Tag Archives: Bird Island

Settling in for Winter: A Feeling, a Memory, a Goal                   

Posted on by
1

Peach and rose-colored leaves lie at the base of the euonymus like a fallen skirt. Now I can see the chickadees who flock there early in the morning. Though this week is unusually warm, by the weekend the weather will be what we expect in mid-November. I turn inward, begin to reflect, retrieve a feeling, a memory, and awaken to a goal in the distance.

When I read from Into This Radiance at the library in Polson, Montana, conversation with people turned toward what it feels like to slide a kayak into the water and begin to bring the boat up to hull speed. The conversation reminded me of Denise Levertov’s poem “Avowal.” From a friend I had learned who might be drawn to the reading. Anticipating that this poem might speak to this audience, I had typed the poem into my outline for the evening and read it to everyone:

As swimmers dare

to lie face to the sky

and water bears them,

as hawks rest upon air

and air sustains them,

so would I learn to attain

freefall and float

into Creator Spirit’s deep embrace,

knowing no effort earns

that all-surrounding grace.

(from Oblique Prayers)

People in the audience described their experience of paddling a kayak in these terms, trusting the lake to bear and sustain them, the all-surrounding grace of buoyancy and wonder. When I read Levertov’s poem to the group, head nods and sighs told me they understood. This shared sensation is one of the reasons I keep returning to the lake.

But then there is a memory. This past summer, on two different occasions, I was on the east-facing shore of two islands as weather approached from the southwest. Once on Wild Horse and once on Bird Island, I looked almost straight up and sensed the changes, but because I could not see the whole sky––my vision blocked by trees and the terrain of the islands––I felt alarm. I could see clouds amassing and flowing overhead, but I could not see if they were part of a larger system that might make the paddle home more menacing. Both times I suspended my explorations and resumed paddling so I could see around the islands. Fortunately, the weather systems did not become dangerous, and I returned without incident to my starting points. In November of 2025 it is as if we are on one of these islands, can look straight up but cannot read the whole sky. We see the edges of change and potential danger but have no way of knowing how they will develop, if they will pass benignly overhead or become life-threatening to more of us. On the islands I felt anxious when I sensed what was coming but had no way to evaluate it. If in the kayak, so as a citizen.

And finally, sorting memories before winter, I have a goal. Next spring I will be seventy-six. It is not getting easier to load my boat on its wooden rack, unload it without bumping the stern on asphalt, or pull knees to chest before sliding my legs into the tunnel of the kayak. Yet, I aspire to move smoothly, to apply strength at the fulcrum when it is called for and ease up at just the right moment. I aim to keep my balance and not move abruptly. As in the kayak, so as a citizen.

Almost every morning I put my hands in a yogurt container full of black oil seed, carry the seeds out the front door and cast a black arc to hungry birds. The way it feels in those first moments on the water, a memory of having only a partial view of the world, and a goal to move through it gracefully will sustain me until late April or early May.

The Season of Change

Posted on by
4

The days around the solstice seem to flatten into a kind of sameness. In winter a curtain closes on light. A broad wash of gray flows across our lives, occasionally punctuated by clear skies and sudden cold. Then in mid-summer we experience the flatness of lingering light and heat. But around the equinox we come face-to-face with the dynamism of rapid change.

If possible, I like to paddle at these times. I feel especially drawn to the autumnal equinox. The water sits a few degrees above the temperature of the air and suggests a sense of safety that feels elusive in the spring. Autumn also reminds me of the season of my father’s death. I cannot help but think about him when chokecherries and red-twig dogwoods turn red and orange. But I also prize a paddle in early October because the sky can be wild. High, flying clouds sweep over the heavy, rain-laden clouds that stack up against the Mission Mountains and drop squalls of moisture through huge columns. As the clouds break over the crest and move toward the plains, the color of the lake changes moment to moment. Within a fifteen-minute span the lake can go from black to cobalt to green, from graphite to amber to pale blue.

