End of Summer?

July 29, 2021

We are still trying to bear up under the heat dome that produced temperatures in the 90s, and occasionally the 100s, and a pall of smoke from fires all around us. One cannot help but wonder if 2021 will be the end of summer as we know it, historically the season of recovery for us who live in northern latitudes, the season of leisure and lounging near the water. We need these three months and it now seems as though our actions across the globe will take them from us. Though I read hungrily in this field, I do not know how we will manage the necessary transition in time.

With company at the house and plans for a dinner deck party for friends visiting from Iowa, I decided to go paddling. Aware of a host’s proper duties, I had abandoned my plans until I saw a radar image showing powerful thunderstorms sliding west to east across the lake early in the morning. Anticipating a slight cooling effect and perhaps cleaner air, I loaded Bluebird mid-morning and packed the truck for a day on the water. When a big truck passed me on a straightaway and rainwater sprayed across the road and into the air, I knew I’d made the right decision. One can stand only so many deck parties.

When I arrived at Finley Point State Park the campground was unusually quiet. I suspect people slept in after enjoying the sound of rain on the roofs of RVs. Knowing I had the whole day, I took my time to prepare for being on the water. It was hot enough that I changed into my bathing suit. Because planning reduces anxiety, I took time to carefully stow truck keys, phone, and emergency contact information. I also planned to have food and water readily available for a long paddle from the state park to Wild Horse Island. Fortunately, conditions were perfect for a paddle of slightly over 20 miles—variable winds, waves less than a foot, water like liquid mercury.

This would be my first long paddle using the Greenland style “Kalleq” paddle. The catch of the blade is noticeably easier on my less-than-perfect left arm. As the miles slid under me I sensed that the design of this paddle allows for hours of strokes without strain. I soon rounded Black Point with all its security cameras, crossed the gap north of Cat and Taylor bays and pulled into the rocky shelter at the tip of Rocky Point where I stood in the shallows for a few minutes to grant hamstrings a reprieve. I got back in the boat and reminded myself to be patient with the four-mile crossing to the Wild Horse.

I aimed for a dense cluster of Ponderosa pines and a dock where friends spend part of their summer. After a long time in the deep blue, I felt glad for the green of the shallows. I took a few minutes to rest on the dock where I have permission to land, ate high-calorie food and pumped water back into my bottle. Heading back always seems easier than venturing forth, though the efforts are probably equivalent. In the mid-afternoon heat I decided to take a small detour to Bull Island where a swim seemed to be calling to me. Feeling charitable, I waved to jet skiers and pontoon boat captains when they waved to me and my quiet craft.

I pulled into the bay on the south side of the island buoyed by a host of memories—the memory of Joyce floating on her back in this bay, a memory of a friend who, taken for his first paddle in a kayak, fell out of my boat as he approached the shore and had to walk the last few yards to shore but seemed unfazed by water temperatures in May.

Wading ashore

I slid Buebird over some drift logs, shed skirt and PFD, stripped my sweat-soaked shirt, and dove into the warm water, warmer than any Flathead water I could remember—about 74 degrees. Though I sometimes keep my glasses on when going for a swim, this time I took them off because I wanted to immerse my head, dissolve the remnants of sunscreen and perspiration. It never felt so good. In fact, after coming ashore I turned around and dove in again.

Restored, I settled back into the boat for the last two miles home. This time I had to be a little more cautious. I was surrounded by pontoon boats and a vessel modified to produce a very large wake which allows people to surf the wave at the stern. Like an owl, I kept rotating my head so as to keep track of approaching waves, not wanting to be caught off guard.

When I finally pulled into the marina I passed a big dead fish floating over the boat ramp. I suspect the fish had died from the water’s high temperature. It seemed a troubling omen of days to come.

Taking the same time to organize gear for the drive home, I avoided the self-imposed pressure that goes with being in a hurry. In good time I slipped through the vale of smoke and traffic in town. When I pulled into the driveway I could not park near the garage, other cars having blocked my way. I carried Bluebird to its cradle and removed the wettest things from the bench seat in the back of the truck. I greeted friends on the deck, went back to the kitchen for a big bowl of chicken salad, and later, a huge helping of ricotta, blueberry and lemon cake with a massive mound of vanilla ice cream. As I returned to the deck the assembled women said, almost in unison, “Now that is more than a dollop.” Dollop must have been the word they used to signal their modest appetites for dessert. I ate the whole thing and soon fell into bed.