March 3, 2024
It was a quiet Sunday morning, and we were up early, drinking coffee, and disturbing the peace with our laughter. We have a tradition of having a cup of coffee together, usually on the couch as we wake up our brains. I think over ninety percent of the communication between my wife and I included laughing at something funny. We’re both pretty weird, me with my dad-jokes and her with her sharp, sassy wit. As my wife prepared for her Sunday shift, I cut a watermelon for her lunch, but the fruit had already gone bad. So, I cut it up to take to the forest.
During my morning walk, I carried the sliced melon with me in a plastic bag dripping with its sugary juices. I’m sure ants along the trail appreciated the free sugar hit. After spreading the watermelon on the trail, I made my way through the pine grove to photograph the white pear blossoms. Long ago, someone planted the grid of large pine trees, but over the decades, several species of trees had grown among them. This included pear trees that were in full bloom.
I walked north into the woodland. As I passed the area where I had placed the watermelon, I noted the melon’s sweet scent. The fruit’s red meat was bright against the forest floor, while the green skin and pale rind seemed to blend in more naturally.
On the trail, I passed over a dead branch from a wild cherry tree. It had thick black mushrooms growing on it that reminded me of the Japanese konbu I liked to eat with steamed white rice. The small branch fell from a nearby tree, its prominent markings made it easy to identify. The bark consisted of various shades of brown with green, stained in a camouflage pattern with small linear markings that ran parallel to the ground. Japanese woodwork prized the bark from the cherry tree, or sakura. In a few more weeks, these trees would also bloom.
The forest was still, but there were several species of birds all around. While I enjoyed hearing the symphony they created, this morning one call stood out, the coos of the mourning dove. These elegant birds usually hung out in pairs, and their soft calls seemed to set the quiet mood of a Sunday morning. After listening to the bird, I moved north along a trail on the west side of the property. In the distance, I thought I saw something out of place on the forest floor, so I left the trail and started walking through the trees and thickets. I saw three deer pop up in the distance and run west. After twenty seconds, a fourth deer passed by, following the herd, its white tail raised, bouncing to the rhythm of its beating hooves.
On the way back to the house, I passed by the watermelon, seeing long grooves cut into the fruit, where deer had scooped melon with their large teeth. I stepped into a nearby ground blind and waited to see if the deer would return so I could photograph them. I made notes about my time in the woods as I waited. After a half hour passed with no wildlife in sight, I left the blind and made my way back to the house, where I warmed up with a cup of coffee and wrote for a few hours.
In the afternoon, I went down to a shed in the backyard and pulled two dozen earthworms from their bins and jumped in my SUV to go fish. My fishing gear stayed inside my vehicle, so other than worms and a small chair, I didn’t need to prepare anything before making the five-minute drive to the reservoir.
Spring fishing was almost here, but not quite yet. I had a couple of good hits on my line during the first few casts, but after that, the afternoon was quiet. Well, the fishing was quiet, but the noise of boats broke the silence with their rumbling motors and biting exhaust. While fishing, I liked to take in the sounds of nature, but there were so many boats going out and coming in that I finally put in my AirPods in my ears and listened to some country music while I fished.
Oh, country music. I would have to write about my affair with it one day. Growing up around the horrendous stuff, I never took a liking to it. I had memories of people asking me over the years what kind of music I liked, and my reply was always the same: anything but country. Since moving to the country, however, I had fallen in love with this genre of music that I could never take home to momma. Was this my midlife crisis? A topic for another day, perhaps.
While the tunes played, I fished the fishless lake while taking in the scenery. It was a bright, warm day. The clouds were dramatic, as they often are at the Buckhorn Reservoir, ranging from bright whites to the charcoal gray cumulonimbus clouds dumping rain in the distance. The water shimmered silver, its ripples dancing with glints from the sunlight. Being on the water always made me happy, taking me back to my days of living off the coast in Cancun, Puerto Juarez, and Napili-Honokawai. I always arrived at Buckhorn with feelings of excitement, and when I left, I bid the water farewell, vowing to return and visit as soon as I could. The reservoir was my good friend, hospitable, easy-going, and a superb listener.
After fishing, I drove straight to the Pig to grab some short beef ribs and chicken wings to throw on the barbie. When my wife arrived an hour later, I greeted her with a cold beer, warm music, and a blazing fire pit. She changed out of her work clothes and we sat outside for the evening, eating dinner as the sun touched down on the horizon. It was an odd weekend with my wife working, but I stole a little time away to spend with my best friend. It was a perfect Sunday night.