The Lake in Winter

Posted on December 15, 2013 by kestrelgwh

It is six degrees below zero this morning and will likely be even colder tomorrow. This near the solstice the sun has not yet risen. Seventy-five miles south of the lake and faced with other responsibilities, I will not see its winter face any time soon. Yet, the lake lives in my mind and I travel to it in my imagination. I picture what it looks like after all the leaves have fallen from trees around its shore, after almost all its birds have flown south, after all its summer residents have locked their doors and shuttered the windows. I picture its shoreline after six-foot waves driven by autumn storms crashed on its rocky rim and pounded its islands. If I happen to see the 10 p.m. news, I look to the rooftop camera in Polson to give me an idea of how far the ice extends into the bay and if it reaches all the way to The Narrows. I travel to the lake in my mind in much the same way that a parent travels on the jet stream of imagination to a beloved son or daughter who lives on another coast or another latitude. The heart wants to check on what it loves. Paddling in and through the lake’s surface in many kinds of conditions, through all the moods of weather, under all the passing arcs of the sun and several traced by the moon, I have put the lake inside myself. It does not leave me. I return to it mentally and seek to know that it is well even when the predawn hours are locked in cold and I am far away. To help with this process I take a stone I collected from one of Flathead’s beaches, cradle it in my palm and rub it with my thumb, feeling its soft curves, the texture of its molecules. I feel for the effects of time, the way the lake’s long-buried river tumbled its edges and ground its points away. I use the pebble as my touchstone to keep me in contact with a place that lives inside of me. I am made of water, mineral, and memory.

Swell Waves

Posted on September 10, 2013 by kestrelgwh

(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.

Patience

Posted on September 1, 2013 by kestrelgwh

Paddling around and through The Narrows on Flathead Lake offers the paddler a wide range of possibilities and variations. One island leads to another; intense sunlight gives way to shade, and shade to a blast of light; deep open water ends suddenly in a sparkling ramp of stones or a reef. This is simply a great place to paddle.

After driving north from town on a hot day in July, I can hardly wait to get my boat in the water. I make myself wait through the process of setting up camp, erecting the tent and an alcove for shade around the picnic table. I fill the big blue jug and placed it on the bench at a slight angle so that water will flow through the spout with a little pressure. I make myself wait for friends who are delayed in town but who plan to rendezvous with us. When everything is finally in order and friends found their way to the spot we reserved for them I slip Bluebird in the water and begin to paddle toward the unnamed island just to the northeast of Bull Island. I can easily complete this four-mile paddle before dinner.

In years past a pair of bald eagles raised their seasonal broods in a big nest on the south side of the island. I want to see if the nest is active this year. My attention is soon drawn to the conditions, however. As high pressure builds in the region, a strong wind blows out of the north. Whitecaps begin to form in the open water between the state park at Finley Point and the island. The wind and waves give me the resistance I need after containing my energies in camp: I need to paddle against something. At last I can express my own energy openly and fully.

In the distance I can see the smooth water of the island’s lee, the body of the island and tall pines blocking most of the wind. I slip into the quiet and catch my breath. Even here, though, I can hear the wind on the other side of the island and the waves crashing on the north-facing shore. I begin to paddle cautiously along the west side of the island. I feel safe enough paddling directly into the force of the wind and waves. I pull a few yards past the north shore of the island and feel daunted by the big dark waves that break against the ramp of rock leading to the body of the island. I know that turning my boat sideways to these forces could easily result in a spill. If this were to happen, my boat and I would be thrown against the rocks on shore. While holding my position straight into the wind and waves I consider a couple of options: I can back away into the relative calm water of the west shore and return the way I came, or I can wait for the best possible interval between waves, paddle hard through the opening, and begin the process of rounding the small island’s north side.

