Well, this is odd.
Here I am standing on the roadside wooded shoreline of a 450-acre lake in a 4,000-acre state park and there is absolutely no noise. No caws of big crows, no chirpings of little birds, no crickets, no locusts, no rustling of leaves, no cars passing by, no boats, not even the wind in the willows. Nothing. I tilt my head and observe this silence; how is it possible?
But wait, there’s more.
I walk over to the boat rental building – unused rowboats and canoes and paddleboats on the lawn in front – and the building is locked and vacant. Boldly posted on the front window are the days and hours of operation, and it is supposed to be open today, Wednesday. But nobody is home.
Discarded on the ground is what looks like a large, open, plastic yogurt container half full of a brown mess. With my toe I tilt the container and read: “Catfish Charlie’s Shad Dip – Catfish Bait.” This “shad dip” has been here roasting and basting in today’s hot sun, but there is no stink. I lean over and sniff carefully to confirm the absence of odor. Confirmed.
There’s still more.
I look out across this huge lake that stretches its arms in several directions and see only a flat surface – no splashes of fish, no dimplings of minnows, no wet-winged flutterings of swifts, no swirlings of turtles, not even a ripple of a bubble.
This lake and I are surrounded by 360 degrees of forests and hills, and I realize that the treetops and hilltops are invisible; a hot haze has erased and smeared them into the washed-out paleness of a blue-bleached sky.
Once again I listen: a hollow and soundless nothing.
And I don’t know it yet, but I will catch no fish, get no bites.
The dock area has No Fishing signs, and the two nearby road bridges that cross arms of the lake have No Fishing From Bridge signs, so I walk a few hundred yards along the shorelines to cast my bass lures.
The water has a pale brown hue and two feet of visibility – perfect for a Senko. But cast after cast after cast into shoreline shadows, under fallen trees, and alongside submerged weeds produce nothing.
My path is bordered by a meadow that sprouts purple dandelions and stunted Queen Anne’s Lace. Sycamores and firs are tall along the shore. A dozen muffin-size mushrooms grow in a row near my path. An empty nightcrawler container is littered among them. And I see a lone striped chipmunk scamper silently, then stand alert on his hind legs, then scamper again and disappear.
I switch to a chrome Rat-L-Trap and with it search lots of water out far, in close, and beneath one of the bridges. From atop the bridge undulates a 40-foot strand of glistening fishing line which is anchored in the vicinity of the No Fishing From Bridge sign.
I can see hundreds of acres of lake and thousands of yards of shoreline and there are zero anglers on this good-weather August day.
Then, finally, I see a fishing boat in the water; actually it is tethered to the shore up ahead. I arrive to find it fully equipped with electric motor, depthfinder, baited fishing rods, and no angler. Where is the boat’s owner? I stand and cast for 15 minutes waiting for an appearance that doesn’t happen.
Perhaps an hour later, after throwing fishless bass lures into lots of great spots, I give up on the bass and decide to fish for whatever will bite. I hate to go fishless on this fishiest-looking of lakes. I tie on my never-fail rig: two 32nd-ounce jigs a foot apart – one in pink/white and the other chartreuse/white. I will toss and swim them in tandem among the bridge’s shadows, alongside its pilings, and tempt crappie and bluegill and perhaps a bass or two.
But cast after cast after cast are ignored.
Finally I give totally up. This is such a beautiful lake and a beautiful park, but I have arrived at a time when the stars are obviously in peculiar alignment. (Janet later tells me it must have had something to do with the eclipse.) I have never before experienced this total absence of all stirrings.
A lake is a terrible thing to waste.
Photo: John Bryan at Shawnee State Park Lake
