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Last Monday was the opener for me. May 5. Quite a few days ahead of the rest of the madding crowd.

Of course, it wasn’t fishing I was opening. It was the first official day to leave winter’s treadmill behind and hit the open trail for some sunrise photos. I’d been waiting for warmer May days and when it became apparent that those are just a myth, or a memory of long ago, I decided to bundle up and head out anyway.

Just like the guys with the rods and reels, I have my secret spots, my favorite places, and I don’t like to share. The young sun is just as magical and mysterious when there are four people jostling for a spot as when I’m all alone. But I can talk to it much easier when no one else but God is listening.

It wasn’t a promising day. No clouds, nothing to make the sun elbow its way into a new sky, nothing to challenge it to shine through, or over, or to mask or enhance its fiery foray into night’s gaping last gasp.
All it had to do was slide up straight into the heavens, tinting the sky with gradations of color rather than wild, riotous cloud assaults. But those quieter entrances have charm, too. Their Zen-like simplicity calms the mind tumbling with expectations, tells it to slow down and savor.

I had the Nikon D40 with me, a relatively new piece of equipment, not the most expensive, but well respected in the field. Most important, it fits me. It feels good in my hands. It performs the way I want it to. I know what to expect. Any fisherman will appreciate those qualities. It’s just a different kind of angling.

I was fishing for something unique from what I’ve found the hundreds of other times I’ve been out on that trail, so close to home, along the water’s edge. Same trees, same grasses, same ageless rocks. Same sun, too, but put it all together, shake it up, and it all fizzes out in a burst of early morning champagne that never bubbles the same two days in a row.

I made one mistake. I succumbed to temptation and rolled over for just a few minutes before getting up and heading out. When I got there, I had only minutes to spare. I should have been there 30 minutes earlier, scouting some likely foreground, finding the right tree branch frame, deciding when to stand tall or flatten myself to the ground for a low vantage point.

I pulled my camera out of the case as I approached, hurrying, one eye on camera controls, another on the sky. No doubt about it; the color was moving and changing, ebbing and flowing, as mischievously as the rivers that tempt anglers on opening day. Too late to bemoan those extra few minutes in bed, time only to hurry.

I think I approached the shore snapping as I went, deciding from one quick shot to the next whether to meter on the sky or the lake, whether to use fill flash or capture silhouette, whether to shoot only toward the east, or to turn and maybe be surprised by reflected glory behind me.

As usual, it didn’t last long. I ran back and forth along the shore, dipping, dodging, bending, kneeling, belly flopping even, knowing that without clouds, the sun would be too big and too bright much too soon.

The result was a mess of beautiful shots, needing only to be cleaned up back at home and wrapped in the correct size to be served up at a favorite online site. My opening day was a good one, with some of the catch I’d even consider trophy quality.

Today, May 10, as I stood on shore on the anglers’ opener, already filled with a nice morning’s catch, I watched first one boat load of hopefuls after another hum their way across Burlington Bay into the golden, reflected path of the new sun.

Johnny-come-latelies, I thought, as I raised my camera and clicked a few more times. They didn’t even know they were part of my catch.

Live Life Joyfully,
Monica Isley   

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