[Paddlewise] Too Good To Miss

My internal alarm seems to be set to wake up at the same time every day,
even if it's Saturday. It's getting to the time of the year where it gets
light late. When daylight savings time goes off in a couple weeks, it'll be
lighter in the morning at this hour, but get dark that much earlier, too
early for after work paddles.

I almost roll over and go back to sleep, but a glance out the window
reveals that there's a trace of light out there; the neighbor's mercury
vapor lamp across the way is fuzzy, revealing a heavy fog. With the season
growing short, though, it's too good an opportunity to miss, even through
the warmth of the bed is almost unbearably appealing. So, I get up and get
dressed, and go though the automatic morning routine.

Outside, I discover that it's almost pleasantly warm, in spite of the chill
and the damp. I get in the van and head for the convenience store, driving
slowly through the fog and the murky glass, waiting for the defroster to at
least clear that much up. It's quiet up at the store; Denise is chattering
with the new girl, who I don't really know yet. As she takes the money for
my coffee, she asks, "Going kayaking again, huh?"

"Yeah," I reply. "It's too good a morning to miss." She looks at me a
little funny -- but we've long established that my definition of a good
morning is different from hers. Back home again, this time to hook up the
trailer with the kayak on it, and on down to familiar old Lake Hudson --
too familiar, perhaps; I've been there an awful lot, this summer. But this
morning, I know will be different. I take it easy on the back road heading
down to the place; the fog is awful thick, and this time of year, with
bowhunters out, the deer will be up and moving. I've seen several deer out
at this hour the last few days, but this morning, fortunately, I see none.

The defroster, and later, the heater, have made the van comfortable, so as
I get out to offload the boat, it seems a touch chilly. Maybe I'll wear my
jacket after all, I decide; I can always take it off if it gets to be too
much later. Unstrapping the boat and carrying it down to the water goes
quickly and automatically; I'm really more interested in the lake and the
water.

By now, the sun should be rising, but there's no hint of it in the moist
tendrils of gray surrounding me. I can't even see the shore on the far side
of the launch cove, less than a hundred yards off. The shore on either side
of the launch fades quickly into indistinct darkness, then nothing,
converting this almost too familiar place into a strange and eerie mystery.

It only takes a couple minutes to park the van and trailer. I set the
coffee cup down on the shore, right in the edge of the water, and carefully
get in the boat. I settle into the seat, snap the paddle together, and with
a little help from it to balance, reach out, grab the coffee, and set it
down between my knees. A couple strokes with the paddle, and I'm backing
away from the dark and misty shore. A few more strokes, and I've swung
around, pointing off into the featureless dim gray. A glance at the dock at
the boat launch gives me a course to follow, and in a few seconds I can see
the dark loom of the far shore, not far away. There's a shallow spot I know
lies just up ahead, and I really don't want to run into it, so I turn
parallel to the dark undefined shore and paddle until it begins to fade
away, then make a turn to get around the point.

The turn brings me out just about where I want to be, with the little trees
along the shoreline just defined enough to be trees, rather than just dark
shapes. I take a few more strokes along the shoreline, and see some dark
spots up ahead. Great, Skybuster has to be out here hunting ducks in this
murk. He has a blind set up right where, in better conditions, a lot of
boat traffic has to pass fairly close to the point, and then he gets upset
if someone comes within half the lake of him. There are plenty of other
places where he could be and not get bothered very much, and it's not like
there are any ducks flying in this murk.

But, to avoid him, it's time for some instrument kayaking. I glance at the
compass, to get a base course, then make a radical turn to the left. 300
degrees ought to be about right, I guess. I could do this on a time and
distance, but my watch is buried under the sleeve of my jacket and I don't
want to dig around to uncover it, so I just settle for counting a hundred
paddle strokes. By the time I've got that done, I turn to the north for
another hundred easy strokes, and I know that should put me well past him.
I look around, and there's no sign of the shore, or of anything much else.
No horizon -- just dark water that somehow turns indefinably light. I turn
to the east, trying to paddle quietly for another 200 strokes, then turn to
150 degrees. That course will bring me back into contact with the shore
sooner or later, so I don't bother counting strokes, and just try to keep
my mind on where I'm going. I find I have to concentrate on the compass, or
I'll wander off course. I can hold a compass course a little better with
the rudder down, I know, but there's no need for a rudder on this dead
calm, moist and foggy morning.

