The Hoot Owl: Memories of Hawley Lake
by Carrie L. Clayton

My favorite nearby place is Hawley Lake, Arizona. It is located high up in the White Mountains, in Northern Arizona, and it is virtually untouched. In the morning, when there, I hear the birds chirping in the tall pines, and I awaken early. I hop out of my tent to greet the morning, but I shiver in the chilly air and dart back to the tent with a grin. I pull a baggy sweat shirt over the flannel button-down, and then I hop out again to turn a propane burner on for coffee.

With the percolator in place, my dog, Nala, and I take care of our immediate morning business and then have a bowl of cereal apiece. Nala's bowl is bigger but she takes less time to eat, so she waits with silent anticipation for me to brush my teeth, splash my face, rinse utensils, turn off the Coleman stove, pour a big cup of coffee into a "no spill" mug with lid, and then head out with her for a morning walk. Nala acts like a curious puppy again as she darts toward every new scent. She sniffs along eagerly for a few feet and then dashes back to my side, repeatedly, while I saunter along sipping coffee and taking mental photos of the changing views of the quiet lake. The air up here is so different from the hot Valley, so refreshing. I am glad I made the trip.

Early in the afternoon I hang a wide hammock between two trees and grab a water bottle and a book I brought. I bring over a couple of beach towels, too, and then I place one underneath me to protect me from the hammock's rope and use the other as a makeshift pillow or blanket. I settle in and sway gently in the breeze between two pine trees, reading peacefully. Shadows and sunlight play across the book's pages, as the canopy of leaves shifts position around and above me in the wafting air currents. Sometimes I swing a foot to keep a gentle motion going as I absorb myself in the book's characters, world and events. The air is crisp enough that I need the other big beach towel to cover my body, on top, for a bit of warmth. I've been known to open a sleeping bag and wrap it around me while I sway in the hammock, but then I am too likely to nap the afternoon away. Pine needles crunch under Nala's paws as she moves nearer the hammock, shifting from the shade into sunlight, and she thuds to the ground with a loud exhalation. The smell of fresh pine mingles pleasantly with wood-scent from last night's campfire: nature's original "aromatherapy" for relaxation.

I stay absorbed in the book until late afternoon, never stopping long enough to do more than sip some water from my sport bottle. I made sure to face the lake so I would have a sort of peripheral/subconscious view of the water. I hear a splash and look up just a little too slow to see a jumping fish, but quick enough to see the expanding ripples afterward. I hear another splash, and then another, right as I finish the page I am on. I fold the corner of the page and set the book aside, leaving it in the hammock as I rise. Jumping trout out on the lake is enough to tempt me into action, and so I gather my pole and fishing tackle, and Nala, of course, and we head to the dam area to catch a fresh dinner. As we head toward the best fishing rocks beside the dam, I note with eagerness that more and more fish are surfacing for the low-flying gnats and other insects.

I bait my hook with canned corn and fling the line far into the center of the deeper water. After waiting a few long minutes, I silently ask myself if I should've bothered to bait the hook at all, because I find myself sitting astride a large boulder just watching the sun lower itself over the horizon, gazing away - and I'm not paying any attention to my line. I am awestruck as I watch the sky turn bright pink and lilac, with streaks of neon oranges and red. Fully half the sky is awash in the deepening hues. A few scattered clouds overhead help add to the random colors, to the unique magnificence. I feel I've never before seen shades so bright or so perfectly arrayed for the moment. I wonder if it is the clean air or the altitude that makes the sunset seem so memorable, or if my state of mind is simply more at peace and able to appreciate it. I lower my sightline, focusing on the lake, and I notice that little tufts of breezes are making flickering, flighty patterns here and there on the water's surface. A duck quacks quietly in the tall grasses to my far right, and another softly answers.
I look up again and watch the sky continue to transform. It is unfolding into shades of magenta and deep blues that are streaked across the most vivid royal lilac and purple hues I have ever witnessed. One side of the lake still has a few receding rays of sun beaming on it, while the other is shadowed and darkened by the deep purpling sky above. I feel a tiny tug on my line and my reverie ends as my whole existence shifts focus to the line between my fingers: to the taut fishing line leading down into the dark water.

