It had been over a week. Job, travel, household chores, and lethargy conspired to keep me off the water. A session sealing the canopy to the pickup bed seemed successful, so I rewarded myself with a solo Sunday paddle. Toss the gear in the truck, hitch the yak up top and lash down. Like those rollers. Dodge the Easter hats and blue suits at the Pig and Pancake to load up on comfort food. Down the road and east. Lots of skunk cabbage -- western Oregon's spring flower -- monster crocus. Wet suit, turtle neck, fleece, dry top, souwester, sheesh! these clothes have shrunk! Shuffle past the dog poop and slide into the water. No, let's wait in the truck until this storm cell passes over. Slushy rain/hail all over. Pogies on and push off. Cold and a little windy. Tons of scaups all over, frightened cormorants, and one random heron. Nobody else out here but the freighters and chip barges, scuttling up and down the channel. A short mile later, I'm weaving past decayed piles, relics of long-gone Finns and Swedes who ran seine nets up on the sand, draft horses heaving as they hauled a bight of web full of silvery flipping salmon. Ghosts leak from the gnawed and eroded tops, whispering in my ear, nudging me closer to the sandy beaches. Chop thumping the steep beach wets my feet as I hit the shore, tie off to a whipped and beaten alder, and cadge food and water from the cockpit. Another slushy storm cell, windy and rude, gooses along the bank, shuddering exposed root balls and alder bases, some nursing themselves from a buried log. The dredge spoils are slowly being reclaimed, with a cacophony of grey/tan/olive drab mosses and lichens. Richest crop ever out here, a legacy to plentiful rain and coolness, slathering the ground with abstract patterns and fractal shapes. Here's where we camped six years ago, in August, overheating, on a downriver thrust. More wind, so I hide behind a newly-exposed log. These dredge spoils are returning to the channel, a half a mile distant, sneaking back under the hulls of upriver traffic, a full employment program for Corps dredges. Scoot down the bank, hunching along the sand with knuckles down, hoping to get a dry launch. Wind at the back, slow surfing and scattering paired geese, turn the corner and seek out that odd passage for a different return. No one at the ramp now, either. Only me and the rain and the wind and the ducks and the slugs and the slush. Slow drive back on convoluted dike roads, past flooded fields dotted with confused geese and the odd cow or llama, with a pause for minimart coffee sludge to warm up. Easter Sunday paddle, my own resurrection. -- Dave Kruger Astoria, OR *************************************************************************** PaddleWise Paddling Mailing List Submissions: paddlewise_at_lists.intelenet.net Subscriptions: paddlewise-request_at_lists.intelenet.net Website: http://www.gasp-seakayak.net/paddlewise/ ***************************************************************************
Dave, I'm not sure I should look forward to paddling in Oregon after reading this! ;-) Karen Dave Kruger wrote: > Wet suit, turtle neck, fleece, > dry top, souwester, sheesh! these clothes have shrunk! Shuffle past the > dog poop and slide into the water. No, let's wait in the truck until this > storm cell passes over. Slushy rain/hail all over. Pogies on and push > off. Cold and a little windy. Tons of scaups all over, frightened > cormorants, and one random heron. -- Karen Hancock San Clemente, CA magpi_at_access1.net 949/487-2602 *************************************************************************** PaddleWise Paddling Mailing List Submissions: paddlewise_at_lists.intelenet.net Subscriptions: paddlewise-request_at_lists.intelenet.net Website: http://www.gasp-seakayak.net/paddlewise/ ***************************************************************************
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