The road to the lake was covered in trees, foliage whose colour spanned the gamut from green to orange to yellow to red. Driving out of the city and into this magical tunnel of nature was a wonderful contrast from city hustle & bustle to the falling leaves and rustling trees. As I pulled up to the lake, a resounding calmness filled the air around me. Somehow for me, mountains, lakes, and trees put my mind to rest. The evening breeze, sweeping gently across the surface of the lake, faded as the sun set, leaving behind crystalline reflection of the sun's fading light cast upon the mountain.
At the water's edge was a small, wooden pier. It didn't go far out into the water, but meandered out in a slight L-shape. At the bend in the L, was a man who had set up a couple of lines out in the water, looking for fish to catch.
"I've been coming here for years", he said to me. "This lake is prime for trout".
We chatted for a while about fishing, about the mountain, and the surrounding area. Tales of his life as a younger man, coming to this same lake trying to catch those same trout which were avoiding his line today. I wondered, while listening to the man's story, how many fishermen the mountain may have seen in its time, as the seasons have come and gone. And how many people, who may just pass through taking a quick glance at her beauty and leaving just as quickly without even realising who may have spent a lifetime here, and what this scene may have meant to them.