Algonquin Park Fall Pike Fishing
The bearded, narcissistic old charlatan-pederast commands us to despise riches; to love "the earth and sun and the animals"; to praise simplicity and to find in nature some sort of serenity or peace or tranquility or calm. The lure of the allure: letting these words resonate in my mind as I finally exhale and start my journey towards some lost cabin in the woods surrounded by the "burning autumn foliage" of Algonquin Park. But I command differently: lead yourself not into temptation. It's all — —. There's more beauty in a glass of bourbon than in a million leaves of grass.
Most people go to the woods to escape. They go to feel human again. They go to find purpose or meaning or some — — like that. But they have it backwards: they go to indulge their decadence rather than to fight it (despite what they say). They like what they do and they're too serious, too human. They want to watch greatness rather than to experience firsthand its ecstatic embrace. They want to be astonished. I want to astonish.
I don't go to admire the sights or smells or sounds. I don't go to look at playful river otters or to hear beavers slapping their tails aggressively. — the smell of the campfire. I go for the long paddles and the grueling portages and for the physical pain that struggles to overwhelm my anger. My anger (God forbid I talk about it): a lovely byproduct of a repressive culture and, mostly, some inherent deficiency of character. "Yes, sir." "No, sir." "Right away sir." "Your problems are very important to me and you can treat me and my staff like pieces of — sir." But after four hundred meters I stop giving a —.
My anger returns only when I start paddling again. Why look at the trees? I've seen them before and I'll see them again. I see them every — day. Instead I think about the losers. Those immaculate perfectionists who criticize and yet are not subject to criticism. Those people who were born for the sole purpose of causing problems in other peoples' lives: the sensitive girlfriends who won't talk about how — up their families are but will attack your parents' relationship whenever they want; the functionally illiterate clients who insult your basic math skills; the leaders who don't lead. I think about them as I unhook my silver-blue Williams Wabler from the mouth of a small bass.
The cowards and the —. The sound of the wind hitting the leaves and I paddle and I paddle and I dwell and I dwell. Being disparaged by a man who's achieved less in seventy years than I have in twenty seven is not without its humour. And these — share one trait: they talk big and generously donate their negativity but none of them have the — to say anything to my face. They don't have the courage to look into the eyes of a mystic. They know that I am the truth, the way, the life. And while they're busy spreading their ugliness and pettiness and shame I'm on the water in my rain suit on a cold day at the end of September, busy examining my judgmental reflection in the water, laughing at the irony, pulling my white swimbait through the still green weeds, catching fish after fish like I always do. I'm not here to look at how pretty everything is; and I'm not here to escape the challenges of life. I'm here to augment them.
I'm here to wash the blood off my hands and to sit outside at night and pour myself a drink. And then another. And then to straighten the hooks on my jerkbait. Most people come to Algonquin Park to find certitude or peace or help for pain. Maybe they find it. But my anger dissipates only into sadness and as the bottle empties I dwell and I dwell. And even then I rest uneasily knowing that anger will once again swell from sadness in a ceaseless cadence.
What's left of me? Memories of success and money and beautiful women. And supreme confidence that there will be more to come, and that I'll become a violent trap of eternal recurrence; that I will command myself to repeat my glorious mistakes a thousand times over just to re-live one moment again and again and again.
— the earth and the sun and the animals. I come here for myself. And I come here to fish.
Greg Cholkan is a lawyer and fisherman. He works in Muskoka with Barriston LLP and his practice focuses on real estate, wills and estates, and business matters. Follow him on Instagram and Twitter.
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