Tag Archives: sea-kayaking

On the Other Side of the Range: A List of Riches

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On the Other Side of the Range: A List of Riches

On the morning of a day predicted to reach the mid-nineties I load Bluebird and follow The Blackfoot River east and then a chain of lakes north to Lindbergh Lake, on the other side of the range from where I usually paddle. I plan to paddle to the end of the lake,

logged outhike the trail to Crystal Lake,

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go for a short swim and return to camp for a late supper. Then I hope to watch a full moon rise over the Swan range.

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As I sit at the picnic table before and after my paddle I make a list of riches:

my wife’s soft kiss as I depart

yesterday’s massage that left me almost pain free

an old tent that still provides shelter depending on how hard it rains

a multi-grain bagel, a can of sardines and an apple

a water filtration pump in a campground without a spigot

a place to sleep, even if on the ground, in a sleeping bag that feels perfect

memories that tell me how to get to this place and where to find the trailhead at the end of the lake

memories of having been here with dear deceased friend John and my friend Lee who is still more than alive

a Werner graphite paddle

an eight-year-old kayak that is almost good as new despite scores of paddles

a clan of warblers in the chokecherries

clothes that are comfortable and safe in a variety of conditions

a tube of sunscreen I can tolerate

two mini-monster cookies now, and three later

a butterfly on my right shoulder

sunlight in the leaves

not needing several people to help me park or diesel fuel for a generator that runs all night

an extra tea bag

an Optimus Svea stove that is almost as old as I am

a hot moist washcloth in the morning

a visiting rabbit that pads soundlessly through camp

a larch tree the sawyers missed or recognized should stand five more centuries

Big Larch

geese that swim past my stillness

a hawk on the path as I go for a walk at dusk

a female American Redstart who allows me to watch her while she forages on the ground.

After making my list of riches I pack up my tent, other equipment, and cinch down my boat. Ready to drive home, I suddenly remember a warm conversation the day before with a man who was new to the campground and lake. I decide to walk over to his site and say goodbye. I see that the man and his wife are packing up, but clearly they are eager for more conversation. Maurice and Polly ask me for more local knowledge, intending to return. Then the conversation drifts toward discoveries of things we have in common—years of teaching, friends in common, the sense that the earth is rapidly changing. This year rain in February washed all the mid-level snow out of the mountains and left many of the lowland streams de-watered or dry, a bitter foretaste of things to come. Walking along the trail around the lake, and then along the trail up to Crystal lake, I could not find a single huckleberry where there would normally be buckets of berries. The three of us are able to talk freely and openly about the evidence of change and the consequences, especially for wildlife, our children and grandchildren. This conversation feels like a drink of fresh water on a day that is already hot.

I could count my riches in objects or experiences in the natural world. But as I turn away from the red van Maurice and Polly have outfitted for camping, I also feel deeply grateful for human interaction and talk about things that matter. We discover shared concerns and values on both sides of a dry stream bed. This, too, is part of what makes us wealthy on either side of the range that rises above the lake.

 

 

Beginner’s Mind

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Beginner’s Mind

From two decades as a woodworker I have learned that sometimes I need to approach a problem in the shop as if I know almost nothing. I need to return to what Buddhists call “beginner’s mind.” To solve the problem at hand, like imagining a jig that allows me to perform a safe cut, I sometimes need to put aside habits that dull perception and assumptions that prevent me from thinking in new ways. A few days ago I had an opportunity to return to a version of beginner’s mind in relation to paddling a kayak.

Last October a local church held an auction to raise money so that girls in Myanmar could go to school. A friend who belongs to the church asked me to offer a guided paddle on Flathead Lake. Wanting to support the education of girls, I happily wrote up a description of a day-trip on the lake and submitted it to the church. After the auction, I heard who won the excursion and kept in touch with her over the winter. The night before the trip, this last Monday, I loaded Bluebird, my Current Designs Gulfstream, and Kestrel, my Perception Carolina, onto my wooden rack. I went through a long mental list of everything I might need, including some emergency gear if we got caught on an island during a thunderstorm or mid channel when the wind kicked up. The next morning I met the person who made the winning bid at her house. She was ready with red bag, sunscreen and water bottle in hand. We drove down to the local Italian deli and picked up sandwiches, drinks, cherries, and chocolate I ordered ahead of time.

