Loon Song Fredrick Sound 2009 "Today I will test your spirit!" sheiks the wind. " I will strain your muscle and sinew. I will try your courage and your will!" In the past the wind has greeted me gently at the beginning of my trips only to stir up along the way. Not today! The wind wails like a banshee. Maybe I should have waited another day but after a long dark winter of deep snows I am anxious to get started. Perhaps too anxious! In truth the wind has caught me off guard. The Cove I launched from sat in a wind block. Only now as I clear the point do I really get a feel for what is going on out here and it ain't pretty! The sea broods angry ranting as one big wind gust. The forecast predicted 20 knots. "Ha!" says the wind, " I can do better than that!" Waves break white and vicious. The wind which gave birth to the waves now rips their tops off sending wild spray dancing upon the waters. I face the moment of truth; go or retreat? I look about for options and none exist except go or no go. I find no shelter from the storm nor place to pull out. The Sockeye Islands are six miles away with nothing between me and them except wind and waves. A set of big waves roll towards me. Steep and quick my bow breaks deep and the wave quickly steals away whatever momentum I have gained. I dreadfully realize that if I continue on there will be not rest for the weary or shelter for the injured. The latter worries me. I injured my shoulder this past winter and it occasionally flares in pain. Also with a boat ladened with two weeks worth of gear the tendons in my elbows and arms immediately beg for a lighter boat. Arrugh! What to do? I dig deep inside for all the reasons for doing this trip in the first place. Adventure. Wonder. Soul searching. Resolved I decide to push on. Time will tell if my decision is the right one. I am on my way and headed north! I mentally trace the map in my head. Across Fredrick Sound, up to Cape Fanshaw then across to the Brothers Islands. Maybe. A thirteen miles open crossing lays between Cape Fanshaw and the Brother with one stop at the Five Finger Light House six miles in. Maybe the winds will allow such a voyage and then again judging from today maybe not. I crawl forward. Big steep rollers stream in, each knocking me back and robbing me of my forward progress. Gusts inside of gusts surround me. On I push. Not much time to look around although I do catch a glimpse of a bird or two. From time to time I am joined by a sea lion. One shoots past me surfacing to grunt at me as if to mock my slow progress. A couple more big waves hit and now my shoulder begins to groan in protest. I can't stop no matter how much I feel I need to. Waves pound the West shore of Kupreanof leaving few places to surf into its barnacle covered rocky beach. Through my salt spray covered glasses I see two black spots on the water ahead. I tilt my head to try and find gaps in the water droplets to be able to figure out what lays ahead of me. Loons! Two Common Loons! Here in the midst of the chaos of wind and waves two Loons live and thrive. They ride the rise and fall of the waves, dodge the white caps all the while diving for dinner. Entranced by the Loons I lose concentration and pay a price! A breaking wave catches me and thrust me sideways. A quick brace saves the day but I feel the effort in my injured shoulder. I must concentrate! I focus on arm position, shoulder roll, blade placement and all the things that make for a fundamentally good paddle stroke. If I am going to make it to the Sockeye Islands I have to avoid sloppy paddling and lapses in concentration. Uh oh. My right hand feels numb. Something has started to swell in my shoulder pinching a nerve. I am still at least two miles away. Not good. Don't panic I say to my self. Just paddle. The biggest waves of the day hit me one - two - three! Great! My kingdom for a wind block! "Ha! " laughts the wind. I see an iceberg off to the left about a mile away. It would provide a wind block but that would mean going off course and adding more distance in the long run. It closes in fast. Caught in the wind and tide and the berg cruises South. If I used it for a wind block I would have to continually backpaddle, the one thing my shoulder hates the worst. Not a good option. I put my head down and resolve to make it to the Sockeyes. I am hopeing to find a wave shadow coming off the Islands. Unfortunately the waves seem to wrap around the islands without loosing much force. "Keep paddling, just keep paddling." Finally the waves begin to die though the wind seems determined to get its last licks in. I have no feeling in my right hand but way too much feeling in my shoulder. At last I coast into calm water. I check my watch six miles in 2 hours 15 minutes! I usually make this trip in a leisurely hour and a quarter. Now