Pink. Fiberglass. Insulation. What's this stuff doing inside the cockpit of my main machine kayak? Oh, yeah, that big storm back in December with all the high winds. Must have released a bunch through the access panel to the attic, above the boat. Vacuum. Vacuum. Gotta be clean for the first paddle in ... ahhhh ... five months??!! Ooof. Those boats I saw yesterday on the float when I returned Surf Scoter to her trailer got me thinking about paddling. So, today I went. Aldrich Point, my fave launch spot hereabouts. Entry to the islands, to the main channel of the Columbia, twenty miles from the mouth. Stretch, reach, hump that boat over to the water. What's this funny bump under the neoprene? Must be too much pizza and beer. Oh, well, it all floats, no? A little breeze down the river as I slide the drytop on. At least that still fits. Slick, slick, slide, slide into the water. Move those muscles. Shit, this feels good! More fun than riding the random orbital sander express, or hooting along the epoxy wagon. Boat building is fun, sometimes mental work, but paddling is holistic food, for the mind, the body, the senses and the fingers. Across the channel to Tronsen, around its top, stroking down with the tail of the ebb, chasing scaups off the water, eyeballing herons on stumps. Nobody but me. All the duck hunters are gone, and it is freaking, stuff-busting, beautiful out here! Clear, open water, easy paddling, a few mild eddies to bridge, coasting along and checking out the inbound freighter and downbound tug, nattering at each other, "port to port, cap!" as they pass head to head, the odd small open skiff skittering like a water bug along the Washington shore, making that gnat noise. I slide ashore on Woody, my summer beach for noshing and sunning. In winter, it is a view spot for the other side, a mile distant, across calm, almost glassy water, windshields winking in the sun as fishers hunt ironheads over there. It is all in alders and second growth, concealing a hundred years of history, canneries gone, fish wheels disappeared, an entire small village bulldozed and burnt to make way for a log dump. One red-roofed set of old buildings a mile or two downstream still shines in the sun, where Chinese filleters, Slav gill netters, and Scandinavian oarsmen worked salmon runs in the early part of the twentieth century, a hit or miss way of life, with mortality an everyday reality. On my side, horses hauled seine nets onto the sands, so burly armed guys could toss big hogs (chinook salmon) into hoppers for the same canneries. This stuff is all gone, gone, gone, replaced by chi-chi float houses, decked out in fresh siding and blue-fluided Marine Sanitation Devices ... heaven forfend any human poop add to the huge volumes of otter, fish, nutria, and duck poop already here. A long-sunk ferry which used to ply the route from Astoria to Washington is under me as I glide by the float houses, each permitted and now a high value item for yuppies and the odd crawdad gatherer. The twigs quiver in the tide, and part when I move through them, geese scattering before me, swans and scaups and mallards making quiet noises in the distance, a panoply of satisfying, healing sounds. Better than any therapy at the hands of man. Kids toss rocks at pilings, squirting back and forth on their bikes along the dike on my return, to a deserted ramp, empty parking lot, bare beach, all slightly dented and scratched by the day's visitors, one intermittent mole route at tide's edge. Hope that guy can swim in there -- here comes the water! I'm done here, put back together, quieter, calmer, ready for rest. -- Dave Kruger Astoria, OR *************************************************************************** PaddleWise Paddling Mailing List - Any opinions or suggestions expressed here are solely those of the writer(s). You must assume the entire responsibility for reliance upon them. All postings copyright the author. Submissions: PaddleWise_at_PaddleWise.net Subscriptions: PaddleWise-request_at_PaddleWise.net Website: http://www.paddlewise.net/ ***************************************************************************
Pink. Fiberglass. Insulation. What's this stuff doing inside the cockpit of my main machine kayak? Oh, yeah, that big storm back in December with all the high winds. Must have released a bunch through the access panel to the attic, above the boat. Vacuum. Vacuum. Gotta be clean for the first paddle in ... ahhhh ... five months??!! Ooof. Those kayaks I saw yesterday on the float when I returned Surf Scoter to her trailer got me thinking about paddling. So, today I went. Aldrich Point, my fave launch spot hereabouts. Entry to the islands, to the main channel of the Columbia, twenty miles from the mouth. Stretch, reach, hump that boat over to the water. What's this funny bump under the neoprene? Must be too much pizza and beer. Oh, well, it all floats, no? A little breeze down the river as I slide the drytop on. At least that still fits. Slick, slick, slide, slide into the water. Move those muscles. Woof, this feels good! More fun than riding the random orbital sander express, or hooting along the epoxy wagon. Boat building is fun, sometimes mental work, but paddling is holistic food, for the mind, the body, the senses, and the fingers. Across the channel to Tronsen, around its top, stroking down with the tail of the ebb, chasing scaup off the water, eyeballing herons on stumps. Nobody but me. All the duck hunters are gone, and it is freaking, stuff-busting, beautiful out here! Clear, open water, easy paddling, a few mild eddies to bridge, coasting along and checking out the inbound freighter and downbound tug, nattering at each other, "port to port, cap!" as they pass head to head, the odd small open skiff skittering