Fighting Arthur

A short story about fishing for lake trout in the early spring...

It’s cold and cloudy; the birch trees stand like skeletons against the flesh of the conifers. There’s still ice where the wind meets the shore and the playground is empty and there are no bugs. Stupidity mingles with the thrilling potential of death and the swing set grinds against the wind playing shrill notes which resonate like cheap fiddles. It feels like a lousy November day; but it’s the end of April and summer’s light and summer’s darkness approach with a slow and steady momentum. Somewhere in the water predators prey.

His body’s become soft and weak. The canoe weighs a thousand pounds as he lifts it awkwardly over his head and then back towards the ground; the sand feels good on his feet. It’s the time of year to shed dead skin.

The shuffling sound of waves softly lapping against fragments of ice is almost eerie – particularly in calmer moments. There are no cottagers or tourists or water skiers: there is only indifference to those who drown. The world is not devoid of colour: the trees are green or white and the reeds are brown and the sky is grey. Simple environments befit simple men – and there is beauty in simplicity. There is a struggle that can be enjoyed only by those who aren’t bothered by happiness – and in the foreground a pair of dirty maroon sweatpants and a blood-stained MIT sweatshirt.

He starts paddling and he knows he's going somewhere and he's either getting closer to success or closer to failure and he can control his speed but not his direction. Without sonar the best he can do is troll and troll and troll and hope for the best.

Every few strokes the line drops a little deeper. Eventually the rod starts jumping softly as the sinkers scrape the bottom. A few empty cabins dot the shoreline; there’s a hermit inside one of them – lonely or alone or at least nonexistent. He’s looking at the lake – at the angler making a fool of himself. But in his eyes the fisherman is only a mirage; in his eyes the canoe is an abhorrent orange; in his eyes there is a pitiful image – his eyes, blue, bright blue. The coffee maker on the counter drips and is unheard by its deaf owner.

Inevitably he becomes bored – bored by the very passion which drives him to this stupidity. He's been told to enjoy the pursuit itself and the means itself and the path itself but he knows that the only – – thing that counts is the result. The cold water feels good on his hands – it feels damned good.

Every day in the late afternoon the wind dies down. Every day the waves take a break from their ruthless cadence. Every day at the same time the birds start to whisper and the trees quit their rustling and the world takes a nap and is quiet.

But he doesn't want calm. He wants excitement; he wants passion; he wants romance. And he paddles and paddles and paddles until he gets what he wants, until he takes what he wants, until he experiences that all-consuming split-second ecstasy. He spits into the water with a stupid, fierce look in his eyes.

In the depths a flash of cheap silver is most tempting. Follow it – follow its wiggle. It sways and moves and shakes. Closer and closer – closer to the lips; closer to the mouth. Take it; take it! There’s a point of no return – a commitment to satisfaction that’s irreversible. Chase it faster and faster and faster and faster until finally...whack! The rod twitches violently. Fortunately, there’s always something stupider and more base than him. Or maybe the snare isn’t as obvious as it seems from his perspective.

But then, after a few minutes, just as he catches a glimpse of his labour’s reward, the line breaks. He no longer feels the pressure and the thrill is gone. 

Far away, in a flatter place, a woman toils in a field and hopes to be loved or at least hopes she can stay busy enough to not think about it or about anything else. He doesn't think about her and she doesn’t think about him and yet there’s a strange moment of compassion or sympathy or some kind of forlorn connection to an unknown beating heart. The hours leading up to dusk in late summer are coming, the hours leading up to dusk in later summer are coming…and only then will his skeleton become incarnate. The man they call Simon will be born again.

The hermit, taking a sip of coffee and a drag from his cigarette, laughs at the castrated angler, and he too spits in disgust.

To be continued…

Yes, that's ice...

Greg Cholkan is a lawyer, fisherman, and Hemingway impersonator. He works in Huntsville and Haliburton with Barriston LLP and his practice focuses on real estate, wills and estates, and corporate matters.

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