"O Lord, let my soul rise up to meet you. / As the day rises to meet the sun, / Glory to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit. / As it was in the beginning, is now, and will be forever, Amen. "
Too early in the season for the fishing to be much good, it seems. A cold, overcast April and May has kept the water temperatures too low. But, we'll see. We have a guide booked for tomorrow; we'll enjoy the quiet and space, in any case. Sometimes COMMITTING to a couple of days of predictably poor fishing is just good for the character and, thereby, the soul.
The ride north seemed to foretell our fate. I was surprised by how dramatically the Spring foliage dropped off as we passed through the White Mountains. Here in the Great North Woods, the whole landscape looks 6-8 weeks behind where our trees are at even just a few hours south. Patches of snow still cling to the notches and hollows, here.
In the Spring and Fall, Route 16 is like a time machine, that way.
Foggy and cool, this morning; Curtis is at the propane stove, and bacon's sizzling in the pan. It's a day that promises peace.
"Women and children knew deep in themselves that no misfortune was too great to bear if their men were whole... The men sat still - thinking - figuring." - Grapes of Wrath
It is quiet here; the campground nearly deserted, the grounds staff cleaning up the remnants of winter, preparing the way for the Memorial Day rush. The woods still seem wrapped in slumber. The forested shoreline not yet green, but hazy pink with the early season buds of the deciduous trees.
All of our forests here are young. It's hard to imagine that, 100 years ago, New Hampshire was 90% deforested. The uniform youth of our trees betray the fact, however. Whether that should make one sad, or encouraged - by the resilience of creation to reclaim wild spaces once laid bare by our consumption - I can't say. It would be something, to see a truly old-growth forest, someday.
The water is high, and breathtakingly cold. Liquid, I would say, on principle alone. No fish from the river today; too cold and fast for enthusiastic feeding, I'm afraid. We'll see how our guide approaches the puzzle, tomorrow.
Time for a fire, and supper.
Sunday morning. Headed home.
Spent the day floating the Upper Connecticut River with Greg the guide. Eight hours on the water, one fish was caught; a feisty little 8-10" brown, gently kissed by Maggie the fishing dog and released. For the relative futility of our efforts, it was a beautiful day, well spent.
Today is Mother's Day, and it's snowing in Berlin. Fat, wet flakes the size of silver dollars, falling as fast as rain.
Passing over the roots of Mount Washington, the snow frosts the evergreen trees and coats the wet earth. For these miles, in the mountains, it is winter, again.