I am standing in the shade under the trees, looking down the boat launch to Buttle Lake. The water is low the locals tell me because of a cold but dry winter. Cracked dirt the colour of sawdust is exposed, and stumps, so many stumps, dead, cracked and covered in a film of flaky mud. What water there is is perfectly still under the early morning sun, and the colour of the sky. Across the lake, the cracked dirt, trees and mountains are perfectly reflected in the water. It is nearly perfect for photos and the reason for my stop.

It is almost sad that the still waters, like glass, is about to be shattered by two fishermen who are donning their warm clothing. Despite the morning sunshine and near clear skies, the day is still cold in the way of a unrelinquished winter. In less than a week, a unseasonal snow storm will roll through dumping record inches, and the cold now is a harbinger.

“Do you fish? Do you have a license?” one of the fishermen asks me.

I tell him no, I don’t have a license. That I’ve fished before, or tried to but without much success.

He laughs. “That’s too bad. We have a spare rod that you could use.”

It’s an enticing thought, to see the lake from the eyes of people who have fished it before and know its waters. Up till now I had been travelling the area by car and what little hiking I could manage with a bruised foot. I wonder if there’s a chance to recover somehow with a little creative dialogue. But I don’t have to. As if sensing my thoughts, he offers.

“We can take you out for a spin, I like to introduce people to it (fishing).”

I have my reservations, after all I would be out on the water with two strangers, grizzled looking and tough, both wearing polarized sunglasses and the stockier one in jean jacket and pants. But despite their appearance, they have big grins like excited children looking forward to a day at their leisure. And I’m sold.

“Meet me at Lupin Creek and we’ll pick you up there. Anytime you want to come back, just say so, it’s no trouble. You can’t miss it, there’s a sign just down the road.”

Five minutes later, I park at the turn off by Lupin Falls and through the trees towards the lake I see the boat puttering over and the sharp-nosed fore drives into the pebbled shore. It’s a short hike down the trail and I clamber aboard accepting a life vest. Secretly, I am very grateful. I am not a strong swimmer. Never have been, but I don’t tell them.

The fishermen are Tom and Ralph, two local and lifelong Campbell River men who’ve fished since childhood and “try to whenever they can.” Tom backs the craft away from shore and turns it around, then guns the throttle.

I am momentarily disoriented and grip the seat between my legs while my free hand grasps the boat’s edge. Beside me, Ralph sits back calmly, basking in the sun and sticks his chin out to the rush of cold air.

In no time we’re across the lake by a bubbling creek. Where the moving water reaches the lake, the depth drops suddenly into murky green. I can’t see the bottom, but I can see bits of debris being washed into the lake. Even with my limited angler knowledge, I know this is a place fish can be found feeding on the food stirred up by the babbling creek. Tom and Ralph know it to, and are on their feet pulling line from taunt rods and casting into the water.

I catch myself gripping too tightly onto my seat while two grown men stand less than two metres away, twisting and turning their bodies to cast their lines into the water and reeling in. The boat rocks just a little.

No luck.

For the next half hour we coast back and forth along the creek mouth trolling two lines off each side of the boat. All the while Tom and Ralph are spotting the waterfowl by the shore and glassing the slopes for bigger wildlife looking for bears or deer. More than just fishermen, the two are active outdoorsmen and hunters too waiting patiently for the start of their game season.

“Once when I was young I went skiing then trout fishing on my way home and then I was fishing for salmon in the afternoon,” Tom explains why he loves the area. “And I didn’t even plan it that way.”

Not much luck either in the trolling and wildlife spotting, and I wonder out loud that perhaps my unsuccessful history at angling is bringing them bad luck today.

But they are not deterred. “When you’ve been fishing as long as we have…”

I know exactly what they mean. Whether it is hooking elusive lake trout or photographing the just right amount of failing sunlight on trees and mountains, you can go hours, days, weeks or months before another perfect capture. It only makes the rewards that much more meaningful, and give more reason to do what you love.

So it’s back to wildlife watching, and the only sound is the soft putter of the engine as Tom arcs the boat around back towards to the creek mouth. It is serene, a place where you can see deer and bears wandering and not another human soul for hours. It is hard to believe that just a 30-second boat ride away my car — my lifeline to civilization is waiting — and the city of Campbell River is just a short drive away.

Another short period passes and I ask to be taken back to shore, partly because I still have a long road to travel before the day is over and to give the two fishermen time to their lake. Tom twists the throttle and aims the nose toward the far shore.

Still needlessly gripping the rounded edges of the craft, I nevertheless turn my head up and feel the cold rush of air against my face. Basking.

It is a too short boat ride back.