Sure enough, after a while, the dim gray ahead of me begins to turn dark,
and I know the shore is up there. In a few moments more, I can make out a
particular big tree that stands where the shore turns away a little, so
adjust my course to stay within sight of shore across this little bight.

The fog has thicker spots and thinner ones, and one of the thicker ones is
right along the beach, so I find myself having to run right up close to
shore to keep sight of it. And, once past the beach, I stay right up close
to shore since I know there's a snag out here not far ahead, and I'll be
coming at it at a bad angle. After a couple minutes, I see it become
distinct, a black spot almost hidden in the dark water and the gray, but
comfortably to the left. With it past, I let myself get a little farther
away from shore, still close enough to let the darkness fade into some
degree of distinctness. It's with a little relief that I see the shoreline
to my right fade away into gray; I turn into the middle of the gray patch,
and, as expected, find myself in the middle of the drowned channel that
once held the stream that feeds the lake. Now, I've got visible shore on
both sides of me, and I can paddle along without bushwhacking, although the
dim light and the limited visibility makes the place seem strange and
foreign. 

I follow the channel for a ways, around a hard bend, and most of the way
along a long straight, scaring up a heron in the process. His big
prehistoric pterodactyl-like wings thrust him into the air, and he mutters
away into the grayness. Before long, the channel begins to shallow. In good
light, I could follow it a bit farther, but I don't want to get too heroic
in these conditions, so I slow, turn the boat around -- it requires backing
-- and decide to see how the coffee is coming. I take a long sip and look
back down the channel, it's far end lost in the drippy distance.

After a minute, caffeine urges quenched, I begin to paddle again, trying to
not think about mundane things or the chores left to do today, but to
impress the strangeness and the wonder of this morning on me. In a few
minutes, I'm getting back out to the open, gray expanse of the lake. Before
I head out into it, I take another sip of coffee, then turn right to
parallel the shore a ways out.

Once I'm comfortable with my direction, I take a compass course -- there's
a small cove here I don't want to bother going into not far ahead, and the
fog seems thick here, so I want to be sure of having a base course that
will bring me out on the other side, rather than out into the lake proper
-- not that it would be a big deal if that did happen, since this is a
small enough lake and I know it well enough that any steady compass course
would bring me out someplace where I'd know where I was. But still, it's
fun and interesting to have to be more careful with my navigation than
normal, just to be able to find my way around this familiar place.

In fact, I do lose sight of the shore in any direction for a ways, but try
to stick close to that base course I set earlier. But now, my mind is
wandering a little, and so is my course; before long, I notice that I've
wandered off it a bit. I work to pull myself back onto it, and finally
notice the darkness of the shore again in the edge of vision. I turn to try
and parallel it, but even holding a steady course along this straight
shore, it seems to slip in and out of vision, making me wonder about how
straight I'm paddling. Finally I realize that the fog is really thick and
patchy here, and the realization is reinforced by the speed with which an
indistinct tree goes by -- I can't be much more than twenty or thirty yards
off shore, and I can barely see it! 

The next half mile is touch and go, familiar landmarks looming quickly out
of the fog. Finally, at one particular little point, the shore curves away
to the right into another wide cove. Rather than follow the shore, and a
little upset with myself at my woolgathering the last time I tried to
follow a compass course, I turn twenty degrees to the left to pick up a
course that I know will bring me out on the far side, and concentrate on
holding it. It works, this time; in a few minutes, the dark of the next
shore is coming up. I ease to the left a little, to the point where the
darkness gets indistinct, and work my way closer to shore. 

In the distance, I hear a shot, then another, and another. It's the wrong
direction for Skybuster, I know, but there were enough trailers in the
parking lot when I arrived that  some of the other duck blinds around the
lake have to be occupied.

This point is at the back of a fairly large bay, and I follow it around
until I'm heading back more or less to the east again. I look up, and
realize that there's more light up there -- the sun is getting well up,
now, and there are some thin spots overhead where you can almost make out
blue sky. Still, fog is rising off the water in limpid tendrils as I pass
them by. I know that this is roughly halfway, so I check my watch -- just
an hour from when I started, reasonable, since I'm not paddling hard.