Trying to make a good decision, I wait in the rolling waves. I simply hold my position and observe the waves. I watch them roll down the fetch of the lake, see how their dark bodies rise and tip over in a white noise of air-saturated foam. In time I begin to get a feel for the rhythm of the waves. When I seem to have the pattern in mind and my energy in hand I wait for one wave to break, accelerate into the opening before the next wave, make several very hard strokes and initiate a turn just as the second wave breaks on my port quarter. I brace hard on my right to keep from being rolled like a log, then accelerate again to build a little distance between the next wave and my boat. In a few seconds I am past the north side of the island and heading for camp. Though I have completed the turn I need to keep my focus. The waves keep breaking on my stern quarter and require a quick brace in response. From time to time I try to paddle fast enough to catch a wave, riding the interval between the approaching wave and the receding one. When one wave passes under me I pause so as to not use up my energy paddling up the backs of waves. In a few minutes I am well on my way back to camp and the feast that awaits us as we gather at the picnic table of campsite #2.

I have often paddled in what I consider the safe range of waves that flow across Flathead Lake (1-2 feet). I have occasionally felt frightened, less by the general train of waves and more by the odd, idiosyncratic wave that seems bigger than the rest. This short paddle, one I have done many times, taught me something new. When I felt frightened by what I saw on the north side of the island—the full expression of the length of the lake’s power, I realized that I did not need to force my way into the tumbling waves. I did not need to maintain the pace that took me to the island. I could hold my position, wait, observe, consider options, and then decide. I could watch long enough to sense the subtle variations in the rhythm of the waves and advance into the best opening possible. I could trust my ability to accelerate, trust my body to adjust to the wave’s tendency to bring me parallel rather than perpendicular to its energies. I could wait for fear to pass and the wisdom of experience and confidence to flow back into my body. Having learned to wait, I made a safe passage around the island’s north shore and coasted back to safety and friends.

Sunset, Moonrise, Dawn

Posted on August 24, 2013 by kestrelgwh

(July 2013)

The moon this July has been extraordinary. At home it rises over Mount Dean Stone like a plate of ivory, climbs through the branches of a black ponderosa, and throws a wave of light against the south-facing shop where I build my furniture. For a couple of years I have wanted to do another night paddle, perhaps in moonlight. Before driving to Colorado to see family, Joyce and I quickly pack up the camping gear, secure a sloping site at Big Arm and eat a dinner we prepared at home. I sit facing the lake so that I can judge the conditions. Under high atmospheric pressure the lake basin receives a breeze out of the north that sweeps around Wild Horse Island and aims its energies toward the bottom of Big Arm bay. I watch as white caps lose their crests and the wind gradually lessens, leaving waves about a foot high.

I launch from the beach where Fish, Wildlife and Parks docks its big aluminum-hulled boat with the 200 horsepower Honda outboard. The contrast in vessels strikes me as humorous. If I were ever to need a rescue I might see all that power differently. Once in the water I enjoy releasing the energy of anticipation as I face the waves and wind. Bluebird splashes onward toward Wild Horse Island in progressively calmer conditions. In the lee of the island the water is much quieter. As I begin the paddle around the island, I notice a few landowners leaving the shade of their cabins after a day in the mid-90s. They come down to the beaches and docks for a swim. At Driftwood Point I pull into the snags of dead junipers and pines and read a FWP sign saying that a bear has been seen recently on the island. Perhaps the bear, too, wanted to cool off with a swim.

As the sun disappears over the horizon I paddle up the eastern shore of the island. In the distance The Missions have turned a pale violet, rocks near shore the black of silhouette. One crescent south of Osprey cove I hear a commotion over head. I see the middle act of the eternal drama between osprey and bald eagles. I look up in time to see the eagle bear down on the osprey from above. The osprey rolls onto its back. The birds lock talons and lose altitude. Then I see the eagle pumping toward me, fish in its grasp. I can’t tell for certain who caught the fish first—probably the osprey. Next, a second eagle pursue the osprey while the first eagle rises to its roost. Again, the osprey is the loser, beaten by size and weight. In Darwin’s terms, this is the struggle of existence.