On the way up to the lake I gently inquired to learn more about N’s interests and abilities, her motivation for submitting the winning bid, and the kind of experience she hoped to have. As I listened I held two paddles in mind, one to Wild Horse Island that would include a hike, and the other into The Narrows where the archipelago might offer shorter paddling distances and a little more shelter if monsoonal weather suddenly descended on us. When we crested the Polson moraine I got my first view of the lake and its conditions. Wind out of the south and a choppy surface led me to turn right at the light and go for the nearer islands, choosing safety over adventure.

As we began to unload the boats and all the gear I felt a little tension. I wanted to insure N’s safety and give her the best experience possible. I wanted to impart necessary information without loading a new paddler with anxiety. Knowing how fear blocks the integration of information, I decided on a very gradual approach. I placed both boats on the lawn, not on the shore. This way we could take our time getting ready. I tried to keep in mind how excitement and fear might vie with each other in the mind of a beginner. In response I tried to pare down instructions to the bare essentials that I gave her a little at a time: skirt first, pfd second; this side of the paddle blade faces forward, this side toward you; this is how you get into a kayak without tipping it over; I’ll adjust the foot peddles until the boat feels like it is part of you; attach the rear of the skirt, then the front, then the sides; if you happen to tip over, grab this loop, pull the skirt loose and you will roll out and float to the surface; try not to paddle with your arms, paddle with your core (a way not to get tired). While speaking I noticed N’s respiration rate go up and down. Whenever it rose I slowed down or became still.

After a few things made sense to N. on land, I decided that it was time to get near the water. We lifted Bluebird over the concrete curbing and gently placed it on the boat ramp, half in, half out. I helped N. settle herself in the keyhole, handed her the paddle and again paid attention to her breathing. I could tell that she had practice calming herself. When she seemed more at ease I returned to final assurances: the skirt will protect you from waves and drips from the paddle; the hatch gaskets will hold and the boat will not fill up with water if waves wash over the deck; we can’t prevent power boats from making waves but we can ride through and over them; its Monday, so few boats will be on the water.

Eventually I slid her in the water and encouraged her to simply hang out while I picked up Kestrel. N. sat in the shallows of the marina and waited for me. When we were side-by-side I said, Go ahead and rock side to side. Get a feel for how the boat moves. Now take a few strokes and see how it feels. When I could tell that N. sensed the initial stability of an already stable boat we paddled out of the marina and into the open water between the campground and Bull Island about 1.5 miles to the west. I rafted up with her, showed her how two boats together, paddles across each boat, felt even more stable. I said, let’s just sit here in these little waves and see how the boat responds; let the boat move a little; don’t try to freeze it; your safety is in the boat, not in being able to touch bottom.

When N’s breathing settled toward something like a resting rate I encouraged her to take a few more strokes. I tried to reassure her by saying, as we make the crossing I will stay very close to you. We are going to a beautiful bay where we will have our picnic. Let’s take one stroke and then the next.

Ever so slowly we began to advance into the channel. I slipped upwind and just ahead of her to break the effect of small waves and a little wind coming from the south. I kept N. in the corner of my right eye at all times. We paddled for several minutes in complete silence. I wanted her to find her own rhythm, to work the fear-born tension out of her body. After a long stretch of quiet I thought it might be helpful to provide a distraction. So I asked some questions about her previous adventures: When were you in Saudi Arabia? What took you there? How did you decide to become a diver? Have you ever traveled to Asia? We went back and forth, stroke after stroke.

The conversation worked like a tail wind. Before we knew it we glided over the foundation of the island and entered the green water of the first of two south-facing bays. With the sunny shore at hand I sped ahead, telling N. that I would land first and catch Bluebird as she came in.

As she stepped ashore I could tell that N. felt relief to be on land. I raised my right hand to congratulate her and got a palm slap in return. After securing both boats I laid out the picnic on a drift log. I was not surprised when she said, “I’m hungry.” She reached for half the roast beef sandwich known as The New Edition and half of the prosciutto and walnut chutney version known as Kiss. We ate the dark red cherries, tossing the seeds over our shoulders, hoping for an island orchard, and then topped things off with Blood Orange Sanpellegrino and chocolate.

