There once was a man who loved to fish. He had a favorite lake that only he and a few others knew. The fish in this lake, primarily rainbow trout and an occasional brook trout, were fairly large and fairly plentiful. The man fished his lake whenever he could. Of course, it was not really "his" lake, but he liked to think of it as such and also didn't mind those few others who also fished the lake to consider it "their" lake.
The man's lake was high in the mountains and deep in the wilderness, which, he felt, was why so few others had discovered it. There was no road to the lake—only a trail, and his lake marked the end of the trail. You needed to walk for more than an hour from the road's end to reach his lake, and only those people interested in serious fishing ever bothered. This situation, of course, was fine with the man.
On his way to fish, as he drove toward the trail head, the man would smile and wave to those fishers who lined the shores of the rivers and man-made lakes with planted fish. (His lake was natural, and he was certain his fish were native.) Occasionally, the man would even stop and visit with these fishers, wetting his line alongside of them. He did this both to be sociable and to help maintain his perspective concerning how great his lake really was. Although, over time, he got to know a number of these fishers by name, in a way, he felt sorry for them. If they knew about his lake, they would not be satisfied with the inferior fishing he knew they currently enjoyed. But he didn't want more company at his lake, so he would smile to himself and drive on. He was a happy fisher; life was good.
Every so often, another fisher would appear over the far, trailless ridge, with a fishing rod strapped to the side of a large backpack, headed for the trail and for civilization. And again, every so often, a fisher would appear on the trail, rod also strapped to the side of a large backpack, who would bypass the lake and proceed over the trailless ridge. Occasionally, some of the ridge-bound fishers would stop and fish with the man for a while, and they seemed to enjoy the experience. But, after an hour or so, all would strap their rods back onto their packs, wish the man continued luck, and trudge on over the trailless ridge.
The man was curious about what lay beyond the ridge, and, when he felt he was not intruding, he asked the fishers who stopped to fish and visit. Although most were rather tightlipped, a few spoke more openly and told the man about other lakes—many of them—that were over the ridge and higher up the mountain. No trail led to these lakes, but the fishing in them was the best they had ever experienced. There, they caught brook trout, large ones, sometimes 3 and 4 lbs, and golden trout, which, of course, were never found at these lower elevations.
The man thought often of following these high-lake fishers, to see if their stories were true. He had never caught a 2-lb brook trout from his lake, much less a 4-lb one, and although he had heard of golden trout, he had never seen one. But, whenever tempted, the man convinced himself he had no time—or, rather, that time taken to investigate the higher lakes would be time lost from fishing his own lake.
Then, one morning, having arrived at his lake early, as he sat leaning against a large rock waiting for the sun to rise, the man experienced a moment of keen insight. He realized that he was being as close-minded about the higher lakes as the fishers who fished the man-made lakes were about his lake. He understood why most fishers who trudged over the ridge were tightlipped; they didn't want him to know about "their" lakes. And, yet, the few more talkative fishers had said that there were many of them.
The man stood, feeling decisive. He told himself that he was not close-minded but, rather, always sought for and accepted change for the good. Today, he would walk over the trailless ridge and would find and fish those lakes. He had the entire day. If he started now, he reasoned, and walked until noon, he would still have plenty of time to hike out to the trail head by sunset.
Exhilarated, the man shouldered the day pack with his fishing gear and lunch, picked up his rod, and started for the notch in the ridge through which he had seen the other fishers pass. The ascent was steep but not as difficult as he had thought. In less than three hours, he was well over the ridge, looking into a small basin bound by another ridge at its far end. In the basin were three small lakes. The man moved carefully over the rocks toward the lowest of the three. In 30 minutes, he had reached the lake, and, in another 5, he was fishing. Working hard to contain his excitement, the man wondered whether his first fish would be a 4-lb brook or a golden trout. With effort, he reminded himself that he must be patient. Fishers must always be patient.
By late morning, the man had caught two fish, a 1-lb brook trout from each of the first two lakes. Because the fish were the same size he was accustomed to catching in his own lake, the man had carefully released each of them. He was now fishing the highest of the three lakes in the basin.
As he fished, the man admitted to himself that disappointment was replacing his earlier excitement. Not wanting to be negative, though, he tried to relax and again sought patience. He continued to fish but, by early afternoon, had caught and released only two more fish, again both average-sized brook trout.
After releasing the last fish, the man set his fishing gear aside. In a rush, his patience deserted him, and disappointment gave way to smoldering anger. He had been deceived! The "higher lakes" and their fabulous fishing were bunk. The fish here were no more special than in the lake he had fished for years—his lake. The joke was on him. Very funny! He spat on the ground. Was there no honor among fishers?
The man dug his lunch from his day pack. He would eat and then hike quickly back to his lake. He could probably still get in a good hour of fishing before needing to start back toward the trail head. And, because it was his lake, he knew just where the fish would be biting.
The man wolfed down his sandwich and was reaching for an apple when he heard voices and saw two fishers, each carrying a large pack, making their way up from the middle lake. He grabbed his gear and retreated up the hill. Shame tinged his anger; he did not want to be seen. They might even recognize him and would laugh at his having been hoodwinked. He hid behind a large boulder.
The fishers trudged past, not far from where the man was hiding, toward the upper ridge. They quietly spoke to each other, and the only words the man was certain he heard were something about reaching their lake by sundown. Then, they were gone.
The man quickly packed his fishing equipment and hurried toward the lower ridge. Two hours later, he again leaned against the rock where he had waited for the sun to rise and, patiently, with an edge of excitement, watched a good-sized rainbow trout rise toward the fly he had gently placed in the shallows. His anger was gone. Learning, he reasoned, can sometimes be painful. But that was all behind him. All things considered, he was a happy fisher. He sat back and smiled.