LAKERS

The early spring sunshine is bright and warm but still too
low to clear the pines on the southern shore of Highland Lake.
The gravel road above the row of camps is slippery with half a
foot of snow, my bootprints follow the trail of a whitetail deer
down the center of this dead end drive. On either side of our path,
mountain laurel and rhododendron are drooped and crusted with
white. Other natural landscaping around the cabins will
remain dormant for another month on this border. Moss is a thick
blanket under the quilt of snow.



Across the water, past fifteen or twenty star-shaped fissures
that were once circular holes straddled by tip-ups, the ice has
pealed back from the land, letting the docks once again feel the
lap-lap of liquid against their pilings. A twelve foot jon-boat
rocks gently as if to mock the former grip of its captive.
One of the few permanent residents can be seen walking his dog
near the water's edge. I doubt he can see me in the shadowy veil
of the pines. The dog looks up though as I crack a hidden branch
with my felt-lined hunting boot. Sound carries well over the
flat surface of the twenty-two acre lake.
 

I pause, not for the dog but for the wilder animals I am
hoping to surprise. There is no weapon in my hand today, just
a weathered notebook. A pair of binoculars hang from my neck.
A tape measure is clipped to my belt, a plunger type turkey
call in my pocket and a diaphragm call is between my teeth.
My four wheel drive could easily negotiate this unplowed
road and take me to the last cabin before the earthen dam but my
estimates are free, scouting for spring gobblers is my payment today.



 
A minute later I resume my trek, more carefully than before.
The doe who's tracks I've followed raises her warning flag tail
and bounds across the road ahead. I give a couple chirps and
slow even further, a step or two then a minute of stillness.
The half-mile walk takes an hour. I see no other game but a
red squirrel who scampers up a pine beside me.


Tracks of a different nature are surrounding the old cabin at
the end of the road, three-toed with an occasional groove on
either side caused by the dropped wing-tips of a strutting tom.
Turkeys are also seasonal quests here, taking over the grounds
when the human lakers leave for the winter.

  
After taking measurements for replacement windows on the old
cabin, I continue past the dam and into deeper woods. The valley
with its tiny stream of runoff would lead to Gaylord Creek, a
favorite place to catch the trout I'll be dividing my outdoor
time with during spring gobbler season.  I trudge up and out of
the depression to higher ground where the oaks and hickory trees
draw the turkeys I hope to find.
 

Halfway to the ridge is an outcropping of shale, a good place
to rest and eat my lunch, a ham sandwich and an apple. Clucking
and chirping while I eat, I get one reply but it's a long ways
off, I doubt he will come this far to investigate. The noon sun
is warm, reflecting off the rock at my back. I sit for another
hour before calling it a day. It's been fun but there is
office work to do before calling the owner of the cabin with an
estimate. I'll be back.