to access the damage. My shoulder and elbow tendons ache and my right hand slowly begins to tingle to life. I am concerned about two things, Tomorrows winds and whether I have injured myself in a way that will affect the trip. Only time will tell. The summer sun retires for a few hours behind the mountains leaving a lingering twlight. Too tired to sleep I set on the beach and watch as slowly the wind falls asleep and the oceans calm. Left over waves roll past to die on some far off shore. I flex my hands as if to seek forgiveness for what I put them through today. Somewhere in the now gentle waves a Loon wails. Fatigue vanishes as I am caught up in rapture. My Spirit suddenly transported into a mystical sacred world only found out here in the deep wilderness. I listen with my whole being as this hallowed voice of the wilderness calls out upon the sea. My memory wanders back in time to the first time I heard a Loon. Somewhere on a lake whose name I have long forgotten along the Alagash River in Maine. The fire glowed hot and comforted our weary bodies as the moonlight danced upon the waters. Then the tranquility of night was swiftly broken by an eerie laughter that echoed across the lake. Suddenly other voices join in wild chorus. At first a grave chill rode up my spine, fear given birth by so strange a sound. Then fear gave way to life changing wonder. The sound griped me and every nerve in my body danced. Every sense and emotion in my body leapt upwards and heightened The song of the Loon sang to my soul and seeded within me a feeling that I belonging out here in this magnificant wilderness. A deep sense that my soul was somehow woven into the land and sea, to nature and to the great Creator. A sacred moment when the veil between heaven and earth becomes gossamer thin. The night hid the bird from my eyes leaving me only my imagination to conjure up a shape from which so mystic a song was sung. Thankfully out of the morning mist two spots appeared on the lake only to disappear like phantoms. We slowly canoed past the spot and as if by magic the Loons reappeared on the surface. I wish now I had uttered the word "thanks". Thanks for the gift of their calls in the night. For the hallowed moment given. The sacred connection to the wilderness woven into my soul. Many more times I would return to the wilderness. Beside calm lakes. In the midst of the wind and waves of the sea. Along the path of the deer and bear seeking secluded back waters and ponds. Seeking once again the sacred moment the Loons gave me that night in the waters of Maine. Searching for a moment when I am thrown deep into mystery and wonder. A moment in which I discover that when I am caught up in the midst of wonder, I am most truly alive. I lay in my tent trying to convince myself that though the Alaskan summer sky glows bright the hour is late and I need my sleep. Somewhere out there I hear the Loons again. Their graceful voice of the wilderness makes me ponder. Today upon the sea I struggled hard to survive, only one mistake away from peril. I sat inches above the freezing water that would take my life so quickly. Each cold wave reminded me of my frailness upon the sea; each blast of wind that drove me backwards let me know my life existed at its whim. Yet what of the Loons that I passed in the storm? Lives lived out here in the midst of all this chaos. Where the solidness of land gives me such assurance for Loon the rise and fall of the sea brings the comfort of home. Born at the waters edge and taking to the water for safety within hours of birth the Loon may never touch land again for up to four years. Then one day it crawls briefly on shore to mate and begin the cycle of life again. In the world of the Loon even the stillness of a lake at night is still a fluid realm. The kingdom of the Loon is also one of rain snow wind and waves. Unfazed by cold or wetness they live stronger and more comfortable in their world then we do in ours. Where the cold of the water and wind would take our lives in but minutes they live and thrive out here hour by hour, day by day, year by year. Alas they are built for the sea even more than the sky. Rather than hollow bones for flying the loon has solid bones for diving. In fact all their unique body design is set up for diving. Their heavy bone structure, placement of the feet behind rather than under them, the sleekness of their profile all give them the ability to swim under water. In truth they would rather dive to escape then fly. Strange how homocentric we are about defining comfortable and safe. What is comfortable and safe for the Loon would quickly kill us. Perhaps dry and solid would kill a Loon just as quickly as wet and fluid would kill us. Slowly my pondering of such things fades and I welcome the world of sleep. I awake and