Four-day weekend. Destination: fishing lodge, about 26 km north of the epicentre of the earthquake that rocked our world the day before.
"I'm bringing a novel about a giant squid, one about human clones, and one about a circus geek. Do you think that says something about the kind of person I am?"
"I dunno, but it says something about the kind of fisherman you are."
I caught countless bass (fiesty little fuckers), 2 pike, 3 whitefish, a couple clams (freshwater mussels, I guess — boy, they clamp down hard), and a sunburn.
Peaceful, but not quiet. Blue herons, ducks, loons, turtles (OK, the turtles were quiet). A rock in the lake they call Gull Island, for the hundreds of gulls that perch there, squawking incessantly.
Not seen, but heard: woodpeckers, and ouaouaron frogs (so I'm told), which sound like they're shooting elastic bands or sometimes just twanging them.
A couple deer with a young one lapping at the shore.
A family of beavers, Junior clinging to mommy's back. For some mysterious reason the parents deposited him at water's edge in front of our cottage and swam away. Curiosity got the better of us, and we crept up to sneak a peak at Junior. He splash-swam out of there, but mommy brought him back a short while later, and we left it alone.
I read about half a book this weekend, and I had a wonderful time.