It was supposed to be a Henry-and-Mum adventure, back packing into remote Lake Daniells with as little as we needed to carry for some peace and quiet and a bit of splashing around in a mountain lake. As it turned out, we weren’t the only ones with that clever idea and as the day progressed, the hut filled up with Dads and little boys intent on making the most of the last few days of the school holidays. Final count was 5 Dads with 5 little boys, 3 medium sized boys on an adventure of their own and 3 grown-up boys looking to join in the fun. And every time I looked over toward the lake, there was always someone fishing.
Sometimes a whole line up on the wharf with Dads imparting the finer points of casting a fly and demonstrating the proper way to stand.
Sometimes a trio of medium-sized boys wading just a litle bit further out to escape the flood of questions that they good-naturedly fielded from smaller boys about the merits of live bait and the number of teeth in an eel’s mouth.
Sometimes a lone fisherman, dangling his line off the wharf as the sun rose while the breakfast milk was retrieved from the fridge.
And sometimes just a group of mates shoulder to shoulder, in no rush to go anywhere, waiting for something to bite. Solving the world’s problems as they sat companionably. Or maybe just each others. It was a surprisingly gentle couple of days.