hear the wind jumping about. I crawl out of the tent and study the sea. I take some comfort in that things are not as bad as yesterday. Still I find myself mentally bracing myself as I round the point and cast off into the wind. I paddle slow today but not by choice. My shoulder lets me know it did not appreciate yesterday and my elbow tendons second the motion. The tightness of my shoulder makes it hard to turn my head to the right. So slow and steady into the wind I go. Really I can't complain. A day on the water beats a day working. The wind kicks a bit and the occasional white cap rolls by but still compared to yesterday this is a breeze (bad pun I know).I make it over to Pt. Agassiz. Here one must look down as much as up. The shallow bottom lays covered with barnacles. I cut in next to a cliff enjoying for a moment a wind block. Where were you when I needed you yesterday? I cut within paddle length of a craggy cliff hoping to stay wind block and catch a tidal back eddy. "Wreent!" "What the...?" A gray shape dives out of a crevice and hits the water inches from my bow! A river otter! Suddenly I look up to see more gray torpedoes scrambling amid the rock. Four more otter hit the water some going under the boat. A fifth stands poised on the cliff with a small flat fish in its mouth. He stares trying to decide if he can escape with the fish. Finally his prize still clamped firmly in his sharp teeth he dives in and scurries under my bow. Another otter surfaces just to my left to see what all the fuss was. He jerks as he sees me and dives under his sharp tail the last thing I see. Sorry guys! Two more Loons appear ahead. To my surprise I realize these are not Common Loons but Pacific Loons instead. A beautiful gray mantle flows down the back of their heads. Sadly they do not have the vocal wonders of their Common Loon cousins. What a concert that would be! I near Wood Pt. and the opening to Thomas Bay. Long long ago two glaciers made their way down the mountain and gorged out this Bay. A sizable Bay a lot of tide empties in and out of the narrow opening each day. I check the tide table and I realize I could have timed my crossing better. I am hitting the third hour of the tide when one fourth of the tide will rush out of the Bay. I stop for a bite to eat. I hear a Loon cry out and look over to see an Artic Tern hovering over a Common Loon. The Loon does not appreciate competition on these fishing grounds. The Tern plunges quickly into the water and rises with a small fingerling. The Loon protests to no avail. I watch the Loon and notice her unique beauty. With a profile long and narrow the Loon sits on the water like a submarine ready to dive for food. The sharply contrasting black and white triangles of the neck reflect in the water giving a double V appearance. A parallel geometry of stripes flow down the breast falling into the water. A chess board of spots on the back flows towards the tail. All creating beautiful symmetry, a master piece in black and white patterns transformed into an art work with webbed feet. As with many creatures of the wilderness the The Native Americans wove the Loon into legend and myth. One story tellsof the Loon's remarkable plumage. In ancient times, a shaman used his medicine powers to cure another man. In return, the healer was given a cape and necklace, both elaborately decorated with white shells. Afterward, the shaman was transformed into a Loon and today these birds still wear the pattern of his checkered cape and white necklace. I should come as no surprise that people from many cultures and backgrounds are swept away by the beauty and power of the loon's voice. Koyukon people have a saying that when a Loon calls on a lake, it is the greatest sound we humans can ever hear, the standard against which all other sounds are measured. Even those of us who live in this scientific age we find a great truth in this ancient belief. I wanted to rest longer but the tide falling tide threatens to trap me and I do not fancy the boat going a ground in this field of barnacles. So off I go again straight into the wind prancing with its cats paws and bluster. I am getting tired easy today. The after effect from yesterday. Not to mention at 55 I am not spring chicken any more. I can still do all the things I could do as a younger man but now it takes longer to recover. I think part of it too is that most of the time I paddle an empty boat. On these trips with two weeks of gear and food the boat feels like a barge. The boat proves slow to get up to speed and reacts slow to leans and sweeps. It dawns on me between the weight of the boat and my injured shoulder my roll maybe compromised. Hmm. For the first time in years I do not I have a roll in my quiver. I find this disconcerting to say the least. Doubt is one emotion I