I also sense the excitement of the birds. Geese form staging committees as they sense the migration to come. A double-crested cormorant with its long neck races one direction and suddenly returns. Then there are the waves. They shift directions as quickly as a swinging compass needle and may suddenly lay down as if for a nap, almost as if sensing a need for rest.

A few photos suggest the dynamism of this season, the improbable combination of rain and light,

the way mosses awaken,

and how goose down catches on a dry stem and flutters so fast that the camera cannot stop its quivering. Welcome to the season of change.

Amazed By Life

Posted on by
5

May, 29, 2025

I went to the lake thinking I would write about one thing—a way of understanding the kayak’s motion in relation to the paddler—but now feel called to write something different.

An overnight stay in Polson allowed me to paddle twice in succession, first an evening paddle in The Narrows in the calmest of conditions, then an early morning paddle from Finley Point to Bird Island and back. During both paddles I felt the shell of self-protective boundaries dissolve until I became I felt permeable to patterns of light, depths of blue and green, dabs and dashes of color in the shadows,

how the back of a swell became a convex mirror displaying the length of the Mission Range.

The next morning, launching from the state campground, I felt porous to the wonders of late spring before heat forced almost everything to become crepuscular. Here a pair of ospreys, there a pair of bald eagles. Here a plant growing, it seemed, out of stone,

then in the sudden release of nutrients after fire—pink fireweed, honeysuckle, mock orange, ninebark, Rocky Mountain maple, and Wood’s rose. Here young geese growing into the weight of their formidable strength, then a squadron of swallows snipping gnats all around my gliding boat. Even my own breathing—out with a stroke on the left, in with a stroke on the right, seemed to coincide with the energy of gentle waves.

Wondrously, this radical openness to the flourishing of Life extended to the human realm. As I made a turn into the Finley marina, I could feel the sense of anticipation in a group of people who seemed to be preparing for a weekend wedding on the point. I felt the development of a deep bond between a muscular father pumping up an inflatable paddle board by hand and his son who watched his father’s every move. Then, as I began to load gear into the car, a woman approached me. She skillfully balanced offering information about her life on the edge of the Chiricahua Wilderness in Arizona with questions about the water temperature of Flathead Lake, how to pronounce Sel’ǐs Kasanka Qlispe’, and places to camp near shore. I knew more about places to camp than the pronunciation of Salish, though I did my best version of a glottal stop.

In Confessions of a Guilty Bystander Thomas Merton describes an astonishing experience on the corner of Fourth and Walnut in Louisville, Kentucky when he suddenly sensed the holiness of all the people around him and the breakdown of separateness between one life and another. These experiences are given to us rarely, but this different way of seeing into the secret beauties of other hearts can happen in the most congested of urban environments as well as on a lake surrounded by mountains. As William James knew so well, there are varieties of religious experience and boundaries can melt away almost anywhere if we are sufficiently open.

I went to the lake thinking I would write about a relatively technical matter in paddling a sea kayak, but having paid attention to everything my senses could apprehend, I think this is the wonder the lake wanted me to describe.

When Things Are No Longer New

Posted on by
4

I was determined to go paddling before the thermometer popped the 100-degree mark, before fires grew worse and the air became unhealthy from fires to the west and south. Having paddled in honor of my mother in May, and having introduced one of my granddaughters to the lake and its largest island in June, I wanted to paddle within myself in July, returning to places that are no longer new.

With the smoke in a blue-gray band above me, I stroked out of the marina at Finley Point, made a right turn and headed for Bird Island.  I quickly fell into that beautiful rhythm of harmonious breathing timed to the pace of my strokes. Though I have made this paddle countless times, something about the island was different. Through the haze I could see that Montana’s Fish, Wildlife and Parks had installed a solar toilet near the south end of the island, above the beach where many people come ashore. I applaud their decision to reduce waste on the fragile island. Continuing north I saw the black blocks of stone that mark the entrance to one of my favorite coves near the opposite tip of the island. Rounding this angular corner I saw a cove I hardly recognized. Instead of a little bay with an incredible view and an accommodating beach, this half circle of shelter was choked with logs that had washed down from the north, trees that had fallen since the island burned, a massive, bleached post, and lots of lumber ripped from docks, nails in the air. There was barely enough room to slide my kayak into a secure position while I walked over the debris and dove into the water from one of the blocks of stone.

