I’m sure anyone that hung out with Mark while sharing in his
passion for fishing can relate to a few of these things. The journey to the fishing hole was
typically a long and arduous ordeal in of itself … and I hope also illustrates
a part of the character of Mark that we all loved.
The drive in was never shorter than an hour and always a
wonderful intertwining of what bug to start with, what back-up plan to account
for muddy water, and what really mattered – how we lived our lives, how we
loved our wives, how we could find time again. It also usually involved consuming a bag of Twizzlers heated
up nicely while baking on the dash of the car.
As soon as we arrived at our destination it was a race to
see if I could get my gear together and line rigged before Mark. I never actually took time to watch him
rig up because I’d be hopelessly left behind. But I could never understand with all the un-organized
mess of gear spread throughout the truck how Mark would be ready and waiting
for me. He would end up graciously
tying on my final dropper saying something to the effect, “I think this one
will be the ticket today Engie.”
It was, of course, an impossibly small bug he whipped up the night
before and completely different than the one I foolishly had chosen.
I can’t remember a single fishing outing with Mark that
didn’t start with a hike. We’d
never just pull up to a river and step into the water. There was always a journey to preempt
the fishing. Part of the reason
was to simply walk past the holes that see the most fishing pressure but with
Mark it was always beyond that point.
It’s like he had to hone into the ebbs and flows of the river before
starting. Mark would almost always
be in the lead with the pace of his stride unconstrained by his
excitement. He’d be ever surveying
the water surface, peering into the slick water for the flash of a trout’s side
or the subtle dimple of a surface strike.
I’d do the same but still catch glimpse (or think I did) of only a third
of the fish he’d point out. We’d often
walk up or down river for a few miles before ever wetting the line.
Mark had an unwavering belief that around the next bend was
the premiere fishing hole. And if
it wasn’t, he would commit it to memory as a landmark for next time. I’ll admit at times my patience would
waiver, wanting to just try my luck.
This was one of the many reasons that I was never half the fisherman
Mark was. His patience and
endurance were unquenchable. And
Mark would always lead us to a spot that we could both fish while remaining in
fellowship the entire time. I
guess that is what I miss most; time spent with Mark was always real. Not diluted with distractions and not
masked with phony chatter. Time
spent with Mark was fellowship.
Beyond friendship; beyond fishing.
It just doesn’t happen enough, particularly for guys, to share in pure
fellowship.
Five years ago Mark took the lead in an even more glorious
adventure with our Father in
heaven. Perhaps God
realized there was no river on earth long enough to satisfy Mark’s spirit. In no way can that account for the loss
of not having him with us. But I
do look forward to the day when I can again fellowship with Mark in an even
more glorious and wonderful place.
Until then I can only be thankful for many lessons I learned from Mark,
and the wealth of rich memories of fellowship with him.
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