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Holding the spring loaded screen door open with my shoulder, I jiggled the skeleton key with one hand and the knob of the cabins interior door with the other. Somehow, with the combination of the both, the key turned and the old lock gave way. I put the key back on the ledge above the door where it was always kept and picked up the gear at my feet. I nudged the weather battered door open with my foot, crossed the threshold and stood hands full, as the screen door banged shut behind me. It was a sacred moment and I absorbed it in silence as one might upon being the first to enter a Pharaohs tomb. My eyes scanned the cabin satisfied that not much had changed. Hip boots and waders hung from the studs of the second floor in a tight group around the fireplace, as if just put there to dry by someone who had  miss-judged the depth of the stream outside. There was seasoned wood in the wood box and a stack of old yellow newspapers that would prove fun reading before starting the fire with later. The shelves along the back wall held a sundry of useful items from spare lantern parts to bug repellent. A fresh candle lay placed in the center of the table, left as an offering by the last visitors. The mice had pulled some of the stuffing from a cushion on the couch and the floor was in need of a good sweeping but a warm satisfied smile spread across my face. “We were finally here!”  I thought, and in those few moments standing there I realized that months of planning and anticipation had already begun to pay off.

  I dropped everything but my sleeping bag and went up the thick plank stairs at the far end of the cabin taking two steps at a time. Sunlight flooded through the naked windows and fell to a pool on the dusty loft floor. Two single beds occupied the loft as well as a dry sink complete with washbasin. Bedding in garbage bags hung from strings attached to the rafters to discourage mice. Four fishing poles leaned in one corner. A couple of old creels hung from a nail nearby with old ferns from summers past, poking out from between their woven gaps.  The cabins interior was plain and made up of rough cut lumber. There was the faint mixed aroma of pine and mothballs, a smell I have never forgotten and will always associate with the cabin.

  I looked over the railing to the sound of struggle below. My fishing partner, Dave, was trying to wrangle the screen door while carrying an ice chest and two bags of groceries. I tossed my sleeping bag on the old spring mattress closest to the stairs and went down to help.

  Each trip out and around the two-story cabin to the pickup was no more than thirty strides, but it was important to carry an overflowing load of gear each time. This required balancing and juggling gear that was dropped and when bent to retrieve, more was spilled. Somehow, whether rolled, kicked or carried, everything reached the cabin door.

  The cabin itself lies in a secluded area called the “Eagles Nest”. This large portion of lake and forest is in a remote region of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. The stream that flows literally feet from the cabins door is the headwaters of a large river called the Tahquamenon River, known for its two major, breathtaking falls. The water starts at Bennett Springs and feeds a series of connecting lakes before finally beginning as the beautiful stream that flows past the cabin. It is this small section of its total 94 mile length that we fish. The trees in this expanse are native Red and White Pine. Some near the river and lakes are home to a small number of Bald Eagles, thus its name, the “Eagles Nest.”

  It was time to light the evening lanterns by the time we got all our gear in and organized, the cabin swept and tidied a bit. I built a crackling fire in the stone fireplace and Dave put on a pot of coffee. Although it was a warm evening, the cabin felt damp inside. Besides, a cabin without a fire seemed as unnatural as a duck hunter without a retriever.    

  The sound of butter spattering in a frying pan announced Dave was preparing the evening meal. We would alternate between the duty of making evening meals. Mine would be tomorrow night and I was delighted he had chosen to lead off, as it was a beautiful evening.

   I slipped outside breathing deeply. It was truly one of those rare and perfect evenings so enchanting it can only be experienced and hardly described. I fumbled in my breast pocket for a match while watching the stream flowing past the cabin porch no more than twenty feet, a constant symphony of water sounds. A family of Wood Ducks bobbed past. There were seven little ones following mom in obvious pure enjoyment of their water world. They floated by making contented little “meeping” sounds cruising along with the streams natural flow before making a final turn out of site below looming Pine bows. Bats dipped and fluttered in the warm evening air and on a nearby ridge a Woodland Thrush warbled its evening song.