Refreshed by my plunge and a little hungry, I ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a couple of delicious rolls of baklava left over from a party we attended Sunday night. Since the lake was calm and with no change in the forecast, I decided to try something I had never done before—paddle from Bird Island across the width of the lake to Wild Horse Island. As often as I have paddled to Wild Horse, I had never made this eight-mile crossing. I drank half a water bottle charged with electrolytes and settled into a sustainable pace. In the thick haze it was hard to pick a target that would keep me moving in a straight line, but I aimed for a faint wedge of shade on the northeast corner of the island.

The miles seemed to fly by as I concentrated on rhythmic strokes. In mid-July the surface of the lake is usually clean; pollen has settled onto the bottom and tree roots and branches have come ashore. But this year the surface of the lake was covered with a yellow substance that I first thought was pollen, but then realized was dried algae. Throughout the crossing I made small adjustments to my course to avoid floating woody debris, branches, roots and bark. Eventually, it dawned on me that this year’s high lake level had lifted material from beaches and riverbanks across the watershed and set it in circulation. This was a different lake surface.

When I finally landed in a small indent on the east shore, I was sweaty from the effort. Not hearing the sound of boats and their engines, I stripped my clothes, left them to dry on hot stones and made a few breaststrokes out into the viridian. I thought to myself, all of us should swim naked more often and not leave this experience to children exploring water for the first time.

Curious about this part of the island, I dressed again and began to explore the forest above the narrow beach. I found a premier pink Mariposa lily. Having once found several white ones, I regretted having once mislabeled this plant as a sago. I also found a dead raven. Though I could not be sure–since the breast of the bird had not been consumed—I wondered if the big black bird had been knocked out of the sky by the fist of an eagle.

Back at the beach I found half of a broken stone that because of its color and dimensions reminded me of a cookie, but then found its other half in another location. I tested the fit and found it perfect. I think I have an eye for cookies. Together the stones reminded me of the ancient Jewish practice of cutting a covenant or the practice in English jurisprudence of cutting a contract. Once again, I realized that a familiar place seen with fresh eyes can be full of discoveries.

I returned to Bluebird, ate a wedge of my favorite Manchego cheese, salty crackers and the last of my baklava. In planning my return to Finley Point I decided to paddle down the east shore, cross to Matterhorn Point, then Black Point, the east side of the unnamed island in The Narrows, then cross to the last spindly cottonwood marking the mouth of the marina at Finley campground. This route would give me a brief period of shade every time I passed a point or island. In the heat of late afternoon I craved shade. I added sunscreen, filtered another bottle of water, ate a dried apricot or two, and settled into the next leg of my journey.

When I finally landed at the concrete boat ramp at the marina a woman came rushing up to me.

            “Was that you way out in the middle of the lake? We watched you come across.

            “Yes,” was all I managed to say, tired from almost 27 miles of paddling and not quite ready for human interaction after seven hours of solitude.

            Strangely eager, she asked, “Would you like some help lifting the boat out of the water?”

            Never before had I accepted such help, but conscious of many new things in a place that has become familiar, I stretched myself and said, “Sure. That would be wonderful, but we need to set the boat on the grass so I can unload my emergency gear.”

This friendly and strong woman seemed to enjoy offering this assistance and I confess to being grateful for her help. After we set the boat away from the concrete she said, “My husband and his friend will come over and help you lift your boat onto the saddles of the rack.” Not quite at ease with this change in myself, I simply said, “Great.”

I piled wet gear, emergency bag, phone in its Pelican case, and first aid supplies in the bed of the truck. Turning around I saw two guys coming toward me asking for directions. One carried my Greenland paddle that I had tossed on the grass. The other lifted the bow into the back saddle and helped me slide the boat forward into place. It was a joy to have help. This was as much a discovery as the changes to my favorite cove, the pink lily and the raven. All that was new was beginning to find a place in a life I know by heart.