The fishing pole and line almost seem to hum with electricity. I hold the line snugly between my right forefinger and thumb and wait anxiously for a second tug. There it is, another slight tug; I pull upward on the pole, rapidly reeling as I do so, feeling with all my awareness for added weight on my line in the depths of the water. It is there. I feel it. There IS a fish on my line!

Now I find myself in a short race with time as I reel hard and fast and pull sharply up on my pole, trying to get the trout in before it can spit the hook or unhook itself by flipping and struggling. I reel like crazy, giddy from the adrenalin rushing through my body. I feel so alive, and singularly lucky, but still I look around to see if other fishermen are watching me reel the thrashing trout. For some reason I want others to bear witness to my fortune, or skill, or maybe just in case I lose the flailing fish; I search for compañeros with whom to commiserate in case I lose the trout before I get it ashore.

I get a first glimpse of the trout, still thrashing underwater but up close near the surface, as I reel it in. I think, "Me and mine won't go hungry tonight." My thought feels primal, almost prehistoric somehow, even though I have an ice chest filled with food and a cardboard box stuffed with dry goods and soups back at the campsite. "I caught my own dinner, and Nala and I will get fresh trout tonight," I think in a slow baritone inside my head.

But I have jumped ahead of myself while I reel.

I catch another glimpse of the fish, a lengthwise view, and I am surprised and elated: it isn't a young stock trout, it is a big lake trout. Maybe two or three pounds of trout, maybe four. It would fill two people easily.

I discover I have been holding my breath, and I exhale a gasp and inhale sharply while I try to get the big fish to shore and netted before I lose it. I proudly haul the fish in fast, sliding it across the last barrier of rocks and up out of the lake. I step gently on the trout's side, deftly unseat the hook in the side of its mouth, and with one swift motion I slip one of the large metal clasps of the stringer line quickly through one gill, fasten it, and hold the line up high so I can get a good look at my catch. I realize I didn't even bother with the net. I reacted instinctively, calm and cool outside, yet dancing with glee, happy, inside.

As I hold the stringer up, a man on the dam hollers out and asks what I caught. I reply with a smile in my voice, "A good-sized speckled...(pause)...dinner." I see a couple of appreciative nods from the few scattered men still seated at this end of the lake. The rest of the lake appears deserted and only a handful of us diehards are still fishing. I widen my awareness, and I realize it is past dusk and rapidly getting dark. Although it is still early by my watch, the sun has set beyond the horizon and night is nigh. I feel content as I haul my catch back to my campsite with Nala trotting alongside. The rush of adrenalin has receded, and I know that I will sleep well tonight, a deep restful sleep that can't be had down in the hot dry Valley.

I resolve to gut, clean and cook the fish fast and efficiently at the water's edge. I start a pot of coffee percolating over one of the Coleman burners, and then I get the fish ready for cooking. I sprinkle it liberally with lemon pepper, stuff it with lemon slices and pats of butter, and then I fold it into foil with pats of cold butter and fresh lemon slices on top. Once the fish is cooking, I pour myself a cup of coffee and sit in my camp chair watching the night come into full bloom. Fifteen minutes later it is almost pitchblack as I light my lantern and check on my dinner. I decide not to cook pasta or rice as there is so much trout, but to just sit there, peaceful and humble, and eat soft buttered bread with hot, fresh, lemony trout.

My dog "woofs" at something I can't perceive, and then woofs again. Her hair bristles on her back and she stands alert, "pointing" out into the night. I wonder briefly if it might be a nearby bear. The lake is virtually deserted this time of year, with snow still on the ground; I believe no other campers are here. I still remember the time her mother chased off a bear in the same area four or five years ago, though, so I remind myself to hang my trash in a tree after flinging the fish skeleton far over to the water's edge, or, hopefully, into it.

Once I am full, I pick the bones out of the rest of the fish and feed the meat to Nala in fingerfuls. It is a nice pink trout, salmonlike. A rare treat for a dog, any dog, and Nala enjoys the fresh trout so much she covers my fingers in drool. She finishes off the trout, and I wipe my fingers dry on a paper towel and smile. I tell Nala she's a good girl as I clean up the campsite and hang the trash. I feel proud that I fed my catch to another, to be a provider for myself and my pet, but I feel a small tug of sadness because I realize that it would be nice to share the fish, and this moment, with a human friend, too. I carry the remnants of the trout over to the lake and rinse my hands in the lake's icy water. I fill a pot with water and soak the dishes, leaving them yards away from my tent. I am at peace with myself, my pet, the world.