  Finding a stick match, I struck it against the door jam and lit my much anticipated Gold and Mild cigar. I took a short drag and shook out the match. The streams soft gurgle blended with strains of music drifting to my ears from the small radio over the stove inside. Exhaling, I felt all my built up tension drift away in smoke. I hoped Dave was working his own aggressions out on our evening meal, turning plain grub into an edible piece of art as he usually did.

  It was a quiet evening in a tranquil setting, and so far from the clash of the so-called, “Civilized World” set my mind to reflection. Leaned up against the awning post and enjoying the view and smoke, my thoughts began to drift like a fallen leaf on the current. It floated around the bend of collective thinking and glided over dark pools of brooding thought. It bobbed through small rapids of uncertainty, skimmed across sparkling gravel bed of solid conviction. It spun lazily out of control around yet another bend and came to a gentle rest in a log jam only all to familiar. The place I often found my mind tangled after aimlessly drifting, and caught up in the thought of her, I began to smile at the possibilities of what might be.

  The leaf broke loose again, floating into the uncharted, its course directed by the hand of the current, and for a brief moment I understood that although it is fun to try and venture into the future, it is veiled from us for a reason.

  Returning to the present but still warmed by the thoughts that lingered, I rubbed out my smoke and went back inside where the smells of the Chef at work filled the air.

  Dinner was served and savored to the very last then well-deserved drinks were served. It wasn’t long after, that the obvious began to show. A long day was winding down to a soft lull of drifting radio tunes and eventually, contented sounds of sleep. The fire snapped occasionally as a log shifted on the hearth. Outside the night cooled and the smoke drifted straight up from the chimney. Behind the cabin and above the ridge a big yellow moon had risen, shining its pale light upon the north woods below. Somewhere a whippoorwill spoke into the night.

I awoke as the first soft streams of sunlight filtered through the pines. The cabin was warm and quiet inside. I could hear the faint gurgle from the stream outside and the cabins old clock we had wound and reset, as it ticked towards the six o’clock hour. From Dave’s breathing, it was obvious that he was still in dreamland. No reason to begin to early on the first day, I thought. My eyes grew heavy listening to the combination of his steady rhythm in slumber and the ticking of the clock. Soon I slipped into my own repose again.

  I awoke the second time that morning to Dave jostling me.

  “Good morning,” he quipped in his typical jovial way. “We aren’t going to catch any fish from the prone position!”

  I was groggily aware I had slept almost another two hours and that it was now overcast. I was also reminded that my partner was a morning person and I was not. We lay there in our bunks for a while, trying to form excuses for not having been up and out on the stream an hour ago. Dave loosing patience with my lack of enthusiasm, gave a 1 2 3 count and threw his sleeping bag aside. He seemed to vault from the mattress while I arose with sluggish movements. We both made our way down from the loft and out side. We began our day laughing like grade-schoolers over a silly joke about getting the morning wood. Leaning my head back and drawing deep of nature, I was glad I was born male. We tipped and wobbled our way back to the cabin, our tender feet unused to the barefoot bathroom trip. Inside, I went to the indoor hand pump and worked up a basin of cold wash water. Once I had splashed some water on my face I felt my stupor fading and the day more approachable. Dave had turned on the propane tanks to the stove and had water heating for coffee as he bustled around the cabin locating his gear. He flipped through his tangle of topography maps trying to find the one of our current area. I turned the radio on and flipped the dial looking for the local weather forecast. With no luck I dialed in some station coming across Lake Superior from Canada. Finding the accents funny, I left it there while making us a few sandwiches for latter.

  Like usual, Dave had his hat and hip boots on enjoying a cup of coffee while watching me desperately searching for my fishing vest. By the time I was filling my cup, he was doing his final inventory with fishing pole in hand.

  “Spectacles, Testicles, Cigarette, Lighter!” he checked aloud with a grin and disappeared out the door.

  I took a quick sip and set my coffee aside with a sigh.

  The morning had begun with Dave two steps ahead and stayed that way as he took the lead. He was the first across the fallen Pine that spanned the stream and the first to wet his line.