like a water bug along the Washington shore, making that gnat noise. I ease ashore on Woody, my summer beach for noshing and sunning. In winter, it is a view spot for the other side, a mile distant, across calm, almost glassy water, windshields winking in the sun as fishers hunt ironheads over there. It is all in alders and second growth, concealing a hundred years of history, canneries gone, fish wheels disappeared, an entire small village bulldozed and burnt to make way for a log dump. One red-roofed set of old buildings a mile or two downstream still shines in the sun, where Chinese filleters, Slav gill netters, and Scandinavian oarsmen worked salmon runs in the early part of the twentieth century, a hit or miss way of life, with mortality an everyday reality. On my side, horses hauled seine nets onto the sands, so burly armed guys could toss big hogs (Chinook salmon) into hoppers for the same canneries. This stuff is all gone, gone, gone, replaced by chi-chi float houses, decked out in fresh siding and blue-fluided Marine Sanitation Devices ... heaven forfend any human poop add to the huge volumes of otter, fish, nutria, and duck poop already here. A long-sunk ferry which used to ply the route from Astoria to Washington is under me as I glide by the float houses, each permitted and now a high value item for yuppies and the odd crawdad gatherer. The twigs quiver in the tide, and part when I move through them, geese scattering before me, swans and scaup and mallards making quiet noises in the distance, a panoply of satisfying, healing sounds. Better than any therapy at the hands of man. Kids toss rocks at pilings, squirting back and forth on their bikes along the dike on my return, to a deserted ramp, empty parking lot, bare beach, all slightly dented and scratched by the day's visitors, one intermittent mole route at tide's edge. Hope that guy can swim in there -- here comes the water! I'm done here, put back together, quieter, calmer, ready for rest. [Note to moderator: did not see this pop off the list server into my In Box. Changed one word. Maybe that will make a difference.] -- Dave Kruger Astoria, OR *************************************************************************** PaddleWise Paddling Mailing List - Any opinions or suggestions expressed here are solely those of the writer(s). You must assume the entire responsibility for reliance upon them. All postings copyright the author. Submissions: PaddleWise_at_PaddleWise.net Subscriptions: PaddleWise-request_at_PaddleWise.net Website: http://www.paddlewise.net/ ***************************************************************************
On Tue, Feb 26, 2008 at 12:28 AM, Dave Kruger <kdruger_at_pacifier.com> wrote: > > It is all in alders and second growth, > concealing a hundred years of history, canneries gone, fish wheels > disappeared, an entire small village bulldozed and burnt to make way for > a log dump. One red-roofed set of old buildings a mile or two > downstream still shines in the sun, where Chinese filleters, Slav gill > netters, and Scandinavian oarsmen worked salmon runs in the early part > of the twentieth century, a hit or miss way of life, with mortality an > everyday reality. Your writing has the ability to make a place come alive for me. It brings a nostalgia for the people I missed knowing in a place I've only seen in my mind as described by you and your words. Makes me feel like I was there back then and knew them myself. Thanks. Craig Jungers Moses Lake, WA *************************************************************************** PaddleWise Paddling Mailing List - Any opinions or suggestions expressed here are solely those of the writer(s). You must assume the entire responsibility for reliance upon them. All postings copyright the author. Submissions: PaddleWise_at_PaddleWise.net Subscriptions: PaddleWise-request_at_PaddleWise.net Website: http://www.paddlewise.net/ ***************************************************************************
This kind of beautiful writing can make a paddler wistful, gliding over ten miles of river and hundreds of years of history molded over by countless Pacific rain storms and concealed by the inexorable march of nature. Time blurs all things, and the tides go on and on. And Dave saw it as it is. BRC Quoting Craig Jungers <crjungers_at_gmail.com>: > On Tue, Feb 26, 2008 at 12:28 AM, Dave Kruger <kdruger_at_pacifier.com> wrote: > >> >> It is all in alders and second growth, >> concealing a hundred years of history, canneries gone, fish wheels >> disappeared, an entire small village bulldozed and burnt to make way for >> a log dump. One red-roofed set of old buildings a mile or two >> downstream still shines in the sun, where Chinese filleters, Slav gill >> netters, and Scandinavian oarsmen worked salmon runs in the early part >> of the twentieth century, a hit or miss way of life, with mortality an >> everyday reality. > > > Your writing has the ability to make a place come alive for me. It brings a > nostalgia for the people I missed knowing in a place I've only seen in my > mind as described by you and your words. Makes me feel like I was there back > then and knew them myself. > > Thanks. > > > Craig Jungers > Moses Lake, WA *************************************************************************** PaddleWise Paddling Mailing List - Any opinions or suggestions expressed here are solely those of the writer(s). You must assume the entire responsibility for reliance upon them. All postings copyright the author. Submissions: PaddleWise_at_PaddleWise.net Subscriptions: PaddleWise-request_at_PaddleWise.net Website: http://www.paddlewise.net/ ***************************************************************************
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