In the growing darkness I continue paddling north, close to the rocky shoreline and at a slow pace. I would love to see bighorn sheep or the island’s mule deer, or something as secretive as an otter near shore, but the island does not reveal these inhabitants. Travelling along what is now the back of the fish-shaped island, I begin to look for a place to rest and wait for the moon. I find a deep cove with a beach of small pebbles and pull ashore. It feels good to get out of the boat, to step into the coolness, to feel rock under my feet. After the windy crossing and the paddle north I go for a swim in the darkness. I am refreshed by immersion.

I change into dry clothes, eat one of my two cinnamon raisin bagels, drink a quart of water and guess where the late-arriving moon will rise. If I had come a few days earlier, the rising of the moon and the setting of the sun would have occurred simultaneously. Tonight, I must wait for the moon. Around 11 p.m. it rises over the tops of the island trees to my right. Two or three days past full, it fills the forest around me with white corridors and long shadows and takes over where the sun left off. Trusting the light and the dark, I nestle into the stones beside a long straight cottonwood that has fallen parallel to shore. I sleep for a few hours and wait for the approach of dawn.

The sun rises like a trumpet blaring over The Missions. Feeling the heat of the day the moment the sun appears over the range I gather my gear, eat a duck egg, an apple and my last bagel. I launch in the early light to complete the paddle and have morning tea with Joyce. I head out of the cove into gently flowing air and calm water. After rounding a couple of points, I see the moon again, four fingers above a ridge. I am surprised by how glad I feel to see it again. It seems like a friend departing for another land. Something in me wants to wave goodbye. In the quiet of early morning I paddle past six sailboats tucked into Skeeko bay, two of them tied head to toe, silence suggesting that everyone is still asleep. I continue slowly along the west shore of the island, hoping to see the animals I could not spot last night. At the tail of the island I look southwest and try to locate the campground three miles away.

In the strengthening light I begin the crossing. About a half hour into the process I see jet skiers, camped along the shore, begin to cast their wakes into the air as they take advantage of the calm conditions. Though I do not enjoy the whine of their engines, they help me locate my landing. I paddle on, spot Joyce’s wave, step on shore. I feel happy to have paddled through sunset, moonrise, and dawn and all the subtle variations of light. I put down paddle, pfd and skirt, and come to the table for tea.

Summer light can seem almost garish in quality as it glances off the water. Convection raises wind and waves that fill the shore with noise. All the people, desperate for the cooling effects of water, and needing distance from the heat of home, add to the activity along the lake’s perimeter. All of this helped me feel drawn to the afterglow of sunset, the quiet of the night, the subtleties of moonlight’s shadows, the first hints of morning light before the sun claims the day. I timed my exploration of this other world well. Everything has been gentle, even in July. I have lived into the Celtic Blessing:

Deep peace of the running wave to you,

Deep peace of the flowing air to you,

Deep peace of the quiet earth to you,

Deep peace of the shining stars to you,

Deep peace of the gentle night to you,

Moon and stars pour their healing light on you.

Deep peace to you.

Guilty Escape

Posted on August 22, 2013 by kestrelgwh

I feel like I am doing something illicit as I drive away from Missoula on August 21, 2013. The Lolo Complex fire has burned 8500 acres, displaced 200 people from their homes, detoured and inconvenienced thousands more. As I travel west on I-90 I look over my left shoulder and see smoke from the fire drape itself like a five hundred foot thick blanket over the hills south of town. I feel as if I should stay with my fellow citizens, endure what they endure, not slip away to the north for a paddle under clear skies.

By the time I get my first full view of The Missions the sky is clean and blue except for an area high in the Mission Creek drainage where a small fire is allowed to burn in the wilderness. Dropping into Polson I see that a steady breeze from the northeast has turned Polson Bay into a turquoise frappe. Today I want to paddle from Westshore campground down to Cedar Island, round the island, then head back north to Deep Bay for a swim, and return. So, I head through town, check out the fishing access site at Elmo as a launch site for a possible future paddle, then turn off at the campground further north.