I decide to build a small fire outside my tent in a pit about eight feet away. I heat some water on a grate propped across some large rocks around the fire pit, and I steep some chamomile tea. I drop in a saved lemon slice and then sip unhurriedly as I watch the dancing flames, warmed by the fire in the thin cold air, calm as it dies down to embers. When the embers start to wink out, I look skyward and notice the night is now lighted by a full moon. It is the first time I realize that I timed my visit well, although accidentally, to coincide with the full moon on a clear perfect weekend. The night is so bright, I can easily walk around in the dark without aid once my eyes adjust. I imagine that this is the kind of night that Native Americans would have chosen for night travel, a clear night with a full moon like this one, and I grow still gazing out over the water thinking sadly of civilizations past, cultures gone.

I stand up abruptly, reactively, as I see a large, dark shape swoop low and fast across the water. Then I hear a rustle of leaves somewhere across the lake just before an echoing hoot breaks the silence like a thunderclap.

It is the first time I have heard a hoot owl in real life. My heart leaps excitedly, like a child's. My eyes water with the beauty of the moment and the loss I feel that so many people will never know this simple joy: a hoot owl's solo cry on a still moonlit night by a pristine lake. My inner joy is tempered with awareness of the tragedy of nature destroyed across our country, the many incarnations of plant and animal life, unknown or unheeded, that are already lost to the world. I am thankful that there are pockets of nature left like this lake and these woods, but too few I feel, too few.

With the crackle of the fire gone and in the silence following the hoot owl's cry, I realize that what I now "hear" is a silence like in those annoying ear-testing booths: absolute silence. Ear-ringing silence. Disorienting silence. Not a rustle in the trees, not the lap of lake water upon the shoreline, not even a  cricket...nothing.

Then the hoot owl calls once again.

The cry echos across the lake with such reverberation that I am not certain where the owl actually is or from which direction the sound came. I think it is to my left across the lake, somewhere in the tree line, but I am not sure. The echo could be tricking me, especially after the complete absence of noise.

I stop and revel in this rare moment: me and my dog alert and listening, our senses straining to perceive the slightest sound. I am amazed by the unaccustomed silence and awestruck by the poignant beauty of the owl's cry. Suddenly I realize, as I stare at the moonlight sparkling off the water, that silent tears are running down my cheeks. I look upward and see myriad stars like flickering candles in the brisk clear air, their light refracting in my tears and the moon hanging like a huge spotlight suspended in the night sky overhead. The milky way is bright and obvious like I haven't seen it since I was a kid, and I cry. I stand joyous, honored, and filled with emotion: one person witnessing the beauty of a perfect moment.

Then we, my dog and I, again share the night with the hoot owl, and this time the owl's unexpected call seems to be speaking especially to me.

"Whoo hooo, whoo hoo hooo."

And I whisper, "Hello, hello to you too..."

I sigh deeply, wishing I never had to return to the crowded Valley. I am thankful that the government thought this land was a consolation prize for the Apaches, because it is truly beautiful. I know it remains undeveloped solely because it is theirs. I thank them in my mind, sending them a mental blessing for letting me experience the treasure of this undeveloped wilderness; of the night sky without artifical lights; of the air without man-made sounds; of clean water with healthy, edible trout. I am serene with my companions - the hoot owl, and my faithful mastiff, Nala.

I crawl slowly into my sleeping bag inside the tent and Nala loyally follows, as always. She circles beside me and plops to my right. I angle myself so that I can look out the open tent flap, out across the water, so that when I awaken in the morning I will see the dawn of a glorious new day as it caresses Hawley Lake. It occurs to me, unexpectedly, that I left the book and towels lying in the hammock. I promptly decide that a little dew won't really hurt them, and I shrug away the thought. My mind returns to the memory of fresh trout, and I know the fish will really be jumping at dawn - and so should my fishing pole. Yes...fresh trout and fried eggs sound like just the breakfast for me and my gal. I drift off with that thought lingering in my mind, smiling, and I vaguely hear the hoot owl's song once more as if already a part of my dream or from very, very far off in the distance. And then, following the example set by the canine companion beside me, I curl into a peaceful, contented, deep sleep.

Today has been a good day.