Once Again

Posted on by
8

September 11, 2020

On May 4, I fell from my bicycle and broke my left arm in three places. At impact I also dislocated the radius and tore up muscles and nerves from elbow to hand. I could not paddle all summer. Like people afraid of contagion, I had to give up things I loved in order to stay safe and to heal.

On September 10, my wife and I took a little driving trip up through what we call “the Seeley Swan,” a long valley with a divide at the top where the waters flow either north or south. After settling into a motel, I drove down to the public beach and launched Bluebird into the clearest water I had seen all year, paddled to the wild west side of the lake and then north against a head wind that allowed me to apply muscles I had tried to maintain during months of recovery. The next day, September 11, after a breakfast of wild mushrooms, eggs, and Cambazola cheese, with fruit and a sourdough roll on the side, we drove down the Swan River and into the Flathead watershed, the Yang to Swan’s Yin.

We pulled into the campground at Finley Point, marked “Full” like every other campground in Montana this summer, as people from our own state and the rest of the nation head outside. We pulled into the day-use parking lot and left one space between us and a battered truck covered with red insignia and a flaccid flag. I unloaded Bluebird and placed the fragile hull on the rough boat ramp, stowed the bag for “what ifs?” adjusted the ferrule for the right degree of feather, and stroked out of the marina and toward Bird Island.

Earlier in the summer I learned that the island had burned. I first thought lightning might have caused the fire, but a friend later told me the fire was probably human-caused. During the long months when nothing in my arm seemed to be improving, I held out hope I would be able to paddle to the island before cold gripped the land. I wanted to see what fire had wrought. As I crossed Finley Bay I could see four paddlers about a mile ahead. They had launched a few minutes earlier and also wanted to see the island. I rarely see other paddlers on the lake, so this seemed like a chance to enjoy being part of a flotilla. Paddling hard, I caught up with them before they reached the tip of the peninsula and learned they were part of a paddling club out of Kalispell. We eventually split off from each other when I proposed to go counter-clockwise to their clockwise circle around the island.

When I reached the southern edge of Bird I saw the first of many signs erected by Montana’s Fish Wildlife and Parks asking people to stay off the island. Perhaps the department wanted to conduct archaeological studies in soil now exposed by the fire or protect the public from burned trees sure to fall in the next strong wind. Though I wanted to look for the first signs of recovery brought on by this massive release of nutrients, I accepted the restriction. Even without landing I could see that nearly all the undergrowth had been consumed by fire; trunks of larger trees had blackened; some trees had already fallen, root wads now in the air; only a few trees at the waterline seemed unharmed.

When the other paddlers and I next intersected, like electrons moving in opposite directions around a nucleus, we devised a plan to meet on the beach at Bare-belly, a tiny island a few hundred yards south. It was an ideal location to continue our conversations, to eat together at a respectable distance, to hear stories about paddles from the Washington coast to Sitka, Alaska. We identified the origins of our love of paddling, compared hull and paddle designs and shared where we were on the day we learned about jetliners crashing into the World Trade Towers. Gratitude for our lives and our connection to this clean, vast lake permeated every story.

Having left my partner on the beach at the campground, I felt internal pressure to resume my paddle, so I lifted Bluebird off the beach and stroked back to join Joyce for a picnic. She had spread out our red-check tablecloth and the remnants of snacks packed for our drive. As we ate, a tall, handsome man approached and asked where I had paddled and where we were from. Sensing his desire to learn, I answered his questions and then began to listen to his story:

We sold everything we owned, bought a truck and an RV and drove up from California. We are so glad to be out of there. My wife is a professional photographer. She talked to the state and offered to trade photos and drone video of the park in exchange for a reduced rate on our campsite. We’ll stay in Montana through September then head south just ahead of the cold until we get to Tennessee. We’re looking for a red state and a good deal on some land where we can park the RV.