We took time to digest our food and told a few more stories. Though the forecast had been good, I knew how fast weather can change and that the lake responds to the slightest change in wind velocity or direction. As soon as I could I laid out some options for extending the paddle, but trusted her own judgment when she said, “Let’s paddle back.” Again, I helped her feel settled and centered in the boat and gave her a gentle push off the beach. I turned to Kestrel, tucked myself in and sprinted to catch up. On the way back I could tell that N. felt renewed by lunch and much more comfortable in the boat, perhaps even enthusiastic about being on such intimate terms with the lake. The conditions were calmer than during the initial passage, almost glassy as we paddled east. Ring-billed gulls called overhead and an occasional ski boat passed in the distance.

I entered the marina first so that I could keep Bluebird from grounding on the course concrete ramp. I gave N. a hand as she got out and found her legs. This was a successful first paddle for her. My guest on the lake had covered the distance. She had done something new and felt proud of herself for overcoming her initial fears at being in a kayak on the largest lake west of the Mississippi, a lake that feels like an ocean.

We worked together to re-load the boats and all the gear. I kept an eye on clouds racing in from the west. The wind began to blow and within ten minutes a once- placid lake turned into a gray-green milkshake. With some apprehension we watched a paddle border stroke through the whitecaps and waves that crashed against the breakwater. N. got into the truck for shelter while I finished tying down the boats. We drove home grateful that we had gotten off the water when we did. The lake was no longer a safe place for a novice paddler.

On the way home we soaked up the beauty of the Mission Valley, the way hayfields abut the high peaks of the range. In the distance we saw lightning spear the clouds over St. Ignatius, so we turned west to take the back road through Moiese and avoided most of the storm. We drove the rest of the way talking about community theater and family, took a shortcut to her house and arrived safe and sound.

After dropping N. off I felt relief. I had not exposed a new paddler to anything like the dangers of paddling in a storm. I had not forgotten anything and been forced to improvise. I had not asked too much of her in relation to distance or time. Now I can return to my own adventures on the lake, trying not to let assumptions and habits dull my perceptions or shut the door on the unexpected. I will try to be as open as I was twenty-five years ago in Sitka, Alaska, when I took those first wondrous strokes. I feel glad that in October more girls will be at school in Myanmar.

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Lost in Geese

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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.

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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.

Dandelion Day: First Paddle of 2015

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I hope I’m wrong, but I have a sense that this summer may be hot and dry with all the consequences we’ve come to expect. The best paddling this season might be in May or June rather than later in the year. When the forecast for a Tuesday in late April predicted 75 degrees and waves less than a foot tall, I decided to ignore the laundry, dandelions in the front yard and my need for a haircut, as well as a few more serious responsibilities.

IMG_2482After winter, even a mild one by Montana standards, I need reassurance that life at 47 degrees latitude shows signs of rejuvenation. On a scale larger than my back yard or the slope leading down to the stream I want to see evidence of the generative and recuperative power of the earth. I want to see arrowleaf balsamroot in bud and bloom, a bee bathing in pollen, shooting stars in moist and shady locations, evidence that deer dropped the antlers they displayed last summer and fall. I want to see white syringa on the slopes, blooming stems on orchard trees, lambs and calves in the pastures on the way to the lake. I want to sea bald eagles where I have found them before, osprey cutting out territory in the sky, meadowlarks among the meadows and pileated woodpeckers hacking out cavities in old pines. I want to see signs of life where I remember them. I count on this confirmation.

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I decide to paddle to Wild Horse Island and circumnavigate it counterclockwise. I make my first stop at Eagle cove, and then hike into the interior of the island from Osprey Cove, eating a lunch of anchovies in lemon-flavored olive oil on sourdough bread. I see the things I am looking for, earlier than normal in this warm dry year. They rise out of the ground, make the most of the light, the little moisture that has fallen, and honor their one opportunity to reproduce.

IMG_2481 It felt good to slip into the water like Rilke’s swan, to feel the boat glide in response to each stroke, and to come home as thoroughly and satisfyingly tired as the first paddle of the season leaves me. I can report that the world is vividly alive.

Because things are deeply and inescapably connected for me, something else is true. On the same day I left home to paddle a pristine lake, people in Nepal were still trying to dig family members and friends out of the ruins. People in the neighborhood of burned out buildings in Baltimore were sweeping the streets and hiding or discarding weapons used to express outrage and frustration with a system that kills unarmed men of African American descent. Wherever we are, in the Himalayas, or Baltimore, we want to see signs of life and some people do their part to establish the conditions for it to re-emerge. The least I can do with my privilege of being able to paddle toward an Island in bloom is to remember other lives.

