Not Really About the Fish

We went for a hike today up Laketown Canyon Trail with friends.

It was one of those middle-of-the-road days—sunny, not too warm, not too cool. The kind of weather that doesn’t ask anything of you.

At a pond, a few fishermen were spaced out along the edge, lines in the water, not catching much of anything. No one seemed particularly concerned about that.

That clearly wasn’t the point.

We stood there for a bit, talking with them, and it felt like we all had the right idea for the day. Not the fishing part. Just the sitting. The being there. Catch something, fine. Don’t catch anything, also fine.

We kept going up the trail—wide enough for feet or bikes or ATVs—crossing a stream a couple of times before taking a short climb. Nothing dramatic, just enough to justify stopping at the top. We sat, took a few photos, had some snacks, and talked.

I took pictures of lichen on the rocks—a weird habit of mine. And the tiny things growing alongside it—clusters that could pass for trees if you didn’t know they were only a couple inches tall.

On the way back down, I paid more attention to the pond. The water was dark, almost still, with bright green algae sitting on top like it didn’t belong there and somehow did. Across the way, a few ducks drifted around like they had nowhere else to be. From a distance, it looked like a resort made for water birds.

We talked about coming back with the inflatable kayak. Maybe getting fishing licenses. Doing what those guys were doing—sitting with a line in the water, seeing what happens.

We ended the day at Cooper's with a couple of cold beers and a good lunch. It’s surprising you can get a decent lobster roll this far from an ocean.

But today wasn’t about lunch.

Or the pond.

Or the fish.

Or even the hike.

Just a good day, doing very little, on purpose.