cannot afford out here. So I focus on my destination. Vanderput Peninsula a remnant of the ice age. All that remains of the great glacier that one thrust itself out of Thomas Bay powerfully diverting all wind and tide in Fredrick Sound. Then the earth began to warm and the ice retreated and now waits for another time when it will once again reign supreme. Tonight I plan to call that rocky remnant home. I line up a clump of tall trees with the mountain peak in the background. Catch my drift? A lot of water flows out of Thomas Bay and the current can quickly throw one out into Fredrick Sound. Looks like I am holding steady at the moment. The wind laughs. "Did you think I would let you cross without me?" A few cats' paws appear here and there and a handful whitecaps slink by. Deva vu all over again! " Whoosh!" a Humpback Whale sounds 100 yards off to my left. I watch as he sounds again humps his back and then lifts his tail to the sky and dives deep for his food. Happy hunting friend. Then I notice the line of whitecaps where he submerged. I follow the line as it curves in front of me and wanders off deep into the Bay. Not good. The current flowing out of Thomas Bay has channeled into a fast stream. To add to the mix the wind and swells hit the current line hard at a sharp angle. Things are about to get interesting! I take a big drink of water and slurp down an energy gel. I am going to need it. I stuff my water bottle below deck and double check everything else. Now I step back into the batters box ready for the first pitch. As I approach the current line I am surprised at the sharply defined the current line. Memories come back of my whitewater days of crossing an eddy line. I lean my boat as I hit the cross current so as not to give the it a grip on my deck and flip me. Like being flung by a catapult I immediately feel my momentum change! Suddenly I find myself in the midst of chaotic and weird waves. They follow no pattern or rule. They heave and dance. They jostle and pounce. They tango and twist. Each paddle stroke morphs into half forward stroke and half brace. I stop paddling and sit trying to get the feel of these waves, to get a sense of what is happening here. I am not going to out race these waves so I want to stop and get the feel of them. Battling them will just wear me out. I ride them for a minute and discover that they follow no rhyme or reason, they follow no hard fast rules. Even so I quickly get comfortable with them; though irregular they don't really have a bite. I easily rise and fall on their undulations. Some prove a little trickery than others but all dance within my limits. I hear a familiar call. I suddenly realize that I am not alone! Two Common Loons bob and fish amid these crazy waves! Then it dawns on me. What places me at peril provides a feast for the Loons! The currents below wells up small fish to the surface providing the Loons an easy meal. Loons indeed dwell easy upon the sea. I leave the Loons behind and forge onward leaving them to their well deserved feast. At last I notice calm water ahead and like crossing an eddy line on a river I paddle out of the chaos and into less confused waters. I relax and dig out my water bottle! As I lift the bottle to take a swig I nearly choke as the water goes down the wrong way! I am looking at Vanderput and I am startled at the difference I see! Most of the day I have been looking at it from the East side. Now I am almost due South of it1 In my focus on the waves and the Loons I lost track of my drift. Now I have to paddle against the out flowing current in order to "catch Vanderput before it drifts by". I break out into a sweat as I work my way along the North shore and to find my old camping spot. Unfortunately small but fierce little waves crash onto the heavily barnacled boulder strewn beach. I will have to make a careful landing lest I damage my boat or body. I count the wave sets and time my landing. Luckily I catch a small lull and find a gap between some of the boulders. I crawl out of my boat my legs rubbery from sitting so long. I manage to get out just before a couple big waves hit. Water flows over my boots as I stand in the water trying to keep these waves from playing "pins the boat on the barnacles". I succeed in hauling the boat out of the reach of the next set of waves and go about quickly unloading it so I can carry it farther up the beach. Above me I hear a raucous laughter. I turn to see a bunch of crows in the trees above. Are you laughting at my staggering up the beach? The crows continue to carry on. Then I notice an eagle on the back side of the tree. I guess the Eagle has claimed the best lookout tree on the beach and the crows want it for themselves. The Eagle sits unmoved by the crow protests. Now a Raven flies in and silently perches on the