Sure enough, things are thinning out -- I must be able to see a couple
hundred yards by now. By the time I'm half a mile farther on, I can see
enough landmarks at one time that I'm no longer having to bushwhack my way
along the shore, and I can pick out a distant point and paddle my way
toward it.

Now there are things to see. Not far ahead, there's a dead tree, and it's
filled with turkey vultures. There's a huge flock that gathers on one of
the points of the lake not far away, and there are a lot of birds damply
huddling on the bare limbs. I slow my pace and turn to get a count -- 44,
in this one rather small tree, and I'm sure I'll see more. Over the next
few minutes, I do -- another tree, much the same size, with ten, another
with 25, another with 15, yet another with 18. By the time I'm past the
buzzard roosts, I'm out into the west end of the lake. This is the smallest
and quietest part, consisting of several bays. 

Tired of running with everything on my right, I take this opportunity to
follow the left shore for a ways. After a quarter mile, I can see decoys on
the water, and a poorly camouflaged boat along the shore. Unfortunately,
he's in a place where I'd have to go right past him to get into one of the
bays, so I decide to give it a pass this morning, and turn toward the more
distant one. I get up near the turn into the other bay, and hear another
series of shots, so realize that there has to be a duck hunter out there,
too, and probably  in the blind right at the tight spot in the bay. Oh,
well, time for a break, and really, time to be thinking about getting on
with the chores that have to be done today in the annual hassle of getting
ready for winter.

I swing the boat around and get set to paddle back across to the entrance
to the western section. My coffee has been untouched for a while, and I
decide I'd better do something about it. There's still a trace of warmth
there, and I polish it off while I can. 

By now, the fog has lifted so I can see half a mile or more, and the sun is
breaking through the high overcast. All of a sudden, it gets bright, and
I'm heading right into it, the damp brim of my hat, the rim glistening with
sunlit dewdrops pulled low over my eyes until the sun slips back behind a
cloud. As I look up, I can hear a funny whistling sound. "Funny sounding
duck call," I think, until I realize that it's in the sky and moving. I
glance up; no duck call this, but a mute swan flying over. Many lakes
around here have swans, and they're something of a pest. I have no idea why
we have no nesting pairs on this lake, but suppose that sooner or later
we'll have them. Still, I've often been impressed by their powerful flight. 

I paddle back past the buzzard roosts. Most of the birds are still hunched
over, seemingly miserably damp, but a few have spread their wings to try to
have what little sunlight there is dry them out some. A few of the birds
have taken to the air, and my attention is drawn to them -- perhaps a
little too much, for as I round a corner, I'm surprised by a doe and two
fawns standing in the water, obviously getting set to swim across the
narrow channel. Instantly, I stop paddling, and all three deer stare at
this funny apparition that's come out of nowhere. The doe looks at me for a
moment, and decides that to a deer, discretion is the only part of valor.
She splashes out of the water, the two half-year-old fawns following. I
watch as they scramble up the steep bank and disappear into the deep woods
along the shore.

By now, it's the last lap, and my mind is more on what I've got to do
today, but rather than just heading straight across to the landing, I
decide to continue to follow the shore the rest of the way back -- it's
only another half mile or so. As I draw into the campground area, I see a
woman sitting in a lawn chair, fishing pole in hand, bobber out in front of
her, a cooler at her side with a coffee cup sitting on top. "Looks like
you're set for the day," I say as I get close enough to talk.

"Sure am," she says. "There aren't going to be many more like this."

"No," I agree. "That front that's coming through tonight looks like it's
bringing winter along with it."

"We decided we had to get out one last weekend while it's nice," she said
as I begin to pass her.

"Same here," I said. "You have a good one." I paddled on, and a few minutes
later, was back up at the launch, after a nice, peaceful, fascinating
paddle on a place that in a way for once wasn't the familiar old lake.
Winter is coming, and it won't be long now, but this will be a good trip to
remember on the days that the kayak is up on the rack for the winter and
I'll be watching the snow blow by, waiting for an eventual springtime.

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