[Paddlewise] Christmas Eve

For the last several days, I have been watching the ice build up around the
shores of a nearby lake, and watching a flock of hundreds of geese huddle
in the shrinking puddle of open water. This morning it was cold, after
being clear much of last night and I wondered how they were doing, so I
decided to use the excuse of a run to the convenience store for a cup of
coffee to see how they were doing. I headed up the road in my van to the
sparkle of the overnight's light snow twinkling in the light of a cold
winter sun. 

As far as I could see, the lake was frozen over, but far out on the lake
there was a flock of what appeared to be hundreds of geese huddled
together, steam rolling off their body warmth. You'd think they'd fly off
to a warmer climate, and they're going to have to pretty soon, but they're
apparently hanging on in hopes of a thaw that will have to be a lot bigger
than the weatherman says is coming. 

I don't paddle the lake the geese were on very often, since there's no good
public access and it's surrounded with cottages, each with a couple of
jetskis at the dock in the warmer months. Coffee in hand, I decided to head
down to Lake Hudson, my regular kayaking grounds to see what was happening
there, if anything. 

Down at Lake Hudson, I pulled into the familiar driveway, to see the think
skin of the snow from the night before covering the road; in my rear view
mirror, I could see the wind wash from my van piling it in a complicated
skien of chaotic windthrows. My eye picks out a particular shiny spot, and
I wonder at how it can continue to throw the light at me as I change angles
in approaching it. How magical sunlight and snowflakes can be!

It was obvious that I was the first person to head into the lake today,
even though by now it was midmorning of another short winter's day. The
colors of the day were white and brown, with the blue of the sky overhead.
Off to sunward, I saw the shape of a large bird gliding between naked,
barren branches. It looked sort of like a hawk, but since I only saw a
silhouette, my bird identification was challenged. Whatever it was, it was
another bird that I would have thought would be off in a warmer climate,
soaking in the rays of a tropical sun, soaring over some beach crowded with
sunbathers, but it too must have had some reason to hang around and put up
with the cold of a Michigan winter, at least for a bit longer.

It was bleak down at the boat launch, the scene of many loadings and
unloadings over the years. There would be none today, for the lake was
covered with ice. There was the gray where stress fractures resulting from
the expansion of the ice when it froze shoved a little water out onto the
surface, enough to wet down the dusting of snow, but as a last gasp of hope
of open water, it wasn't much to think about. The ice was new enough that
there was no way I was going to walk out on it, although in the back of my
head I thought that I might like to take a hike out there later in the
winter, when the ice is thicker. Such a hike might reveal a few secrets
that are hard to discern from the seat of a kayak, but today wouldn't be
the day, either.

I could at least take a walk around the boat launch. I left the van
running; the heater isn't very good, and it could use all the help it would
get. A light breeze bit at my ears, and I pulled down the stocking cap that
I'd only started wearing this week. A mile off in the distance, I could see
the secret little spot that I call "The Narrows", where a channel leads to
the western part of the lake. Today, the western section was hidden, and
this time, it would remain so, since there'd be no trip down there, along
the ridge where the turkey vultures soar in the summers, no blue herons to
inspire by the grace of their flight, no geese -- not even a huddling flock
of diehards like I'd seen on the other lake earlier. There'd be no soft
putter of motors as fishermen trolled for the lake's lunker muskies, and no
dip of paddle in the water. Under it's hard, white blanket, the lake was
asleep for the winter.

The days and weeks until the lake wakes up seem endless, a near eternity
looming ahead. Over the last decade or so, we've had open water by the end
of February about half the time, but I've seen the ice remain until April,
too, so there's no safe way to make a prediction of how long I'll have to
wait, frustrated by nature's cycle. I make a mental note to take the
paddling gear out of the back of the van, where it's ridden regularly since
March. I have to have faith in the cycles of nature, in the wanderings of
the sun, that sooner or later the days will warm up, that the first sprigs
of green will appear, and that the geese will come back.

"Two months", I think. "Two months, and at least we'll be looking out of
it." I'm lying to myself, of course; it'll be more like three, or even
more, before I'll be able to get out with the kayak with any regularity.

I'm not really dressed for being out in the breeze, so I turn back to the
van, where the heater is struggling to pull ahead of the winter's cold. All
the holiday activities lie ahead, the dinners, the gifts, the family time.
It's a bright spot in a bleak period, when spring seems so far away.


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