I love to fish. It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to find the time. But in April? At 9,000 feet elevation it could be rain, cold, mud season or even a snow storm. The secret to Colorado and adventures like this is to dress in layers. Donning seven layers, we headed for a mountain lake with six of our friends early one Tuesday morning.
Arriving at Tarryall Reservoir, the sun was shining, the skies were a crystalline blue, and there wasn’t a bit of wind to cause even a ripple on the surface of the water.
Everyone grabbed a camp chair and their fishing gear to find their position along the shoreline in the hopes of landing the largest trout on record. Okay, so just land a trout or two for dinner.
There isn’t a better way to spend a day than with great friends and a fishing pole.
I watched down the bank as Bill pulled in fish after fish. This is not unusual for him. I firmly believe that fish know when Bill has arrived at a lake and they clamor to jump onto his line. Odds are if he walked out into that water with a net, they’d just jump right in for the privilege to go home with him. Their demise being totally worth it if Bill is involved.
A few others were pulling in a trout now and then. I sat there, holding my new fishing pole, waiting. And waiting. Turns out I waited a lot that day.
I really didn’t mind. I was quite warm and comfortable waiting. Sitting in a chair. Watching. Observing. Sea Gulls flew overhead, geese took off from the water honking an incredible noise as they went as if that would help them gain altitude, wisps of clouds occasionally floated overhead. Waiting was good.
The past year and a half or so has really thrown us for a loop. Lots of surgeries, from shoulders to back procedures and a couple other physical ailments. Then our home was robbed to top it all off. Frustration built, a horrible feeling of being overwhelmed ruled the days, worries piled up, even a good dose of fear reigned.
I sat there staring out over the lake as another goose honked its departure from the water. A sea gull screeched overhead hoping someone would clean their fish. A couple of ducks swam across the way. The reflection of the mountains on the far side of the lake shimmered on the surface. Calmness. Peace. Nature. Beauty.
God.
I reeled in to check my bait. None left. So the fish were snacking not attacking. Harumph. Pull the line back with my finger, lay the pick up over, cast the line back out as far as I could, sit down and wait.
Hmmm….
Cast.
Casting.
Worries.
Fear.
Cast.
Cast all your anxieties…
Hmmm….
I couldn’t resist. I had to reel it in again. Pull line, reach back with the pole, fling it forward while releasing that line. Cast. Release. As that line swooshed through the air, I imagined or maybe I really heard, “Cast all your anxieties on Me, for I care for you.” My husband’s favorite life verse has now become mine.
I looked up. Blue sky, sparse clouds. Cast.
All the issues we’ve been facing seemed to fly away from me on that line. At least for the moment. When you have a year like this, every moment of peace counts far more than you’d think. I couldn't help but imagine each care strung onto that line flying farther and farther away.
Cast.
I never did catch a fish that day. But that’s okay. I had caught some peace. I had reeled in some misplaced joy. I hooked a release. I hurled a bunch of problems into the depths where I could no longer see them. For such a time…
I’m pretty sure I had the best catch of the day.
Oh, and Bill got another one on the line!
