I held tightly to the side rails of our truck as my dad turned sharply onto that old blacktop road. Tucking my hat between my knees I starred out across the horizon… about as flat a line as you will ever see. The air cooled the further we drove as the landscape transitioned from flatlands to forested hills. I remember the wind in my face, my dad with his arm out the window, him smiling at me in the rearview mirror.

Riding in the back of that old pickup was the best. I somehow felt grown up. And the fact that we were going fishing, well that made it even better.

Oh the simplicity of a time when time meant nothing at all – when as a kid you haven’t a clue that one day you’ll look back on a day like this and wish so hard you could relive it. Like any other kid, you’re just living in the moment, and that’s how it should be.

Within an hour or so we were pulling into an unmarked drive that wound its way down a wooded hillside. At its end a lone cabin stood, tucked deep into the misted timber. From the front door of the cabin there was a scant trail to a dock that extended out to a small but pristine lake. Thick underbrush and wetland grasses bordered the shoreline. My dad and I grabbed our gear and headed up the walk as we were greeted by a scraggly looking german shepherd. He was a friendly old soul with sad eyes and cockleburs beneath his coat. With one hand I gave him a good scratch behind the ears and he obliged with a wag of his tail. I knew in that moment I had a friend for life.

The property around the cabin was unkept, but in a wild sort of way. It was raw and untouched. That’s what I loved about it. The cabin itself was eclectic, a bit run down, but mysterious. It reminded me of something from a Hardy Boy novel. Off to one side was a pile of firewood, partially stacked, and tools strewn about haphazardly. To the other a pair of rusted chairs sat side by side overlooking the lake. From inside the cabin a single stream of light shone through a clouded window pane. I wondered what it would be like to live in such a solitary place.

Just then a middle-aged man appeared at the front door wearing fisherman’s boots and a beat-up cowboy hat. He had a big bushy beard and a gentle disposition. He looked as though he belonged in the woods. I don’t recall the man’s name or even my dad’s connection to him, just a friend I guess. I do know he was more than generous to let us spend so much time fishing his land. Honestly I think he was just lonely and enjoyed the company.

My dad chose to fish from the old wooden dock. The same place we set our trot line in hopes to entice a catfish or two during the overnight hours. I chose to forge my way alone through the woods and found lake access the hard way, ankle deep in a swamp. There was something special about bushwhacking the forest by myself, no trail, no compass, just the lake as my guide. With a fishing rod in hand and a buck knife strapped to my belt, I felt like a true pioneer. I don’t think the lake had seen much pressure either, bass were hitting on just about anything I threw at ’em, and by evening I had a stringer full.

I fished until the last trace of light drained from the summer sky and fireflies began popping across the lake like fireworks on the 4th of July. Slogging my way back through the trees I was soon met by the glow of the cabin and my Dad waiting patiently for me on the porch.

“Looks like you had a good day Son” he replied, as I held up my catch for approval.

He couldn’t have been more right.