Undisclosed

High up in the mountains, buried beneath the vast canopies of the country's forests, are the best freshwater fishing holes in the world. When the word gets out that there’s a new fishing spot, the lake, river, or stream becomes overcrowded and it can be devastating for many anglers. I had the privilege of exploring several different terrains when I was growing up. Whether I was climbing and clawing through the Catskill Mountains or gazing down the beaches of Long Island, I always kept my eyes open for a special fishing plot that I could claim as my own.

That place just happened to fall upon me one day during a bike ride. The land was state property, but no one ever kicked up a fuss at the occasional bike rider or hiker. Nestled deep in the abandoned woods and hidden by a canvas of autumn gold and summer green was a forgotten lake. A recent hurricane had ravaged the area. Fallen trees were everywhere. The thinned landscape allowed me to spot the lake for the first time. The place was more than I could have hoped for. It was home to me.

The land was old. Decrepit and aging roads weaved their way through a cornucopia of endless hills, waving fields, and aching forests. The area had once been home to many people. In the 1930s, houses and small factories were scattered throughout the area. The only access was across a single overpass. Huge steel gates kept out all traffic. Only bicyclers and a few hikers occasionally ventured past the gates and into the unknown.

On a patch of grass, beneath a grand weeping willow, I would sit and cast my line. The fishing was incredible. Nearly every day I would pull out record sized catches. Nobody believed my stories, but I wasn’t about to let just anyone in on my secret.

Upon arriving one afternoon, I found something quite wrong. The echoes hit me first. They were not native to any species that lived in the immediate area. I crept into my usual location and saw my worst fear… people. My secret was out. It was only a matter of time before the place became swarmed. And it did. I rarely had the lake to myself after that. Soon, I stopped going all together.

Within a year, the place was officially a state park. But it wasn’t just the lake; it was everything. Hundreds of acres were opened up to the public. The once abandoned roads became highways for four wheelers and dirt bikes. Fresh trails burned through the foundations of once existing houses and factories.

A year later I decided to go for a walk through my old sanctuary. I took in the memories with every fresh breath. My girlfriend and I would run through the abandoned apple orchards when we were younger. We’d lie beneath the trees until sundown and then we’d scare ourselves back home. But the orchards didn’t look the same anymore. The trees were now bare. The landscape was nothing short of raped. There were new clearings set up as camp sites. Trash littered the surrounding woods. After several hours of walking, I came upon my once admired lake.

As the leaves crackled at the swooping wind, I heard winter on the horizon. I sat on a bench and carved my initials into the back rest. I never went fishing at that lake again but I managed to find my way there on a regular basis. The fish were gone. The people were gone. New lakes had been discovered, and that lake quickly forgotten by many. I let the fresh air fill my lungs until my chest was about to explode. I spent the evening perched on that bench, admiring the pink sun as it drifted beneath the horizon, its beams grasping for air.

The last time I was visiting family in New York, I decided to take a walk through the park. I was amazed at how quickly the land consumed me. The orchards were beautiful again. Apples fell from the trees and rolled through my soul as I passed. The view from the ridge was just as gorgeous as it had ever been. I stared at an old familiar oak tree and the crooked heart and withering initials etched into it; a love from so long ago. When I had seen almost everything, I went home.