After unloading my boat and related gear I stand in the shallows. I want to get a feel for the lake and what it will permit. Modest white caps roll southwest down the length of the lake. I will have to take these waves on the port stern quarter for several miles. As long as the wind does not strengthen and start to blow the tops off the waves, experience tells me that I should be able to paddle back against this energy. It seems safe enough to proceed.

Almost immediately I am in the grip of the wind and the waves. I deploy the skeg for a little directional assistance and added stability. Paddling gives me a chance to brace intermittently, as needed. A few fishermen speed by, their wakes adding to the mix. As is so often the case the waves are particularly unpredictable around Painted Rocks. Once again I won’t be able to take a photograph of the pictographs. Suddenly the island comes into view. I proceed with my plan, speed down the east shore of the island and swing around into the lee. Only an osprey on a snag breaks the quiet. The bird seems incensed that I have intruded upon its morning.

I drift into the rock shelter near the derelict home on the island. I extract my lunch from the hatch and climb the rocks so I can look out on all the water to the north. I find my spot—part sun, part shade, and enjoy my peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Below me waves roll the logs trapped against rocks. Blue, green, and yellow mix with each other according to the depth of the water. Everything is airy and bright.

I leave my vantage point feeling refreshed. On my way back to the boat I find a particularly fine goose feather, and pick it up for admiration. Before dropping back into Bluebird I wade out into the water to pick up a glass lemonade bottle that someone tossed away. I stow it in an extra bag in my rear compartment. I don’t want broken glass in these shallows. If I were really responsible, I would also remove the green shirt someone left behind. I am not quite that conscientious. I use my paddle to move it away from the water’s edge and hide it among the drift logs. I hope it will degrade.

I always feel a little anxious as I head out into the wind and wave train that now advances toward me. I remind myself to trust the cumulative effect of thousands of strokes. I glance to my left for reassurance and see that I am indeed moving north in relation to the shore. The day may come when I will not be able to move against these forces, but for now it feels good to apply myself in this way.

After a couple of hours I am at the mouth of Deep Bay but need to adjust my course to make way for the enormous tour boat operated by Far West Cruises. Tourists look shoreward from the canopied upper deck and never see me. I am not sure the captain does either, preoccupied as he is with his narrative about the lake. I feel grateful for the intimacy I have with the lake compared to their far remove.

I haul out in the bottom of the bay, wade back in and take the plunge. This is as warm as the lake will ever be, I tell myself. It feels good to be thoroughly wet, head to toe. On my way back to the campground I stay very close to shore. I pass through the milky water against the cliff, wondering if there is a clay deposit here, and see that in late August the reds and yellows of autumn are beginning to emerge on the dry slope above.

Bathing beauties sun themselves on the gravel where I normally pull out, so I slide up the adjacent concrete boat ramp and am careful to not let Bluebird come to ground against the abrasive surface. As I begin to carry everything back to the truck someone calls out, “Hey, I like your craftsman-style boat rack. Mine is made of two-by-fours and screws. Yours is beautiful.” I am not sure how to respond and can only muster, “Thanks. Yours works as well as mine.” I laugh to myself thinking, my truck rack may be the most-admired thing I ever made.

As I drive back down the west shore of the lake I return to the sense that I stole this day, stole it from school preparation, stole it from my community laboring under the smoke, stole it from the grip of anxiety. As I head south I try to bring along with me today’s experience of ease and pleasure at paddling in clear water under a clear sky. I return bearing treasure.

Mayflies, Part I

Posted on August 18, 2013 by kestrelgwh

(July, 2012)

Soon after her birthday, Joyce and I decide to camp at Finley Point. Joyce uses the new reservation system with Montana Fish, Wildlife and Parks to secure a walk-in site for a Monday and Tuesday night. Without advance planning I doubt we would be able to secure this site for a weekend in July. Montana FWP has plans to expand the campground but this project will have to wait for a time when more money becomes available.

