I shared in a previous column how I spend a great deal of time during the summer months fishing in the pristine water that runs near my summer home in Middle River.
I wrote about how my dad encouraged me to take up fly-fishing and how he gave me his vintage 1970s fly rod, the one he used when he fished in Middle River.
The paint on the old hand-me-down rod is faded and scratched, and the line is the original line my father used back in the ’70s. My family frequently asks me why I don’t just buy myself a new fly rod, perhaps one with more modern features and a line that wasn’t quite so worn and cracked. My response is always, “Why would I?”
It was a beautiful Saturday evening in late July. I had been fishing in the brook that runs into the larger river, but I wasn’t having much luck.
I suggested to my husband that instead of continuing down the river, I would rather use the rest of the warm summer evening to enjoy a ride through the tree-lined meadows on our well-used side-by-side ATV. He agreed, so I reeled in my line and fastened the fly to the cork on the handle of the rod, as I had seen my father do many times before. I then placed the rod in the rear compartment of the ATV.
It was well past dusk and after a relaxing ride through the meadows, we made our way back to the cottage. Normally, I would have a few fish to clean and my husband would collect the fish and the rod from the ATV and bring them into the cottage. Since I didn’t catch any fish that evening, we didn’t think to retrieve the rod from the back of the side by side.
On Sunday afternoon, we were preparing to go to our favourite beach to enjoy a refreshing swim. As it turned out, our normally very reliable ATV wouldn’t start. The road to the beach that we frequent while in Middle River is difficult to access by car. We didn’t want to risk taking our very low-riding vehicle on the notoriously rocky road, so we decided to look elsewhere for a place to swim.
We drove to a few other smaller popular swimming spots, but they were occupied. We headed back toward the cottage and decided to swim in the narrow brook that runs into the larger river. It is the same brook I learned to swim in as a child and hadn’t swam in for decades.
So as not to block traffic on the quiet country road, my husband pulled the car off into the opening of the meadow, the same meadow we had driven through the evening before on the ATV. As he proceeded to shut the car off, he said, “Oh, look someone must have lost their fishing rod.” I said, “Oh dear, that’s a shame.”
A fly rod was standing upright against the tree. It was as though someone had placed it there in the event that the person who lost it could see it clearly if they were to come back looking for it.
Middle River is a popular spot for fishing and the rod could have been left behind by someone who had cast a line earlier that day.
I got out of the car and as I took a second look at the rod, I thought it looked familiar. I said to Ed, “That looks a lot like my rod. Wait a second, that is my rod.”
Apparently, unknowingly, it had gotten snagged in the trees and pulled out of the ATV as we were exiting the meadow.
While the rod has no monetary value, it has great sentimental value to me — especially now that my dad has passed. When I think about what could have happened that evening, I gasp. I think about how upset I would have been if the events of the day didn’t lead me to that very spot — the spot where I would find the treasured fishing rod that I didn’t even know was lost in the first place.
Immediately, I thought, what if our side-by-side hadn’t broken down and what if we didn’t have to use the car to go in search of an alternate place to swim? What if all of the other swimming locations weren’t otherwise occupied? And what if we didn’t have to pull off of the road into the meadow to park the car before going for a swim in the brook that I haven’t swum in since I was a child?
I believe that everything happens for a reason. I also believe that the events of that day were meant to unfold exactly as they did.
Sherry Mulley MacDonald is an author and freelance writer. She is a life-long resident of the Northside with an affection for the community in which she lives.
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