[Paddlewise] October sunset

Ever since the first of April, I've often come home from work, hooked up
the kayak trailer, and headed out for an hour or so on the water. As
October has progressed, sunset keeps getting earlier, so it's something of
a rush to get in an hour on the lake before sunset. Today was the last work
day before daylight savings time ends, and with it, the last chance for the
routine after-work paddles until next spring.

At least it was a fine evening. It was warm, in the seventies, and with the
water temperature in the fifties, a clear sky with some scattered cirrus,
and a gentle, dying breeze, it was about as nice a day as could be asked for.

I was nearly alone on the lake, except for a couple of familiar fishermen,
trolling endlessly for the lake's trophy muskies. Even considering the low
hum of their motors, the lake seemed strangely quiet as I headed for the
far end once again.This is a hunting lake, so the ducks and geese have gone
elsewhere, and so have the hunters. The turkey vultures, which for months
thrilled me with their soaring flight in huge flocks, have also left for
warmer climates, and the herons have left, too. About the only bird to
strike my vision was a lone comorant that flashed by overhead.

The color season is over with. Virtually all the leaves are down, except
for the dark brown of the oaks and the greenish yellows of a few shoreside
willows, and the woods seem stangely transparent, for I could look deep
into them to see hills that have been hidden by green since May. The water,
while always murky and never transparent, seems empty as well, for the riot
of weeds and grasses and lily pads have also pretty much taken their leave,
as well. The drought we've had this fall also helped to make the lake lay
bare its secrets; the water is down a foot or more since last spring,
exposing shorelines and rocks and gravel beds that are usually hidden in
the dark waters.

About halfway to the far end of the lake, there was one strong puff of
wind, and then it died out to a flat calm. In only a few minutes the water
was glassy, and once I got around the point I could no longer hear the
outboards of the trollers. A few leaves littered the quiet surface of the
lake; I tried to pick my way through them the best I could, for the square
bow of my kayak will often pick them up, making a bubbling noise that can
get irritating quickly.

As low as the water was, I knew there was no point in trying to go out to
my favorite spot on the lake, for I knew I'd never make it across the sand
bar at the mouth of the bay. A month ago, I'd checked out the water depth
there, and found birds walking around on the exposed mudflat. Although
earlier in the month we had enough rain to allow me to get back in there
again, it's back down, now. Instead of trying to get in the bay, I decided
to head for another nearby bay, a little deeper, one that, for some reason,
I rarely head into.

The water in the bay was like glass, and the stillness was appreciated
after a busy day. The only sound that really broke the consciousness was
the grinding road of a combine working on some soybeans in the far
distance, and the rustle of dry leaves where a squirrel or two was
thrashing around. A bass jumped, breaking my reverie, and then another. To
the west, the sun was sinking low, and I knew I had to be getting back.

As the golden orb of the sun sank in a pinkish glow, I took my time heading
back across the glassy water; I knew that this was the last of my
after-work paddles for the year, the century, the millennium, and April
seems far away. There will be other times out before April -- in fact, some
of the better times, when flocks of migrating ducks and geese cluster in
the thousands, but that's still a ways off, when the water and the sky get
cold and everything turns a shade of gray. But that'll have to be on
weekends, and it will be a special event, not just a routine after-work
paddle.

-- Wes

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