limb directly over the Eagle. The Eagle moves on as do the crows. Go figure. I carry the boat across the barnacle plagued rocks as the wind tries to use it as a wind vane! I find this more disconcerting than the sea. If I fall over in waves I get wet. Here I get slice and diced. I hear a loud buzz and something go zipping around my head. Oh no! It has been an unusually dry spring and that can only mean one thing. Horse flies, seriously big horse flies! Soon I am surrounded by a dozen or so of the small flying dragons. I slay a few but the rest are too quick. I look up at the Raven for help but he sits regal. Perhaps his belly is already full of these winged demons. The buzzing crowd in tow I find my old campsite from two years ago. A bit grown up but still it will serve well as home sweet home. I toss wet clothes on to the rocks to dry and slowly amble down the beach. I am beginning to wander if these long trips are at an end. The wind beats me up more than usual and I have trouble recovering as quickly as I need. I have also noticed that my metabolism slowing down. No longer do I have the boundless energy that I grew up with. You would not have wanted to have me as a student in school. I could not sit still. Maybe I just need to admit my age a little a tone down the mileages of these trips. Find adventure in the waters closer to home rather than always trying to go way out there. Plan a few more days off for hiking and relaxing. Time will tell. As I eat my dinner a Loon calls from deep in Thomas Bay. Quickly other Loons answer in chorus. How many pairs are out there I wonder? I also wonder what draws us to these remote places and what compels us to listen so intently to the call of the Loon. Perhaps what touches us so deeply by their song is the desire to join in their wilderness conversation? To immerse ourselves into their world. To become intimate with their realm of water and the wind. To live feeling the pulse of nature in rhythm, the pulse of life itself. Maybe what so touches us about the call of the Loon is its unique ability to awaken within us to the greatest mysteries of our existence? Who are we and how do we relate to the world of nature around us? Some time in the early morning a squirrel begins to loudly complain and chatter about my presence in his territory! A few pine cone bombs are launched with surprising accuracy! Hit verbal blast now shifts to another target. Somewhere in the brush a porcupine incurs the fuzzy tails wrath. Now a bunch of screaming and shrieking crows join the squabble. I think they are doing this just for an excuse to wake and pester me. Thanks guys for the nosiest morning I can ever remember. I scramble out of the tent and immediately a crowd of horseflies greet me and let me know how much they have missed me! Great! The wind has lost a bit of her kick and the sky looms clear and hot. Too hot! For safety I dress for the water temperature (54 degrees). Now I am roasting in my neoprene. After two cold rainy summers it looks like we are finally going to get a hot dry one. The wind I think has driven the horseflies away. Wind even in my face has its blessings. More Loons both Common and Pacific. I do not recall seeing this many Loons before. I wander why. Usually this time of year they are up on the mountain lakes raising their young. Maybe something is wrong or just more feed in this area this year. I don't know and can only hope that these Loons are doing well. Deep within the Bay a Loon lets out a wail calling out to its mate. Soon other Loons join in with a chorus of tremolos and wails. I sit entranced listening to Loons calling back and forth in the night. I listen caught up in an eternal conversation one not quite as old as time but far older than human time upon this earth. Perhaps for 60 million years the Loon has sung her song of the wilderness. A voice that rose upon the earth not long after the dinosaurs disappeared and long before Homo Sapiens began to walk the earth. So long they have sung yet sadness grips me as I know their song is in peril. Perhaps the sadness of the tune reflects that the Loons know of this also. Loss of solitary lakes to raise their young, acid rain poisoning these same lakes, and ocean pollution the usual list of human plight upon the land and water, have all conspiring to slowly remove the Loon from life. Will the Loon survive human kind as it did the dinosaur or will this voice vanish from the wilderness forever? A sad song echoes across the water pouring its lament into my soul Water. I am running low so I pull closer to shore in hopes of finding a clean source. We had a heavy snow fall this winter so even though we are below normal on the rain the melting snow keepings the streams flowing and cold. Oddly enough some of the steeper streams plunges into the gravel at