 I resisted the impulse to tell him that even Democrats can be patriotic and we always take our lives with us. It was better to listen and to learn.

 As much as anyone, I know the joys of paddling through variations on blue and green, the peace of the running wave and flowing air, the exhilaration of driving a prow into wind and waves. I wanted to recover from my injury so I could experience these things once again. As much as I enjoy paddling a sea-kayak, I will remember this day for its people, for the stories we want to tell, for the way we humans long to explore what we have not yet seen and do not yet understand, for the way we want to congregate with people who seem to belong to our tribe or separate from people who are different and frightening. Like Bird Island after the fire, it will take a long time for the seeds of a new way to germinate and for us all to recover from things we have wrought.

Lost in Geese

Posted on by
Reply

On Friday, May 15, 2015, I officially retired from The University of Montana. This decision gives me more time to wander around the world in a state of amazement. Going out the front door to retrieve the mail can lead to astonishment, but when the mid-week weather looked promising I drove up to Flathead Lake to paddle my kayak, sleep in a tent, and rise at May’s early dawn to paddle again.

I spent the first afternoon exploring The Narrows. I circled islands, entered and paddled to the backs of long, deep bays left by the glacier’s retreat, and passed through the tunnel leading to Stone Quarry Bay. The evening invited even more paddling. After days of wind the lake was finally calm. Remnants of clouds created the perfect conditions for a striking sunset, and I would have enjoyed paddling with my next-door neighbors in the campground who chose to paddle slowly through the waning light. In the end I decided to sit in my camp chair, read poems by Marge Piercy, and let the changing colors on the textured water remind me of Impressionist paintings.

IMG_2544

 

IMG_2553

During the night I heard small waves collapsing on the shore. So when I crawled out of my tent at 5:45 I was not surprised to feel a steady breeze coming from the northeast. I have learned that waves on the lake grow not only in proportion to the wind, but according to how long the wind blows and over what distance. So, I drank from my blue water bottle, skipped breakfast and stepped into my skirt. I crossed Finley Bay easily as it is protected from most of the wind by the long peninsula of Finley Point. But as soon as I rounded the knob to the north I encountered the full force of the wind and waves. When I was in the trough between waves some of the approaching crests stood at eye-level. I pressed on toward Bird Island, my goal for the morning. As I paddled parallel to the island’s west-facing shore, passed the island’s northern tip, and made a 180 degree turn, the waves required my undivided attention; I did not even consider reaching for my camera or pulling into my favorite bay on the island. I feared getting trapped and pounded between the waves and the steep gravel shore. When it came time to make the turn, I waited for an interval between waves, made a hard fast sweep, turned south in the island’s lee and began to ride the backs of the waves toward home.

Even my silent approach set off alarms among the geese on the island. In relative privacy they nest, lay eggs, and hatch their goslings on this sanctuary. As I slipped by, geese stood erect on the black blocks of argillite, their breasts extended into the morning sun. In time pairs and small flocks of geese launched and flew in circles overhead. After the adults lifted off, younger birds, seemingly torn between their island home and their desire to be with their kin, called out in distress. When the distance between themselves and their family members felt intolerable they leapt from the rocks, beat their broad brown wings and slapped flat feet against the water until they were able to join their elders in a circle around my passing. A few family groups came together into an organized flock and flew, as a friend says, as a single organism. As thrilling as it was to paddle through the morning waves, taking water down my collar, I felt elevated, even lifted out of my boat, by everything happening in the air and light. I could feel the elastic bands of belonging between and among birds, their attachment to each other and the island. It was as if I had entered a web of light and flight. My ears filled with the sound of wind, breaking waves, and calling geese, my eyes with the strokes of these powerful birds. I sat for my morning feast of amazement.