Paddling Lessons, Part IV: Pinesmoke

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This post is the last in a four-part series. In these posts I remind myself and other Flathead Lake paddlers about some of the risks and rewards of early season paddling.

In early June of 2010, on a cool but clear morning, I drove up to the Walstad fishing access with the thought of paddling to Wild Horse Island to see what flowers were in bloom. On this day I saw something I had never seen before. The memory of this experience reminds me to keep venturing into the world of early season paddling.

Again from the logbook:

This early in the season there are only a few trucks and boat trailers in the parking lot. I take a minute to walk out on the dock and assess conditions on the lake before setting Bluebird in the water. The jet stream flows in a straight line from the southwest—unlike the mid-summer norm. Wind from this direction means I’ll have a quartering tail wind and corresponding waves as I cross to Wild Horse Island. I adjust myself mentally to what it will feel like to be pushed from the stern quarter. I slip Bluebird into the water and settle myself, feeling for a low center of gravity before advancing into the waves that create an awkward rolling motion. Assisted, even if awkwardly by waves I cannot see, I make the crossing quickly and soon slide above the tumbled ramp of island shallows. I round the island’s tail and drop into Skeeko bay.

I love to hike on the island at this time of the year, so I haul Bluebird out of the water and roll the boat over in the shade of one of the big pines. I tuck my wetsuit, pfd, and booties in the cave of the cockpit and switch to more comfortable clothes and footgear for the hike. Before starting up the trail to the isthmus I check the State Park log. I discover, somewhat to my surprise, that no one has recorded an earlier visit to the island this year. Looking forward to whatever I may discover, I hike up the ridge, down into the canyon between peaks and then back up to the top of the middle peak. As memories are attached to places, I recall that this saddle between peaks was important to friends who died in a January crossing of the strait. I come to pay my respects to other people who loved this island.

I move quickly and fairly quietly through the soft bunch grasses and the windblown pine needles. It feels good to walk on the moist, almost spongy ground, so unlike the conditions in August or September. Below me to the right I spot five big deer and a red-tail hawk. From this high vantage point I take time to look at everything around me, searching for movement and anomalies. Taking time to look before moving, I find Bighorn sheep in the distance. They are bedded down in the trees. On a scabby, west-facing slope I find dozens of Bitterroot, blazing out of the windblown gravel like pink stars. It feels as if springtime is rising out of the ground and into my legs.

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Pleased with everything I see, I drop back into the canyon then pant up to the west peak. Before skipping down to the bay I take time to look south. From this last high point I see something that startles me. It looks as though the forest is on fire. Thick clouds of smoke rise up out of the trees and billow away in the wind. The smoke is thick enough to cast running shadows over the forest and grasslands below. Remembering the Mann Gulch fire and the fifteen men who got caught in an upslope conflagration, I don’t want to be caught in a similar situation. Needing a good decision, I study the scene below. It eventually dawns on me that the smoke is the wrong color—yellow not brown or gray. I suddenly realize that the wind is blowing pollen from the pine trees not smoke. Pollen streams from the trees in enormous yellow plumes that look like smoke. This explains why I saw so much pollen on the water while in mid channel. All is well. From an ecological perspective the timing of the wind and the release of powdery pollen have met each other perfectly. Astonished by the conjunction of such things, I continue my descent more amazed than afraid.

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Back at the beach I change clothes again, tuck myself back into Bluebird and slide into the bay. During the hike I consumed all the water I brought. I sweep away a fan of pollen beside me and dip my blue bottle into the lake. I raise it and take a big, long drink, leaving just a little for when I land again at Walstad. Refreshed, even if on my way to gastric distress that shows up later (I should have filtered the water), I turn out of the shelter of the bay and paddle down the west shore of the island. Now I face into the same quartering headwind that helped me fly to the island earlier in the day. I settle into an even pace, having learned not to hurry the process in an attempt to get out of the wind. It is enough to take one strong firm stroke and then the next, to let my body roll slightly with the boat’s roll rather than fight the motion. I try to let the energy pass through me rather than oppose it as if it were an enemy. I am reminded of Lao Tzu’s approach to resistance. In Mitchell’s translation of Chapter #30 the old man says:

For every force there is a counterforce.

