Earl’s Lake 

Peter J Barbour

“Joey, I thought you liked fishing. What’s the problem?” Nick fidgeted. His patience had worn thin. 

I enjoyed fishing, I still do. Growing up, I liked to fish with Nick, not just for the fishing, but also for adventure. 

“I heard about this place . . . ” Always a story about a hidden, secret location, that only a select few were privy to. . . . “with the biggest bass you’ve ever seen.”  

That was his bait for me, and I always took the hook.   

“So, where is this place?” I asked. The question came down to, am I willing to put myself in harm’s way to join him?  

As we got older, Nick’s access to the family car gave him a wider range for his escapades. The adventures became bolder and his reputation grew. The police from various surrounding jurisdictions visited his home on a regular basis to advise his parents.  

“If we catch Nick in our jurisdiction one more time,” the officer said, “there will be hell to pay.” They never possessed any definite proof that the specific mischief had been at Nick’s hand, but they had enough circumstantial evidence linking Nick to a misplaced lawn ornament and his mom’s car to prompt their inquiry.   

Nick frequently tested me. I resisted, tried to talk him out of whatever folly I thought he might be suggesting, and then followed along, trusting that no harm would befall us.  

When Nick approached me about another of his fishing plans, I weighed the perceived risks versus satisfaction gained. His great idea was to fish at Earl’s Lake.  

“The problem is,” I said, “do you know why no one fishes there? It’s private property. It’s a private lake. What you’re suggesting is illegal. I think they call it trespassing and poaching.” I sounded firm in my conviction, as if that might dissuade him. 

“Come on, trespassing? Poaching?” he said, mocking me. “We’ll throw back whatever we catch. The land isn’t posted.” 

“Maybe someone tore down the signs, or you know a way between signs, or something.”  

“They stocked it because you’re supposed to fish it. Just think of those big fat fish. What will they do to us if we fish there? They will probably thank us for putting their lake to good use. I’ll show you how we can do this, so we won’t disturb anyone.”   

“Tell me, what do they do to trespassers? If you’re right and you think they’re going to be happy to have us use the lake, why don’t we just go to the owner and ask for permission? Of course, that would remove an element of adventure.”  

I adjusted my hat and smirked, then looked into Nick’s determined eyes. I started feeling as if I could go along with him. He seems so sure about his plan. Maybe fishing in Earl’s Lake is okay. I’d try one more feint before capitulating.  

“I thought you said you’ve never been there before. How do you know all this?”  

“Tom fished there, and so did Don and John. They never had a problem. Trust me. I’ll pick you up at seven. We’ll still have plenty of light. I hear the fish are very active at dusk.” 

Still perplexed, I gave into him, a captive to his charisma.  

“Okay, Nick, see you at seven.” 

*** 

I informed my mother I was going to be picked up by Nick after dinner. “We’re going fishing,” I said. 

She called from the kitchen, “Really, fishing?” 

“Yes.” 

If she believed that I’d be in any significant danger, I think she would have done more to discourage my going. When Nick arrived and I headed to the door with my gear, I got one of her looks.  

“I’ll be with Nick,” I said, answering her stare but uncertain whether that was the best strategy to allay her concerns. 

“I know,” was all she said. Was that skepticism in her voice? I looked back as I turned to say goodbye and received a penetrating look that followed me out the door. 

Nick waited at the curb; he drove his mother’s 1963 black Ford Galaxie Sunliner convertible, top down. I tossed my rod and gear into the back seat next to his tackle. 

I didn’t know much about Earl’s Lake. Its southern end was 100 yards from Earl’s Lane through dense brush and trees. Earl’s Lane was a popular spot for teens after dark. To the north, vegetation hid the owner’s home from view.  

“Did you hear rumors that a caretaker patrols the grounds?” I said as we pulled out of our apartment’s parking lot and onto the street. Fear of his presence was enough to deter people from swimming in the cool waters on a hot summer’s night. A caretaker added to my concerns about Nick’s plan. He reflected for a moment before answering. 

