In May we arranged to stay at an old resort for three nights on both sides of the summer solstice before desire to see other family members took us out of town. The first afternoon and the next morning I made a couple of paddles––south and then north along the east shore of the lake, covering about 26 miles in total. Everyone seemed anxious, however, about an impending storm.

When the sky turned gray and the temperature dropped into the 40s, leaving a distinct snow line on The Mission Mountains, people headed home, lost restaurant reservations, or tucked themselves inside with a book. Deck chairs sat empty as rain pelted the Trex. We were grounded.

Though I felt tempted to paddle in the cold conditions, having adequate clothing, my old skirt had begun to leak, and I did not enjoy the feel of cold water dripping into my lap. I relented. There was still so much to do. I watched a merganser mother teach six offspring how to chase little fish into a shallow corner between the dock and the storm wall. While the little birds pursued their breakfast, the mother kept a close eye on approaching swells and would eventually lead them toward a safer spot. I enjoyed watching big waves break against the sub-surface boulders marked by the weather station monitored by the Flathead Lake Biological Station. When their energies felt the boulders on the sloping bottom, they spent themselves in a white crash. From our second-floor deck I sensed the rhythm of the swells as they rose, rolled, and slid diminished up the shore. The lake had become an ocean. During the storm, a huge diesel-powered barge loaded with rock and a bucket loader gave the point a very wide berth before rounding it and entering the bay. I imagined interviewing a skipper of such a craft. Commissioned to build shelter all over the lake they would have weather stories to tell. Meanwhile, squalls like giant thumbs, pressed on the roiled surface of the lake.

In a brief interlude, I watched a man using a four-footed cane. While supporting himself with his sturdy prop, he worked patiently to make a transition from steep steps to dock to beach. With one hand he undid the knot tying the board to a stanchion, then positioned himself on the board so he could take a few strokes into the bay and back. He did not let the lack of adult-sized floatation devices stop him. I was pretty sure he would have been offended if I had offered to help. Later, I met him in the rain as he walked slowly up the driveway. He introduced himself and his Parkinson’s disease. He summarized his relationship to the diagnosis by saying, “I have learned a lot.” He did not linger or extend the conversation, however. Taking another step, he said, “I’ve got to keep moving.” I later learned that he had devoted his life to the protection of the Great Burn area along the divide between Montana and Idaho. It was a place he knew and loved even if he could not secure its final protection as wilderness.

I am glad I accepted my grounding. I know I would have enjoyed the thrill of paddling in a storm, but I was richly rewarded in my observations. Thwarted, we discover new doors and windows on a changing world.