Violence, even well intentioned

Always rebounds upon itself (#30).

Trying not to rely on force, I paddle on, accept rather than resist the quartering seas off the starboard side.

As near as I can tell, I was the only person on Wild Horse Island today, the only person to see billows of pollen so dense that they cast shadows over the undulating slopes. Though the weather at this time of the year is volatile and the water still cold, I am grateful for a chance encounter with the perfect timing of the living world.

Paddling Lessons, Part III: Under Fire

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Paddling Lessons, Part III: Under Fire

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In June of 2009 my wife and I had an opportunity to spend a week at Flathead Lake. A friend had rented a cabin near Big Arm but needed to travel elsewhere for one of her four weeks. She offered us a chance to sublet the little cabin. On Tuesday of our week at the lake the weather seemed to be building toward afternoon thunderstorms. Despite the uncertain weather I launched my kayak with the intent of exploring the north-facing shore between Big Arm and Black Point. In the process I learned another lesson.

In my logbook I find the following account:

After breakfast I slide the boat off the lawn and head east along the shoreline. I take my time and explore each of the bays—where the Episcopal Church’s Camp Marshall will soon become a hub of playful activity, White Swan Bay, Indian Cove, the narrow slots of Whiskey Cove and Brindstone Harbor, then back out to Cat Bay. Along the way I pass a couple of boys daring each other to jump or dive off a dock into the still-cold water. They are as happy in the growing light and warmth as I am. At Black Point I turn around and begin the return journey. In the distance I see two thunderclouds beginning to build above Cromwell Island to the west. I recognize the potential danger of being caught out in the open. Clearly, I must race to safety before these clouds tower over me and electrify the lake.

I start back downwind and down wave. I ride the energy being drawn into the rising towers of the approaching storms. Ahead of me the two mushroom clouds begin to pour water and lightning down their thick grey stems, one onto Cromwell to the northwest, the other into the warm shallows of Big Arm Bay. Under the crash of thunder and the accompanying flash I feel terribly exposed. I am like a little black wick before an approaching flame. Too invested in my current direction to turn back, and knowing no one along the shore where I might ask for temporary shelter, I paddle on and hope to reach Melita Island before the lightning reaches me. As the fireworks continue further west, powerboats scatter like schools of fish. I sprint up the back of a wave until it catches my boat and launches it down the face, speeding me toward what I hope will be the shelter of trees and a little lee. I ride the storm’s energy toward its source.

When I start around the north side of the island a downdraft from one of the clouds drops out of the sky. All at once the wind reverses direction, blows the tops off the waves, and soaks me in spray. I laugh out loud and instantly see that I can’t go this way around the island. Forced to circle back I cling to the shore on my right. I reach Driftwood Point where flotsam and ducks pile up on in calmer water. I peek around the corner to see if I can paddle the last mile home. I want to get out of the red eye of the weather so I sprint to close the distance between the island and the shore, make a left turn into the area beside the dock, slide the boat out of the water, dash across the lawn, take the steps two at a time, and duck breathless under the porch.

From the safety of the deck and its overhanging roof I watch the storms continue to advance toward The Missions. The light changes. It casts a yellow-green hue on the ridges between peaks, throws a full rainbow over the lower lake to the south and produces orange, backlit clouds that appear to have been tumbled. It occurs to me that even when we are not on the water we live our lives caught between the rainbow and the lime-colored light, between the lightning and the dock, between fire and water. On this paddle I took a chance, placed myself in and under all the energy that poured out of the sky. I might have paid a high price; next time I will be more cautious. On this day I was too far out on the end of a long branch.

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Paddling Lessons, II: Learning to Yield

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(May, 2008)

When two great forces oppose each other,

The victory will go

To the one that knows how to yield (Tao 69)

A few years ago my brother and I arranged to paddle together on the first anniversary of our mother’s death. She had been a difficult person in our lives, chronically ill and prone to trying to trying to control her sons. By paddling together on this anniversary my brother and I would celebrate our good health and freedom, two riches she never enjoyed. One day in May my brother drove to Montana from Seattle. The next day we drove together up to Flathead Lake. At this time of the year it was not hard to find a campsite at Big Arm State Park, so we erected his old Sierra Designs Starlight close to the beach. We spent the late afternoon and long evening paddling around Cromwell and Wild Horse islands.