On the way out of town we pick up sandwiches from our favorite shop. We spread out the white wrapper in our laps and make a delicious mess as we drive north. We stop, as we must, at the inspection station. I have been through here so many times that I am well known by the staff. We combine the serious business of making sure that my boat will not be importing dangerous plants and mollusks with some gentle teasing (They would like me to remove the road-killed skunk on the highway across from the station, and offer this job twice). It is essential that Montana succeed in stopping the importation of non-native aquatic mollusks like zebra and quagga mussels. I strongly support these efforts, answer all the questions, give the team a clean boat to inspect, and skip through in a few minutes.

The day is hot by 2 p.m. when we pull into the campground. We set up our Hobitat on the gravel pad, pump up air mattresses, and stow food in the bear-proof boxes. By the time the chores are done, we are both ready for a swim. I can barely contain my desire to put my boat in the water; so while Joyce lets a light breeze cool off her wet bathing suit on shore, I slide Bluebird into the water using the new gravel ramp that Fish Wildlife and Parks created near the south boundary of the campground. This is a much friendlier area for paddlers who don’t want to negotiate summer congestion and the noise of engines and jet skis at the other end of the campground.

Thrilled by the freedom of a summer evening, I make a quick circuit around the islands in the Narrows. I scout for places Joyce and I might explore together, revel in the warm air and water temperatures that feel much safer than they are in early June, not to mention April and May. I circle Bull Island clockwise, take the north end of Bull Island on my right and speed back to camp ahead of thunderclouds forming along the western horizon. I roll the boat upside down on the new beach in case it rains and walk toward camp as Joyce begins to cook pork chops from a local farm and onions on her old three-burner Coleman, a gift to her from her parents when she graduated from TCU forty-five years ago. The smell whets our appetites.

During the evening the once-distant storms pass to the north and west; nevertheless, the lake becomes riled and wild. All the color washes out of the ridges of the Salish Mountains beyond the opposite shore. Everything becomes a variation on the theme of gray. As the sun goes down, the wind drops, quieting the lake. The ragged remnants of graphite cumulonimbus suddenly become a full palette of pinks, blues, and oranges. Then the surface of the lake picks up the sky’s colorful stain. Even the stones on the beach reflect the colors that shift from one shade to another over the course of an hour. Eventually the islands and west shore turn into black silhouettes. During this display, Joyce reads in her not-so-comfortable aluminum and canvas chair perched on the edge of a steep drop above the water.

Meanwhile, I watch the largest mayfly spinner fall I have ever seen. Something about the photo period and the temperature of air and water cues the insects. Though not an entomologist I think these mayflies are Gray Drakes (Siphlonurus occidentalis). Millions of them climb into the sunset and then fall toward the water to drop their eggs. They fill the sky in every direction and clog the spider webs that have been suspended like aerial drift nets between branches of fir trees. The mayflies also call out common nighthawks that swoop through the air and pick them off with their fine beaks. One second the birds cut through the air like flung blades; the next they make sharp cuts and turns to fly into a concentrated cloud of insects, their movements as erratic as jacks bounced across summer concrete. The climax of this hatch becomes a banquet for birds and spiders. Every photograph I take of the sunset catches a blur of insects in the immediate foreground.

If I had focused only on a day paddle, if we had not chosen to camp, we never would have seen these things. Sometimes the best I can do is drive up and back in a day; but spending a night or two we get to enjoy the changes, something as ephemeral as a hatch of insects or a shifting color in the sky. This evening I am conscious of all that we would miss by hurrying home in the squint of headlights. We crawl into our sleeping bags with a sense of anticipation about tomorrow. Let’s see what a new day brings.

Through New Eyes

Posted on August 17, 2013 by kestrelgwh

(June 2013)

People occasionally ask me to introduce them to paddling on Flathead Lake. They want the benefit of my experience before they venture out on their own. At a chili feed for a local nonprofit my friend C.W. bid several times during the silent auction on a guided paddle on Flathead Lake. When the opportunity went to someone else, I turned to him and said, “Would you like to go with me some time for free?” His eyes brightened. He said, “Sure.” Two years later, after his retirement and several other major events in our lives, we finally found an opportunity to make good on our plan.