the base of cliffs and travel under ground till they reach the sea. You can hear a small falls maybe even see it through the heavy brush but all the beach shows is dry gravel! Plunging into the alder and Devil's Club becomes the only choice. Not fun! Also unfortunately horseflies have learned a clever trick. When I leave a wind block they scurry to find the windless pockets in the midst of my gear. Then as soon as I drift into another wind block they sound the charge and attack! I usually manage to kill a few before they take off into the wind. I find grave satisfaction in tossing their carcasses into the sea for the herring to feed upon. Flies feed the herring which feed the salmon which feed me, ah the circle of life. The miles go quicker today. The wind calm a bit and the white caps cease. A couple Humpback Whales feed in Fredrick Sound. They spend at least 18 hours a day feeding here in Southeast. A ceaseless quest to fill their stomachs. Then a mysterious clock clicks deep inside of them and their hungry ends and they set course for Hawaii. They will travel without food and even when they arrive in those tropical waters they will not eat for three months or so before returning. Amazing that an animal can go from ravenous hunger to total withdraw from food in so dramatic a fashion. A couple hours later I pull in behind Grand Point to rest up before crossing Farragut Bay. A couple of years ago on this route I encountered fierce winds. Today the winds, as if on, cue kick up and roust about. I set a steady pace and gaze at the far shore to check my progress and check for drift. The Whale again sound and feed. I play the game of guessing where they will surface next. Most of the time they surprise me. Hot! Even with the wind. Clad in my neoprene armor I stop and thrust my hands into the cold water allowing it to radiate away some of the heat. Still I will take this over rain any day. I spot a Common Loon ahead and veer right to avoid disturbing it. Suddenly it calls out in tremolo. Another Loon rises to my right. I have split the pair! Arrugh! Try as I may to not disturb the wildlife sometimes I stumble into the wrong place at the wrong time. Both Loons dive and I do not see them again. I assume they have surfaced behind me. I cruise into an old campsite just beyond Bay Point. Here two creeks travel different paths through rugged mountain passes and arrive at the sea just 25 yards apart. Unfortunately I am greeted by sprawling tidal flat. These creeks as they flow down the mountain dump loads of sediment and rock as they tumble into the sea. Over time they bulid up big tidal flats. On these trips the tide gives me an odd choice. Carry at the beginning of the day or at its end. Meaning unless you paddle 12 hours at a stretch (no thank you!) one has to either carry boat or gear across the flats at the beginning or end of the day. The low minus tides are always early in the morning. A fun way to start the day! Last time I was here I found a great flat sandy campsite beside the larger of the creeks. Today however I am greeted by a forest of Devil's Club daring me to enter! Oh well. I find another less desirable site by the second smaller creek. A little lumpy and not as far above high tide as I would like but it will do. I wake to warm right skies and low winds! My hopes abound. Maybe this year I will make it to The Brothers. I tried this route three years ago only to get turn back due to weather. Maybe this year! Still even though the winds are calming I have lived here too long to bet on the weather. Only time will tell. More Loons today! I still cannot believe the numbers I am seeing. Sure I am seeing other birds Murellets, Scooters, Terns, Gulls, Eagle ect. But this is the year of the Loon. No complaints. The sea has become a concert hall of their songs of the wilderness. Each yodel, tremolo, wail and hoot reaches into my being and plucks the very strings of my soul so that they vibrate with joy, wonder and mystery. Somehow the song of the Loon gets inside of me and sings of all that I love about being in the midst of wind and waves. I turn West as I parallel Cape Fanshaw as it juts out into Fredrick Sound. Then I follow the shore East as it retreats in Fanshaw Bay. Murellets bob here and there, a Long Necked Grebe eyes me wearily, Eagles swoop down to pluck fish from their watery home. What the Eagles don't grab from above Sea Lions snatch from below. A couple pointed snout brutes work the Bay finding a feast a plenty. I slowly turn my bow 320 Degrees NW and spot Five Finger Light House. My one stopping off place before the seven mile open crossing to the Brothers. Then I turn 300 degrees WNW and in the distance see The Brothers almost indistinguishable from the far shore of Admiralty Island. If this weather holds I will lay my head down to sleep tomorrow night on those far distant shores. I camp beside an old abandoned cannery. A single house still somewhat stands. I think of the olden days in Alaska where people sat around Juneau and Sitka all winter tinkering on their boats or worked odd jobs only to rush to these remote points in the summer to work endless hours to fish, render and can Salmon. Then come fall when the great Salmon runs ended everyone would leave except maybe a care taker who would prattle about for the winter slowly getting things ready for the next frantic season. The caretakers were careful to work slowly. Finish the work too soon and you had a long time to twiddle your thumbs. 