“Just a rumor,” he said, then continued. “You know, the owner took an interest in fishing and went to great expense to stock the lake. They say he lost interest. The fish were left alone for years. That’s how they grew to incredible size. This place is a fisherman’s dream. You and I want to use it the way it’s supposed to be used.”   

Nick went on to say that others bragged about fishing at Earl’s Lake and boasted about big catches with little risk of being caught. “If we don’t keep them, what harm will be done?” he said.  

I rubbed the back of my neck, crossed and uncrossed my arms. Nick, as always, seemed calm, relaxed, and focused. Plus, he appeared to have a wealth of knowledge about Earl’s Lake. I hadn’t realized that until now, but I wondered about his sources.  

“Do you believe the bass are as big as they say?” I asked. 

“No question,” he answered with absolute certainty. “We’re going to leave the car on Earl’s Lane. It’s a short walk straight through the woods to the lake. We’ll hide in the bushes, run up to the lake, cast our lines, then, rush back to cover. No way, they’ll catch us.”  

“What do you mean, catch us? I thought you said no one cared if we fished in their lake.” 

“Come on, Joe. If they didn’t want anyone to fish here, they’d have posted the land, put up a fence, or something. You’ll be okay.” 

I made a vow to myself to look around when we got out of the car. Posted signs, fences, or anything suggesting the owners didn’t want us, I’d refuse to go. Earl’s Lane being the popular parking spot that it was, suggested to me that Nick’s unoccupied car could attract more curiosity than an occupied one.   

As Nick entered Earl’s Lane and started down the hill toward the portion of the road adjacent to the lake, he cut the engine, turned off the headlights, and coasted. 

The sun sat low on the horizon, casting long shadows in the twilight, an excellent cover for potential poachers. The car came to rest. We climbed out over the doors, lest we arouse the caretaker by car doors opening and closing. I reached into the back seat to retrieve our tackle.  

I looked around for signs discouraging unwelcome intrusion. I saw no postings that read “Keep Out” or “No Trespassing.” Perhaps, Nick was right. 

“Follow me,” he commanded. 

I took a deep breath, handed him his gear, and he took off into the brush. I hesitated, muttered an expletive that my mother would not be pleased to hear me say, and headed after him. I didn’t wish to be left standing alone on Earl’s Lane at dusk holding a fishing rod.  

We were silent as we picked our way through the stickers and weeds. The musty, early evening air enveloped us. We held our lines tight in our hands as we moved quickly. The rustle of leaves, disturbed by our feet, threatened to betray us.   

We continued north. The lake, hidden until then by the thick foliage, came into view. We stopped at the end of the brush. Ten yards separated us from the water’s edge. Mist rose from the lake. 

“Okay,” Nick whispered, “set your rig. Then we’ll run out, cast our lines, and run back here under cover. Just like I said.” 

I surveyed the situation. I took a deep breath. Here I am, and so, I might as well fish. 

We prepared our lines. Once ready, Nick gave a nod, and we broke from cover at full stride, stopped at the edge of the lake, leaned backward in unison, and let our riggings fly.  

I didn’t see where my bobber and lure hit the water. Nick’s rig made a high, arching flight and landed in the lake. We crouched low, rods in hand, and headed back to the safety of the brush.  

Nick must have forgotten to release the drag on his reel. His line failed to peel off as we darted back to our hiding place. He turned to look and discovered he pulled his lure almost back to the lake’s edge. For my part, I had been so concerned about being seen, I muffed my cast. Back under cover we assessed the situation. 

“Nick, I think I screwed up. Can you see where my lure ended up?” 

“I don’t think I did much better,” Nick said. “You’re caught on that bush.” He pointed to a spot halfway between me and the water. 

I put my rod down, crouched close to the ground, and crept back out into the open to retrieve my line. Nick reeled in his rig and prepared to make another throw. I succeeded in freeing my lure and made my way back to cover. Nick was ready to cast again. He darted out of the thicket, charging toward the water, then stopped suddenly. Instead of casting, he dove forward and lay flat on the ground. 

“Joe! Joe! What’s that?” Nick said in a muffled whisper. He pointed to the northeast side of the lake.   