During the night the weather changed. From inside the tent we heard wind in the trees and waves breaking on the shore next to us. In the morning we crawled out to find the wild conditions that made for a restless night. As we stood on the shore wind bore through the strait between Wild Horse and Melita Islands, turning the blues and greens into a froth of white. We knew it would not be a good day to paddle in an area receiving the full brunt of the wind. Hoping for calmer conditions elsewhere, we decided to drive up to Westshore Campground.

Conditions at Westshore were much the same. Determined but with trepidation, we launched at the boat ramp and paddled south—downwind and down wave, hoping to reach Cedar Island about four miles away. On the way conditions become even more severe. The wind blew harder and the waves became more ominous. We drew closer to shore in case we got into trouble. By the time we reached the Douglas Islands we knew it was not wise to continue; the further south we went the more difficult the return trip would be. The water opposite the cliffs at Painted Rocks would have been chaotic and dangerous.

In the narrow channel between shore and Mary B Island we turned around. In the lee of the little island we hopped out of our boats, stood in the shallows and rested. We kept our boats from blowing away by holding onto the combing around each cockpit. We took a few minutes to reconcile ourselves to the work ahead of us; returning to Westshore would be exhausting, a hard beat against the wind. Resigned to the inevitable we resumed positions. Choosing safety over further adventure, we headed north against waves that broke over our decks and swept up and around our skirts. Waves swallowed the upwind arm when we reached for a stroke on the starboard side and ate the downwind arm as they rolled under us. Looking north we saw wind gusts rattle the surface of the lake and then flail us. It took our best effort to make any progress. Someone observing our struggle from his deck shouted at us, but neither of us could afford to pause between strokes, turn to the side, or respond. We never knew whether he was shouting encouragement, offering us a chance to come ashore and rest, or whether he was cursing us for being on the lake. Each wave required our complete attention. Photographs were out of the question. Using my ears I kept track of Jeff just off my stern on the port side. We saved words for later but listened to the sound of each boat meeting the train of waves. Hoping that the peninsula above West Shore would break the wind for us, we dropped into the crescent of Goose Bay and circumscribed its perimeter.

When the dock at Westshore finally came into view we felt a great sense of relief. Three miles of this kind of paddling had been enough. We pulled in next to the dock wanting to avoid having our boats smashed on the rocks adjacent to the ramp. But even as we stood on the dock, waves blew through gaps in the planks and shot into the air. A gust of wind caught Jeff’s paddle and nearly blew it off the dock into the bay. He caught it with a toe. Barely able to control the boats when we lifted them into the wind, we secured them to Jeff’s rack and climbed into his Forrester. Inside the shelter of the car we felt the buffeting of the wind and gave thanks to be out of it. In the warmth of the car we noticed maple leaves beginning to unfold. We began to relax.

As hard as the return trip was for us, Jeff and I learned our own limits and the maximum conditions we can face in our boats. We learned that sometimes it is necessary to abandon a goal, no matter how desirable it seems. In the face of forces far greater than our own strength and determination it was prudent to yield and turn back.

After this day, as much as I love to paddle, I can imagine choosing not to paddle. There are days when morning wind whips the willows and causes big pines along the shore to sway. On stormy days light and shadow shift continuously and each leaf or needle or wave crest becomes a chip in the mosaic of light. On such days I must be able to imagine sitting inside, relieved that I am not contending with waves that break over the bow or lift the boat from behind and spiral it down into deepening troughs. There are days for tea in the tent.

 

 

Paddling Lessons, Part I

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The sun is beginning to rise through the firs a little further north each morning, even when dawn begins at fourteen degrees. I cannot help but think about paddling, even if the boat won’t go in the water for another couple of months. I turn the pages of the logbook and find a few things I want to remember as I prepare for another season. I don’t want my enthusiasm to get ahead of my experience. I want to recall a few paddling lessons.