Before C.W. arrives I check the graphical forecast and a satellite image (http://www.wrh.noaa.gov/mso/flatheadlake/. A big yellow comma full of rain hangs over the lake but will pass to the east later in the day. After C.W. pulls into the driveway we load his extra clothes, lunch, and camera gear into my truck and take off. On the way up the valley we see clouds clinging to The Missions. Elsewhere, the ceiling is flat and gray. When we crest the Polson moraine we see a calm lake, sections of black water that are perfectly breathless. It has stopped raining. When we pull into the Walstad access, with the thought of crossing to Wildhorse, I say, “I have never seen it so calm here in mid-June. We’ll have a great day.”

As we pull away from the dock we stay close together until I can see that C.W. is comfortable in the boat. When I see him pull the skirt while we are in mid-channel and reach into his lap where he stowed his camera, I know he will be fine. He takes photographs throughout the day, evidence perhaps of his habits as a journalist. He had been a reporter for Rocky Mountain News before coming to the University of Montana where he had a distinguished career as a professor in the School of Journalism. As I keep watching, I realize that he is as much an artist as a reporter recording a story.

When we reach the island C.W. feels drawn to the margins where trees have fallen into the lake and left long ghostly bodies angling down toward darkness. Later, when I see his photographs, I discover that he was also drawn to the abstract forms on shore, tree branches sticking out of the trunk of a tree in parallel curves that reminded him of ribs, gnarled root balls that revealed a tree’s contortions around impermeable stone. As a photographer he recognizes the moment when an angle of sunlight allows him to see objects underwater but near shore, blocks of stone dusted with spring sediment or gravels scrubbed by shore waves. He keeps seeing and recording the interface between things: the line between shadow and light, the comparatively hard or sharp forms of things on shore—dead tree branch, or leaf edge, and the soft forms of pebbles beneath the surface. Using his telephoto, he finds a trio of adult geese introducing eighteen goslings to what must have been their first open-water paddle. We pass them going opposite directions far from shore. When we slip beneath an eagle on its overhanging perch he frames it from below. When we are on the island and find a band of rams, he selects a trio of particularly big boys out of the whole group, their massively thick horns protruding above the island’s long and, for now, still-green grass.

Later in the day, after we climb to a rocky promontory with a ledge full of bitterroots, the blooms tightly folded under gray skies, we search for the island’s horses. By not hurrying, and consulting my memories of where I had seen them in the past, we spot the foal, now a full-grown horse, startling red and white among black mares. Again, with an artist’s eye, C.W. looks for the patterns in their arrangement with each other. When we find the skeleton of the horse that died this past winter he asks me to hold a femur that I extracted from the grasses beginning to conceal it. He takes a photo of me holding the massive bone. Afterwards I think of Georgia O’Keefe painting found objects in New Mexico. Keeping an eye on the muted sun I suggest that we head back down to the bay. Because the water is still calm I suggest that we put a bend in the route of our return and circle Melita Island before heading back to the dock.

Kayaking on Flathead Lake is about crossing from mainland to island, the beautiful rhythm of strokes, countless adjustments to wind and waves–all the things that bring me a sense of exhilaration. But on this paddle I learned that paddling the lake is also about seeing in new ways, taking time to see patterns I usually ignore or fail to recognize, seeing the interaction between water and shore, object and reflection, even the beauty in death. This morning I pulled out of the driveway hoping to introduce a friend to a new subject. I returned as a student learning to see in a new way. By trying to view the world through my friend’s eyes every time he raised his camera, I learned that I had been passing by some of the marvels of form, color, and relationship as I sped from point to point. On this day the teacher became a student. I learned another reason to paddle with other people. As I helped my friend load gear back into his car he said, “Thanks, this opens up a whole new world.” I felt the same way.