  The morning’s overcast sky was to our advantage in fishing for shadow spooky trout. The air was warm and still and life surrounded us from the tender morel mushroom that had pushed up from the damp soil to the white tailed doe we spooked. Her soft red coat such a sharp contrast against the dark green ferns.

  A Shout from Dave announced he had a strike.

  “He’s in there!” he yelped as I quietly slipped up beside him and watched him play his lure along a submerged log.

  “I’d hit that if I were a trout.” I offered, complementing his delivery.

  A dark shadow edged out from the concealment of the log.

  “That’s it. Come to papa.” Dave whispered as our boyish excitement mounted.

  Bang! It was a solid strike! There was a flash of color, a zing of taunt line and the splash, breaking the calm flowing waters. We both whooped! The fight was not long lived as Dave expertly netted the Eastern Brook trout with one hand and the other holding his rod high in classic pose. He cut some fresh ferns and lined his creel, then laid a beautiful eleven-inch start to our evening meal on top.

  Quick congratulatory slaps were traded then we headed down stream. Dave liked to fish every possible eddy, pool, rift, rapids and log and it usually paid off. My plan however was to use this to his disadvantage. So as he fished down stream slowly, I splashed across and struck out ahead on the opposite bank in search of the next, most likely hole, my hat brim pulled low in determination.

  By late morning we had worked our way a good two miles down stream, my creel remaining empty and Dave’s containing only one. We tried new spinners, live bait and flies with no success. I crossed back to Dave’s side on a shallow gravel bed and from a safe distance watched him work a tangled log jam. He was balancing on a slippery log trying to free a snag.

  “Need a hand” I called, clapping sarcastically.

  He tried to turn and retort just as the line broke free and he lost his footing. With a choked cry he went over backward into the deep water formed by the jam. Gasping he came up wild eyed with water flying in all directions like an emerging swamp monster as he trashed toward a bank. Somehow his glasses and hat were still intact.

  I thought I could laugh no more but set into fits again when he emptied a copious amount of water from his hip boots. Finally resting on the bank we shared a sandwich and a wide variety of conversation from religion to sex. When we ran out of topics we leaned back against a broad Pine trunk sharing simple quietness and friendship. We had a smoke from my dry stash while reclining and enjoying our North woods seclusion. It wasn’t long and our hat brims tipped further and it was unspoken Siesta time.

  We dozed only for a short time before heading out again. I cut to the top of the ridge as Dave plied his skills along in the stream below. Once again I set out in a direct fashion, determined to get to the next hole first. I cut across a small clearing, noticing the western sky churning with dark clouds. The sound of thunder growled across the heavens like an angry dog. The air was still and heavy. All signs pointed to a good down pour in less than an hour. Entering the forest again I startled a large Gray Squirrel as I passed under the gnarled limbs of the old Oak tree he called home. He pumped his tail with every angry bark, scolding me for the intrusion.

  The sky was darkening considerably by the time I slid down the bank and positioned myself over the deep hole. It was the same, somehow, unchanged by a year of harsh elements since I was there last. It was a narrow strip of water wedged between steep banks. The pool was a dark green color, a testament to its depth. Undercut banks on both sides and submerged logs offered excellent cover for trout and delicious imaginations of huge proportions for my mind. I reached for my small cash of lures in my fishing vest and attached what I called a double hitter on my snap swivel. It is an old and simple lure consisting of a small silver spoon followed by a few red beads and a single hook.  A bit of worm from under a nearby log on the end would do nicely. Just the right weight, I thought as I tossed my line out. The current spun my bait along the submerged log and pulled it to the right depth. It was in the sweet spot and then past so I reeled it back in. I cast my lure back again. The morning’s empty creel had allowed pessimistic thoughts to set in leaving me unprepared for the solid smack on the end of my line. I let out a yelp of excitement at the fight I was returned. My heart raced as I drew the Rainbow Trout up, half expecting it to drop free at any moment. With luck I landed him, my hands scrambling to hold him. He was a keeper. Every bit of Dave’s fish only a rainbow like streak down its side, so vibrant they looked fresh off the painter’s easel.

