[Paddlewise] Foggy morning

The willow tree was dripping steadily from the droplets of water condensing
out of the heavy fog, making ringlets in the still water and wet spots on
the seat of my kayak. The fog had been thick as I drove to the launch site,
perhaps a tenth of a mile, perhaps less, and it had been a slow, careful
drive. Even now, I couldn't see the familiar shore on the far side of the
little cove, the site of so many launchings over the years.

The first morning of Labor Day weekend. "Campground full," the sign at the
gatehouse read, and I could see the dim shapes of a couple of shore
fishermen as I slid silently away from the sandbank next to the boat
launch. The sound of my paddle seemed irritatingly loud as I dug in,
getting the boat out away from the shore and up to speed. I was in
something of a hurry; the morning fog that we had experienced the last
couple of days had burnt off early, and there was every reason to think
that it would today, as well. We don't often get a heavy fog around here at
a time that I can paddle, and I wanted to experience what it was like.
Knowing the small lake well made it a perfect place to find out.

There was just enough of a northeast breeze to put little ripples on the
water as I headed out of the launch cove, the compass far up on the deck
reading "27" -- a good enough course to get me out onto the lake. In the
middle of the cove, I could just make out a dark shoreline to either side,
a large clump of trees to my right marking its end. I kept paddling west
for a ways, until the clump of trees was lost, then turned northwest, to
get farther out onto the lake. Quietly, all of the shoreline cues
disappeared into the warm mist, and I was surrounded by a limp gray dome
perhaps a couple of hundred yards across. 

I paddled that course for a while, far enough, I hoped, that I would put
the point where the lake bent away to the east out of sight, then turned to
a heading of 60 degrees, aiming for a point a mile or so away on the lake's
inlet channel. Once upon a time, I used to be a pilot with an instrument
rating, so I had some experience with navigating without ground reference,
old though the experience was. The light breeze and the ripples on the lake
did give me some cues, though, but I kept wandering off course to the
right, probably the effect of the wind on the bow having something to do
with it. To see if I could stabilize the course, I turned around and
dropped the rudder into the water, and that seemed to help, although I had
to keep scanning the compass every few seconds to make sure that I stayed
on course. 

I checked my watch, and noted from experience that at the speed I was
going, I ought to be getting close to the inlet in ten minutes or so. I
mentally kicked myself for sleeping so late on a weekend day -- it would
have been more interesting to have had more time to deal with the fog. Even
now, I could tell that it was more light to the east than to the west, the
effects of the sun peeking through, and I was guessing that the fog
wouldn't last long.

Sure enough, in ten minutes or so, there began to be a little darkness
along the level of the horizon in front of me, and in a minute or two, it
materialized into the bluff to the south of the channel I was seeking. My
wanderings off course to the right had brought me out fifty or a hundred
yards to the right of where I had wanted to come out. Still, I couldn't
complain, since I hadn't been sure of the exact course that I had needed,
anyway.

I turned away from the solace of the shore, and back into the gray
nothingness of the lake. Now, with the breeze more or less on the other
side and a little behind, I still felt something of a tendancy to be blown
off course, but as I paddled back the way I had come, I soon realized that
it wouldn't matter much, for a dim yellow ball of morning sun could be seen
over my shoulder, and the visibility was rising. Through thin spots I could
see a hint of blue sky, and before long, I could see the dark loom of the
familiar shoreline at each end of the lake. By the time I rounded the
point, visibility was up to half a mile, and it was warming up quickly. I
thought about throwing the boat back onto the trailer, since it was going
to get hot and humid quickly, but decided that since I was out I might as
well head on out to the far end of the lake, just to see what was out there
on this still morning. 

Near the narrow entrance to the western section of the lake, at a place I
call "Buzzard Point" a couple of dead trees and some of the surrounding
live ones were filled with Turkey Vultures -- I could count fifty, and
expected that there were more back in the branches that I couldn't see.
Many of the birds had their wings half spread, to try and dry out in the
dim light of the sun. I once had a cup of coffee with the elderly man that
had once owned the land here, and he told me that the buzzards had been
hanging out there as long as he could remember, long before it had been a
lake. 

As I entered the western section of the lake, I was greeted with an
unfamiliar sight -- as if a high bluff had grown there overnight. Blinking,
I realized that it was just a familiar reed bed and the brush behind it,
but lit brilliantly by the morning sunlight through a hole in the fog. On
the far side of this part of the lake, I came around a corner, to find a
spread of goose decoys and a canoe pulled up in the weeds. Early goose
season started yesterday, and I hadn't seen any geese this morning -- in
fact, hadn't seen any on the lake in a month or more -- so took a minute to
talk with the hunters, who I remembered from last year. Nothing doing, they
told me, but admitted it had been a real interesting trip out to the blind
in their canoe in the fog before dawn.

The sun had pretty well broken through by now, and it wasn't really foggy
any more -- just what I'd call "hazy." I turned around and headed back to
the launch, taking it easy,   knowing that it was going to be really
uncomfortable after it warmed up some more. Now able to see where I was
going, it was a familiar trip back. Along the way, I saw some strange
looking birds on the water, but they proved to be comorants when I got
closer. It's still a while before the flyways will be filled with the fall
migration, but it's something to look forward to. A few minutes later, the
boat was sitting on the sand of the launch again. The willow tree was still
dripping as I went to get the van and trailer.

-- Wes


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