Blue Silk

Posted on August 16, 2013 by kestrelgwh

In spring the day may begin clear as a button-down pinpoint fresh off the iron. In the morning geese call to one another overhead as first light ignites their wingtips. But as the day warms the engine of the sun seems to lift moisture out of the lake and into the air. It reaches for little wisps, gathers them, kneads this moisture into clouds, packs them tighter until they begin to have weight, until they begin to tumble and rumble. Then the wind blows or it rains, and the waves on the water begin to build. And after all this energy is spent and night comes on, the heaviness in the sky breaks up and blows away. Pearly clouds pick up sunset’s fire like opals as the sun touches the horizon. If the last of the gray clouds in the foreground move off and dissipate in a lighter atmosphere, we see a light blue line at the horizon, a line sometimes tinged with green. In springtime a paddler needs to look for intervals, the openings between storms and windy conditions. This interval might come soon after sunrise or in the space between sunset and starlight. We especially need these openings when far from shore.

In mid-May we experience record-breaking heat for this date, the kind of heat that already makes us think about fire season. I head for the lake. Trying to get the maximum number of paddles per drive, I set up camp around 4 p.m. The weather seems dependable so I don’t bother with the rain fly. Around 5 p.m. I begin to paddle toward Matterhorn Point. The whole surface of the lake is like my blue silk shirt—smooth with a few soft wrinkles. I experience none of the noise and chafe of rough conditions, nor the anxiety that goes with having to respond to the odd, large wave.

When I get to the point I see Wild Horse Island about three miles away. Even though it is dinnertime and I had planned to turn back, the water is completely calm and irresistible. Many times I have looked from this point to the island and felt that the intervening space seems almost impassable, but not this evening. As I ponder the decision to turn back or go on, it feels as though the lake is offering me a series of open gates. Almost any paddle feels possible. I am amazed that no one else is on the lake experiencing these conditions. Seizing the opportunity, and knowing it is rare, I enter the opening. Dinner can wait. I leave the point behind and cover the intervening distance quickly, the sun still high in the sky. I feel almost no resistance to anything I might like to try.

I find a place to land between cabin sites, no one in sight, and lift my boat above the water line. I slip my water bottle out of its special spot next to the right side of my seat, rummage through emergency gear for an energy bar and dried apricots. I hike up a steep slope and find a downed tree where I can sit and marvel at calm water in May. The island is lush, the Palouse prairie grasses long and drooping. Everything smells of balsamroot and warm sap. Like the plants at my feet I soak up water and light, look south to the mountains still mantled in snow. The lake registers no more than a whisper.

Having paddled farther than I planned, I finish up my snack, drink all but a sip of my water that I will save for later, descend the slope and slip Bluebird back in the water. I am alone on the lake in the most perfect conditions I have ever seen. If I had the strength, this would be an ideal evening to add a circumnavigation of the island to this long crossing. Though nearly intoxicated by the conditions, I have enough experience to resist the temptation. I know how fatigue can fall on a paddler like a sudden weight. So, in a state of joy I paddle the 8 miles back to camp and arrive just after sunset. I carry Bluebird up to my campsite and think now I can eat. I get the cooler out of the truck. Simple but rich fair again— leftover Columbia River steelhead on multi-grain bread, fresh fruit, more water, and two big cookies. It is all I can do not to eat the cookies first. In light that seems reluctant to leave the sky I sit for a while on the concrete breakwater and savor both my food and this paddle, valuing the memories as much as the food. I have seen geese on all the islands, a mated pair of eagles in a snag on the south shore of the island due east of Bull Island. They sat on a huge nest made of driftwood from the beach. I wonder when the downy nestlings will begin to peer over the lip of the tangle that protects them.

After almost all the light has been swallowed by darkness I settle into my sleeping bag. A final image appears in my imagination. As if from the vantage point of a small airplane, I see a lone paddler on a still lake. A long faint trail dissipates behind his boat. The lake is a sea of blue, purple, and pink. Venus blazes away just above the horizon to the west. The evening ends with gratitude for this image. I drop myself into it and fall sleep.

ospreypaddler

Sea Kayaking Flathead Lake

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