I walked by Jane’s photo and stopped, captivated by those green, slightly mocking eyes smiling out at me. Unbidden memories surged to the surface and I turned and sat down, letting them rekindle the past.

We’d rolled out of bed early that morning, thankful the canoe was on the car, the rods and tackle boxes already packed and stowed. Out to the kitchen for a quick slice of peanut butter toast and some orange juice.

I gave Jane a hug and a kiss, looking again into those eyes I loved so much and we were out the door into the predawn darkness.

Arriving at the lake we launched the canoe. The birds were chirping now and a few cold frogs halfheartedly croaking. A great blue heron gave a disgusted squawk as it jumped up and flew away from the launch, those long legs caressing the water’s smooth surface.

The morning air was incredibly fresh, filled with the fragrance of green grass, ferns, sweet dew, lake water and wet tree bark. The intoxicating aroma brings back a flood of similar mornings and wonderful adventures.

The lake was a mirror, a light mist rising from its glass-like finish; reflexing the shoreline like a master’s painting. The scene was almost too perfect and beautiful to be believed. We stood silently for a moment gazing in appreciation and felt a reverence deep inside for all creation.

It’s moments like this God seems close indeed.

Despite our timely appearance and the grandeur of the morning our casts along the shoreline proved fruitless. We changed lures, tried different presentations and still didn’t have a fish to show for our efforts. I did see a bass or two, but they were not apparently feeling very hungry.

What to do?

I sat back and looked carefully around. The mists were rapidly dissolving before the sun’s brightening rays and an osprey soared overhead twisting his head downward searching for his breakfast. The fly catchers soared and curved in mathematically precise formulas chasing bugs and moths.

As I watched, a deer stepped out of the woods, crossed a small meadow and stood for a moment in the warm sunshine, its summer red coat gleaming against the green grasses.

The day was in full swing it seemed, a shame the fish weren’t cooperating.

Turning to the lake I examined it closely, looking for any clue or sign of activity. There, in deeper water, I saw the quivering, barely seen dimples of minnows touching the surface. Looking harder still, I soon picked out several other areas where minnows were surfacing. The baitfish were at least 200 yards from shore. We picked up our paddles and approached the first school of minnows.

When the baitfish congregate the predators can’t be far away!

It didn’t take long until I had a solid hit. Sharply setting the hook brought a bass flying out of the water. I set the hook one more time; the first try lacked that satisfying “thump” you like to feel when the hook bites home. The bass bored deep and then jumped a second time before Jane scooped it in. The fish was 17 inches long with clean, sharp markings; from the olive green back to the variegated black pattern running lengthwise down the lateral line and clean white belly. The fish was beautiful.

A little later I had a hard hit on a swim-bait and landed a second bass twin to the first.

Poor Jane was whipping the water white, cast after cast, but hadn’t had a hit. She wasn’t thrilled about her poor luck, but experience had taught her to just keep casting and not complain.

Luck comes in bunches, one person catching several fish in a row before Lady Luck smiles on the other angler. Then, the first angler bemoans their fate, but they too philosophically keep casting. There is no way to figure out any rhyme or reason to this often repeated pattern.

Of course, it is best when both anglers are happily catching fish, but you can’t count on it.

The sun was high in the clear sky now, the temperature rising quickly. The minnows disappeared. I set my rod down, and began rearranging my messy tackle box, trying to straighten things up a bit. Jane noticed a large patch of floating weeds nearby and while I was busy, picked up the paddle and eased her way over to them, then cast.

Suddenly, the canoe jerked, rocking slightly; I knew that motion from experience, Jane had set the hook!

Looking up I saw her rod was bent over and a grim smile of determination etched on her face. She was into a fish, finally! After a sharp battle with a jump boatside I netted a fat, sassy pike. Not huge, 26-inches long, but most importantly, she hadn’t been skunked!

Jane was all smiles and I grinned back, thrilled for her.

What a beautiful and soothing morning. As we glided back to the car I replayed this morning’s experiences. My wife’s eyes, the mirror-like lake at dawn, the smell of grass and fern and the reverence we felt as the day was born. The challenge of fishing and its anticipation, the thrill and rush of a strike. The opportunity to spend time with my wife and share in her success.

Yes, it’s the little things that touch your heart and soul.