4:30 PM time for a weather up date. Please be 15 and three! "For Fredrick Sound winds tonight out of the NW at 20 Knots seas four feet and building" " Oh no!" I keep listening to the long range forecast "20 knots to 25 knots 5 - 6 foot sea and building." Crap! My spirit falls off the end of a cliff. Normally 20 knots is doable in most waters but this is Fredrick Sound where waters roll up from Petersburg and down from Juneau and rage in great battles with the tides from Chatham Strait. Especially near the Brothers. A friend, Jeff, a commercial fisherman who is rooting for me to make the Brothers warned my of the rip currents and unusual waves as I approach the Brothers. They play havoc with his boat, a 60 foot seine boat with a muscular diesel engine churning in the hole! I decide to check things out tomorrow morning and see how right the weather report turns out to be. I rise eary and walk down the beach for a better look. A stirred up sea dancing with whitecaps and a black line on the water farther out. Neither good signs. I decide to take a day off to recover from the trip up and to give the weather a chance to settle down a bit. I spend the day hiking. A welcome relief to my shoulder. I track a single wolf for a while till he cuts back into the deep forest up a small ravine leading onto the mountain. Travel well my friend. The evening weather reports churn in from all over Southeast. It's kicking out there 30 knots in places. A low and a high pressure system play king of the hill for Southeast. Maybe tomorrow one will win and I can make it out to the Brothers. As I write this a gust of wind snakes into the Bay and whistles past me. Waves begin crashing into the rocks at the point of the Cape. Arrugh! Hoping things will settle down I load my water bags to capacity. With no water on the Brothers and no rain in the forecast I will have a heavy boat tomorrow. I am early to face decision time. I reach out of my sleeping bag to hear the forecast 25 knot! South of me in Clarence Strait the wind clicks along kicking at 30. Damn! I crawl out of the tent in boots and underwear. Whitecaps roll into even the sheltered parts of the Bay. The black line on the sea looms closer and darker. I take another walk along the beach. No Brothers this year. 0 and 2 on my Brothers expeditions. Santa ain't coming this year! The risks are just too high. A bum shoulder canceling out my roll, 25 knots dead sideway hurling white cap after white cap. No. I think of my wife who tolerates my crazy wanderlust for adventure. I am sure she would rather I come back to Petersburg alive in the flesh than as a ghost. After all a ghost cannot take out the trash. As I walk down the beach with the wind stirs the sand up at my feet. Her voice loud and clear. "Once when you were young full of energy and vigor you tested your self against me. You were quick and full of boundless energy. You prevailed, you grew stronger. You listened and I taught you much about yourself. Now listen again to me. Listen carefully. Now you are older, slowed by the years. Your body though still strong is slower to recover. Your weariness at days end is my gift to you. Now you must be wary before you challenge me. Your limits are more easily reached and you must know them or you may not survive my testing. Fear not your days of paddling are still many but to live you must sit out the storms of tomorrow. Look not so much for far horizons but for intimate places far closer to home. I will be there to speak to you. You may be surprised to discover what you have sought on these long quests are now to be found in voyages closer to home. Yes there are dreams you will need to set aside but you can live you dreams out in the tales of others who journey upon the sea. As the voice of the wind fades I find I am at peace with what has come to pass. Peace with the changes in my life peace also that though my journeys of tomorrow will be less epic the wind and waves the sea and this great wilderness will be mine to explore for many years to come. Either out of curiosity or boredom I hop into my boat for a better look. From behind the shelter of Whitney Island