I think back, for example, to a paddle I made three years ago in the first week of April. Wanting to become more familiar with the east shore of the lake I drove up to Yellow Bay. I pulled into the campground, named for the yellow rock on the north side of the bay, an Algonkian substrata, a Precambrian formation that also appears in Glacier National Park. I walked down to the beach, its broad fan exposed now because each winter the lake is drawn down to accommodate runoff from surrounding mountains. As I approached the water I spotted small, transparent plates of ice floating in the bay, the mica of ice. They made a tink, tink sound when I stirred them with my paddle. Despite the cold and a little breeze out of the northeast I decided to launch. When I stepped into the lake with my boat the water burned through my neoprene booties. Cold that feels like fire made me think of Elizabeth Bishop’s “At the Fishhouses”:

…The water seems suspended

above the rounded gray and blue-gray stones…

If you would dip your hand in,

Your wrist would ache immediately,

Your bones would begin to ache and your hand would burn

As if the water were a transmutation of fire

That feeds on stones and burns with a dark gray flame.

The cold also brought to mind a diagram Tom Bansak gave me one day when I stopped by the Flathead Lake Biological Station. At these temperatures a person in the water would lose consciousness in between fifteen and thirty minutes; death quickly follows. One reminder was poetic, the other medical and sobering.

Despite this warning I felt called into the bay by sunshine and Bird Island in the distance. A slightly darker blue in a world of blue, the island rode the pale water about six miles to the south. At the start of the paddle I stroked through the strain of muscles that hadn’t been used in this way for several months. Push-ups and pull-ups alone did not maintain the muscles needed for paddling. I passed out of Yellow Bay and into the deepest part of the lake, about 370 feet at this time of the year. There were no other boats in sight, despite the clear skies. I reminded myself, If you have difficulty, you are on your own. I tried for smooth movements, not wanting to catch a blade. I settled into the rhythm.

As I approached the island I saw five pairs of unhappy geese. The island had been theirs until I showed up. Having found broken shells during summer visits to the island I knew they had nests hidden in the forest. I felt torn. On the one hand I really needed to land, to rest a moment in the sun and the lee, and on the other hand I knew I should leave the island to the geese. They became even more agitated as I pulled into the cove that I barely recognized despite dozens of summer visits. In April the large blocks of stone that frame the cove and the steep ramp of cobbles that form the beach were exposed. At this lower lake level the cove seemed much smaller than it did at summer’s full pool.

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Knowing that I would disturb the birds, but acceding to my own needs, I landed on the island as quietly and gently as possible. I ate my lunch in a modest patch of sunlight on a rock as far from where the birds nested as possible. After eating I stretched briefly. Meanwhile, the geese paddled back and forth across the cove, anxious for me to leave. After a few minutes on shore I returned to Bluebird and passed the geese without making direct eye contact. About a hundred yards out I braced, turned around and saw that they had moved back into the cove behind me.

In the clear, cold air I could see my reverse destination and stroked for Yellow Bay. I pulled into the bay a couple of hours later, avoiding a fisherman lobbing lead and bait into the water. After landing I carried a few pieces of gear up to the truck. In the shade, maintained by the shadow of the truck, I saw that frost had still not melted.

On the drive home I reflected on the risks and rewards of early-season paddling. The danger of the cold had been obvious to me. But in paddling on such a day I had been drawn to two great wonders—the beautiful rhythm of paddling, the reach, pull and sweep, and the way the body’s core traces an invisible infinity symbol with each stroke. But I had also craved the expanse of the lake and evidence that life was beginning to emerge after a winter indoors. On reflection I realized that I should have left the island to the birds. This early in the season I should have stayed closer to shore; it would have been enough to play on the line between mountain shadows cast over the water and the great fields of light.

Gratitude

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As anyone knows who reads this blog, more often than not I paddle alone. I love the freedom this gives me, paddling where and how I choose, setting my own pace, paying my own form of focused attention to the liminal space between water, light, and human consciousness. But as I look back on the year now behind us I feel extremely grateful to those people who have paddled with me. Standing on the edge between one year and the next, I feel particularly grateful to the following people:

my beloved who prefers to stay close to shore;

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my dear friend John who, like Rilke’s swan, slipped quietly into deeper water;

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Professor Clem Work who brought his camera and artist’s eye to the lake and allowed me to see the world through his lens;

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Jeanne and Glenn who followed me to the island and carried a picnic into the cove where we ate and talked as Bighorn rams and ewes traveled the trail to the isthmus;

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Jeff who joined me for a bronco ride across Finley Bay and a downwind race in the strait between Melita and Wild Horse islands;

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my brother, also named Jeff. Here the debt is larger as I remember how he taught me to use my camera more skillfully, began to teach me about the physics of waves, and is in the process of forgiving me for taking him nearly three miles past our haul-out because I completely forgot myself (and him) in the joy of meeting an approaching headwind and the waves it generated north of White Swan Point.