  Thunder broke overhead and it began to spit rain. I managed to catch another beauty before it started to pour, pocking the pool in obscure splatter marks and forcing me to seek cover. I cut up the steep trail again, heading toward a lower area of dense Hemlock and Cedar for cover. There was no sign of Dave. He was probably high and dry under some trees canopy enjoying a candy bar back where I had left him. It wasn’t long following the watercourse that I realized I once again had underestimated Dave’s spirit and trout fishing enthusiasm. I found him around a bend, working a small set of rapids. A small stream of water poured off the point of his hat brim. Strangely, his pipe was going full fury like a pissed off Popeye, all amid the downpour. Even more of a mystery was the fact that he had gotten ahead of me. I didn’t like the thought of him using my own strategy against me. The competition between teacher and student was stiff enough with his superior knowledge and years in the sport.

  Spotting me as I crouched under a giant Cedar he removed his pipe and called above the rain.

  “Been on the river long?”

  “No.” I hollered back over the distance. “What kind of Bird Brain keeps fishing in a down pour?”

  Splashing ashore he flipped his creel open to show me three more trout.

  “The kind that catches large fish! How about you?”

  We compared our catches and declared the afternoon a victory. 

  It was late afternoon succeeding further excited conversation about trout savvy vs. prowess and a relaxing smoke that found us making our journey back to the cabin along the ridge high above the river. The rain had stopped and the sun broke through dispersing clouds, shinning down on a land glistening in tiny water droplets.

  Later, back at the cabin and after dinner, conversation was reserved as we sat on the porch catching the last orange rays of delicate light. Nothing of great importance needed be spoken. The mellow evening said it all. It had been another relaxing day lived in harmony with Mother Nature. We were first hand witnesses of her gentle hand at work. We had allowed her rules to apply and guide us, washing away the trivial problems of our everyday lives.

  Although we were aware of the passing of days, Dave and I had seemingly escaped the controlling grip of time itself. My wristwatch had lost its usefulness. It had become more practical to be guided by the body and all nature that encircled it. When we were hungry, we ate. When we could no longer see, we lit the evening lamps inside. When we were tired, we slept. We hiked, canoed, fished and explored a fresh area of our North Woods each day. We saw few people, which added to our desired effect. We were the first. Lewis and Clark, unaware that the world we had left behind continued with destructive haste. However, the day arrived when with truck packed we said our farewell to the Eagle’s Nest. Dave was inside the cabin poking behind and underneath objects for any forgotten items. Crossing the fallen Pine to the far side of the stream I quietly made my way up the game trail. From atop the ridge, I could see the stream twisting into the distance. It’s cool, clear water rushing ever onward. I closed my eyes feeling the warm afternoon sun on my face. Overhead two ravens voiced their opinions over some unknown dispute. There were soft whispers on the breeze from a nearby Pine and the constant tones from the stream below. In my minds eye I could envision the trout in their hidden lair. No spoken goodbye needed be uttered. I offered a simple silent prayer of gratitude for good health, a good friend and for creation itself.

  We crossed the one lane bridge with a final glance farewell at the stream. Dave geared down to make the coming grade as we wove up through the towering Pines. Turning south the truck bounced along the same dirt two-track road that two weeks ago we had arrived on. Dust plums rose in thick clouds behind us.   

  My mind was doing a quick inventory, scanning for items we might have forgotten. Lantern? . . .check. Binoculars? . . .check. Paddles?  . . .check. Suddenly with clear understanding, I realized we indeed had left something behind, and we would have to return to find it. Not that day, no the next, but some day. Maybe in the Fall, maybe not until next year or five years from now, but we would return, in hope of recapturing what we had left behind. A bit of ourselves, and too once again harmonize with nature and the bountiful lessons she taught. It would be to this endeavor that we would push with anticipation through our daily lives, assured that one-day we would return to the Eagles Nest and the Trout Cabin.