I sneak a peek at the the storm tossed waters. Wow! A sea of choas rages before me. The wind throws her sword across the water like an angry Valkyrie. Big angry white caps stampede by like a herd of crazed white maned wild horses. Fine spray dances from wave to wave. Even the birds leave these angry seas and head for the waters of calmer Bays. I sit awed by the power and beauty before me. I retreat to the safety of the shore. Later that evening I find my self walking down the beach as the tide ebbs. I am reflecting again on my decision to cut back on the duration and length of my trips. The falling tide offers me a new metaphor. I realize that in many ways my life has reached its high tide. I no longer have the energy level, the stamina, the ability to recover as I once did. Yes the big long trips are over But the ebb tide holds much promise. I look at the emerging beach and at all the shells, barnacles scurrying hermit crabs and realize that when the sea ebbs much is revealed. "When the tide is out the table is set" say the Tlingit reflecting on the riches and abundance the falling tide unveils. For me much life remains, much more to see explore and ponder. The pace will slow, conversation with the wind will happen closer to home. Shorter trips spent pondering with more time for days off but wonderful still. I suddenly realize this has become what the Celtic mystics would call a "thin place" a land where the veil between Heaven and Earth parts. A place where the Holy is encountered, where the still small voice of God can be clearly heard. A Loon calls out in the Bay. Her voice a song unto her Creator. For once I found what I was looking for without reaching my destination. Sometimes we reach our hearts destination in midst of the journey rather then at its end. Tomorrow or the next I will head home. With any luck I will enjoy the wind at my back and fair seas ahead.. [demime 1.01e removed an attachment of type image/gif which had a name of clip_image001.gif] *************************************************************************** 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/ ***************************************************************************
Recently I was re-reading Nathaniel Bishop's "Voyage of the Paper Canoe" from the 1870s, particularly segments where he passed close to where I live. He expressed the opinion that paddling is the natural recreational pastime of the minister. I concur. "At Baker's Basin the bridge-tender, a one-legged man, pressed me to tarry till he could summon the Methodist minister, who had charged him to notify him of the approach of a paper canoe. Through all my boat journeys I have remarked that professional men take more interest in canoe journeys than professional oarsmen; and nearly all the canoeists of my acquaintance are ministers of the gospel. It is an innocent way of obtaining relaxation; and opportunities thus offered the weary clergyman of studying nature in her ever-changing but always restful moods, must indeed be grateful after being for months in daily contact with the world, the flesh, and the devil. The tendency of the present age to liberal ideas permits clergymen in large towns and cities to drive fast horses, and spend an hour of each day at a harmless game of billiards, without giving rise to remarks from his own congregation, but let the overworked rector of a country village seek in his friendly canoe that relief which nature offers to the tired brain, let him go into the wilderness and live close to his Creator by studying his works, and a whole community vex him on his return with "the appeara! nce of the thing." These self-constituted critics, who are generally ignorant of the laws which God has made to secure health and give contentment to his creatures, would poison the sick man's body with drugs and nostrums when he might have the delightful and generally successful services of Dr. Camp Cure without the after dose of a bill. These hardworked and miserably paid country clergymen, who are rarely, nowadays, treated as the head of the congregation or the shepherd of the flock they are supposed to lead, but rather as victims of the whims of influential members of the church, tell me that to own a canoe is indeed a cross, and that if they spend a vacation in the grand old forests of the Adirondacks, the brethren are sorely exercised over the time wasted in such unusual and unministerial conduct." Joe P. -----Original Message----- >From: Bob Carter <revkayak_at_aptalaska.net> >Sent: Jun 25, 2009 1:29 AM >To: paddlewise <paddlewise_at_paddlewise.net> >Subject: [Paddlewise] Loon Song (long Post) *************************************************************************** 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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