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We can count our riches in coins and objects or we can count them in the form of gratitude for time spent with other people who expanded the island of our awareness. With these people I have braided wakes left by every stroke.

Memories

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We lose everything, but make harvest

of the consequences it was to us. Memory

builds this kingdom from the fragments

and approximation. We are gleaners who fill

the barn for the winter that comes on.

 –Jack Gilbert, “Moreover”

This is the time of year when ranchers in Montana pull stored sunlight out of their barns and spread it on frozen fields for hungry animals. This is the time of year when Blackfeet, Salish and Crow pull stories out of ancient storehouses and remind each other who they are and where they came from. Memories are the feast of the season.

At this time of the year a paddler builds a kingdom out of remembered fragments and approximations of the season past. In many cases the memories are composed only of images—a wave that caught my brother on the upwind side of a dock, lifted him on its crest and almost set him down on its deck; a wall of stone where water flowed out of cracks and created a bank that overflowed with green and living things; an encounter with an eagle where the air flowing over its feathers was felt on my skin; a vast space of open water with the paddler a mere speck in the blue distance. And sometimes the memories take the form of a story. Like a tool in a cabinet, we keep pulling it out of the drawer where it is stored, handle it, turn it, reflect on its significance and use to us.

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Though I could pull open any of several drawers of stored memories, this winter I feel drawn to return to a day in September a few years ago. Having begun the semester but not yet burdened with the first batch of student essays, I drove up to Finley Point. Drawing on the strength of a full season of paddles, I wanted to depart from the state campground and stroke my way to Wild Horse Island on as direct a line as possible. But I hesitated as I stood on the concrete abutment that helps to form the marina. Breaking waves flowed down the fetch from north to south. Would it be foolish to paddle alone on such a day, on a day when no one else was on the lake and available to render aid if I got in trouble? Was I willing to take the risk?

Trying to quiet these questions in my mind, I slid Bluebird into the channel between the bobbing docks. The moment I passed the mouth of the marina I felt the full force of the waves running down the lake and striking the starboard quarter of my boat. I committed myself to the process of meeting each wave as an individual, rose in the crests, dropped into the troughs, and adjusted to each push and slap with more or less forceful strokes. I maintained this focused attention for about two hours before I began to realize the true danger of my situation. If my attention faltered or wandered even slightly, as fatigue began to pervade my body, I might lose my balance in the waves and find myself in grave danger. This realization tapped the last measure of my strength and allowed me to reach the island safely. I hauled Bluebird out of the waves on the backs of some drift logs, climbed the bluff and drank all my water. I rested, waited, watched. I needed time to recover.

I wandered around the island’s east shore, grateful for the stability of rock and earth beneath my feet. When I eventually returned to my overlook I realized that the wind was beginning to drop. The waves no longer broke, though swells swept the surface of the lake. These were safe enough conditions for me to paddle back across the lake to another island and then the last three miles home.

I continue to reflect on this day. At times I think I was willful in relation to far greater powers and that my safe arrival and return were less a matter of skill and strength and more a matter of luck. Other times I feel the exhilaration that this day brought me, recalling, as Mihaly Csikszentymihayi said of happiness:

 Contrary to what we usually believe…the best moments in our lives are not passive, receptive, relaxing times—although such experiences can be enjoyable if we have worked hard to attain them. The best moments usually occur when a person’s body or mind is stretched to its limits in a voluntary effort to accomplish something difficult and worthwhile. Optimal experience is this something we make happen.

As near as I can tell, we live somewhere between the stone, feather, or spring that we happen upon and the happiness we “make happen.” If this is true, then I strive for consciousness not only of the wave as it surges toward me and the exhilaration of meeting it, but of the space between forcing my will upon the world and simply receiving its inexplicable gifts. I want to be aware of the edge of each, the things we make happen and the things we receptively receive. In this consciousness we make a way in the world.

I know I will lose the ability to make such paddles as I lean into the middle of my late decades. But between now and then I want to glean my experiences from the field of the lake and its islands; I want to harvest the consequences of memories, and fill the barn as long as I can. On a winter day I open the drawer where they are stored, pull them into the light and turn them in my hands.

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