I stuck my head up above the brush and focused on the direction Nick indicated. In the waning twilight, the distant trees lost their color; everything was indistinct.   

“I hear something, but I don’t see anything,” I whispered. 

The sound of breaking twigs and a revving engine disturbed the serenity of the lake as a pickup truck moved rapidly toward us. A barking dog further disrupted the quiet. I was sure the caretaker must be aware that we were here. Clearly, we were not welcome.  

“Nick, do you think they know we are here?” I called to him. My mouth went dry, lips turned down as I prepared to flee. 

“I’m not going to stick around to find out. We’re out of here!” he shouted. 

The truck stopped and a man jumped out, looking in our direction. Nick scurried toward me on all fours as he tried to return to the cover of the thick brush. We peered through the top of the bushes. The man had what looked like a shotgun. He held it over his head, cocked it, and fired. I didn’t need more motivation than that. We took off running. 

I heard the truck’s engine turn over and assumed he pursued us again. I gripped my rod tight, secured my line as best I could, and led Nick on a mad dash back to the car. Nick’s line snagged on a bush and streamed out behind him as he crashed recklessly onward. Briars grabbed at our pants, threatening to tear our clothes as the brush tried to contain us. Exposed roots and fallen branches menaced each stride. Fear of capture, or worse, overcame fatigue as we charged, leaping, weaving, and dodging obstacles in our path.  

Nick’s line finally gave out, strung out through the woods in our wake. I opened a ten-yard lead in front of Nick. The truck made it to the southeast part of the lake, closing in behind. I jogged to the left to avoid a large rock. My legs moved, but they no longer contacted the ground. I stepped into a hole and floated in mid-air for a second before hitting the bottom.  

“Nick!” I called, my voice shrill and desperate. 

He turned the corner, stepped to the edge of the depression, and stopped short. I jumped and clawed at the steep sides of the deep pit trying to gain traction. I wasn’t hurt, but in my frenzy to extricate myself, I caused loose dirt to accumulate around my feet. I felt as if mired in quicksand.   

Fear of capture by the caretaker was replaced by fear that more than I occupied this hole. My imagination conjured up dog-sized rats, poisonous snakes, and spiders. I jumped higher and flailed away at the sides of the hole as I tried to climb out. 

Nick leaned over the rim and called to me. “What are you doing in this hole, Joe?” He sounded puzzled but concerned. 

 “I was looking for a short cut.” I stopped my frantic jumping and looked at Nick in disbelief. “Get me out of here. Now!” 

Eyeing Nick from deep in the hole, I saw Paul Bunyan. Adrenaline must already have been surging through his veins. He bent over the edge, grabbed my upward reaching hands, and set me down beside him. 

We took off again. The sound of the truck pursuing us quit. I presumed the brush was too thick and trees too close to push through. The barking continued, but I guessed the caretaker hadn’t released the dog or the animal would have been all over us. Maybe he thought he we’d be off the property before he could catch us. The dog’s yammering became more distant as we approached Earl’s Lane. We both doubled up and grabbed our heads as the caretaker fired one more volley from his shotgun. 

When we reached the car, we tossed the rods into the back seat and dove over the doors into the front seat. Nick started the engine. 

“We’re out of here,” I shouted with great relief. “Fishing zero, caretaker zero. We’re even. Go.” 

“I think I lost all my line, a bobber, and the popper lure. We can go back later to get that,” Nick said. 

“Seriously, I’ll be happy when we’re home free. I thought I was dead when I fell into that hole. You didn’t say anything about the possibility of getting shot at.” 

“John told me they only load rock salt. Stings, doesn’t kill.” 

“Great.” I shook my head. “I bet you’re sure about that also.” 

“Absolutely,” Nick replied, cool as ever. Then his expression changed. The caretaker and Fido stood just off the road in the woods but without his weapon. Instead, he held a pencil to record the car’s license plate. Nick gave the man a little friendly wave as we sped past.   

“I don’t think your Dad’s going to enjoy another visit from the Marple Township police,” I said.