Swell Waves

Posted on by
Reply

(August 21 2009)

And you are ever again the wave

Sweeping through all things

(Rilke, Book of Hours, II, 3)

The semester will soon begin. I want to get in another paddle before I am bound to the routine of classes, office hours, and the internal pressure to try to make each class better than the last time I taught it. I also need a way to discharge the anxiety that accumulates in the final days before I meet my students. With all this in mind, I drive up to Finley Point Campground, arriving at about 10 a.m., and park the truck in the main lot because I am not going to camp. To get a feel for the day I walk out to the point, still shaded by the cottonwoods. I find unusual conditions. The wind is blowing out of the southwest rather than summer’s more typical northeast. I turn to my right and notice several people standing on the docks trying to decide whether to take their boats out on the lake. Something about the conditions causes them to hesitate.

I pause and try to assess them for myself: large swells, unlike any I have ever seen on Flathead Lake, roll toward the north. The distance between rounded crests is much greater than when whitecaps fill the fetch. I am relieved to see that the tops of the waves do not break. If waves this size tipped over and broke I would stay on shore and watch, like a surfer who perches on the cliff and does not carry his board down to the beach. When I see that the wave tops are smooth, even in the shallows of Finley Bay, I decide to proceed. I pull out of the little marina and suddenly feel the full force of the wind and the way the big waves slide under me from behind. For a moment I question the decision to launch and consider turning back. But after a few dozen strokes I begin to feel more at ease: these big swells will not swallow me. I concentrate on my breathing and adjust my paddling rhythm to the rise and fall of the swells.  Gradually, the tension leaves my body. After a few minutes I slip into effective and relaxed strokes, riding the remnants of what must have been a great storm.

As I head north I am surprised by my speed. I have never experienced anything like these big, soft swells. It feels good to be moving with rather than against all this energy. If one were inclined toward seasickness, this would not be a good day. I associate this waveform more with the ocean, having seen such waves off the coast of Southern California when I sailed as a young teen with my father. (I later learn from my wife’s uncle—a lifetime ocean sailor, that these are “swell waves”). Though swell waves are normally generated by distant storms on the ocean, I am experiencing the aftermath of a strong late summer storm on the lake. These swells are the remnants of what was once a stormy inland sea.

Carried on the round back of the swells, I quickly pass Horseshoe and Bare Belly Island to the east and notice a large powerboat heading toward an anchorage at the south end of Bird Island. By their quick movements, the people on board seem anxious to get to shore. Perhaps the rolling motion set up by the waves and a rising and falling horizon make seeking solid ground a necessity. I pass them as they wade ashore: they seem visibly relieved to be on land. Still assisted by the waves, I travel up the east shore of Bird Island, round the rocky point on the north end, and enter my favorite bay.

I explore the island on foot, cross through the island to the east shore, struggle over  deadfall, duck limbs and spider webs. Once through the tangle, I finally break into the open and look to the Mission Mountains. I decide to walk the shoreline back to my boat and bay. I hop rocks and wade through shallows. By setting my miniature tripod in the water I take a few pictures to get a water-level view across the bay. By the time I get back to my boat I need to cool off. I tuck my camera back into its waterproof case, climb the rocks and dive off several times, taking a few breast strokes into deeper water before turning around, swimming to shore and doing it again. I let the sun and air dry me as I eat my lunch.

Refreshed now, and seeing that the swells have dropped, I paddle the long open stretch between Bird Island and Matterhorn Point. The old Texaco sign now seems like a tall friend or sentry. I slip between the rocks on the point and shore, rest briefly, then cross back to Black Point. From here I head south to Safety Bay, a deep little fiord that is well named. Finding no place to land for another rest, I keep going, cross the narrow channel to Bull Island, round it and then cross back to Finley Point through The Narrows.

This trip, even through today’s swells, seemed relatively easy for a couple of reasons. I am near the end of a season of paddles. Having paddled as often as I could, I have increased my stamina. Time on the water and conscious effort to improve my forward stroke have helped me cover the day’s distance without feeling tired. This was a perfect 13-14 mile paddle, a mix of open water and close, shoreline details. If this is the last paddle of the season I will feel content. These high season summer days, with mostly clear skies and water that feels fairly warm, seem to pass as swiftly as geese riding the wind.

BirdIsland