the way so he can get the fish out of the well for a picture. He expertly grabs it by it’s bottom lip, causing it to lie still. Pulling it out of the well, he stands next to me as Nana snaps a photo. Afterwards, Grandpa gently lowers the bass into the shallow water beside the dock and allows it to swim free.
Later that afternoon, my mother and father arrive in our family car, carefully navigating the roots that cover the dirt road leading into the campground. Both my brother and I are excited to see them, having spent the last week with our grandparents while they were at home working. Around the campfire that night, I regale them all with the story of how I caught my biggest fish, Grandpa as always not saying a word when I embellish the story a tad here or there. My mother is particularly proud, having been quite the accomplished bass fisher in her childhood.
Once the embers have begun to glow, and it is nearly time for me to go to sleep, I sneak away back down to the dock where my day began. 15 years later, I can still remember staring across that small Northern lake under the starry sky. It is a gentle reminder that even while I continue to travel this vast world, the most beautiful place will always be home.