Peach and rose-colored leaves lie at the base of the euonymus like a fallen skirt. Now I can see the chickadees who flock there early in the morning. Though this week is unusually warm, by the weekend the weather will be what we expect in mid-November. I turn inward, begin to reflect, retrieve a feeling, a memory, and awaken to a goal in the distance.
When I read from Into This Radiance at the library in Polson, Montana, conversation with people turned toward what it feels like to slide a kayak into the water and begin to bring the boat up to hull speed. The conversation reminded me of Denise Levertov’s poem “Avowal.” From a friend I had learned who might be drawn to the reading. Anticipating that this poem might speak to this audience, I had typed the poem into my outline for the evening and read it to everyone:
As swimmers dare
to lie face to the sky
and water bears them,
as hawks rest upon air
and air sustains them,
so would I learn to attain
freefall and float
into Creator Spirit’s deep embrace,
knowing no effort earns
that all-surrounding grace.
(from Oblique Prayers)
People in the audience described their experience of paddling a kayak in these terms, trusting the lake to bear and sustain them, the all-surrounding grace of buoyancy and wonder. When I read Levertov’s poem to the group, head nods and sighs told me they understood. This shared sensation is one of the reasons I keep returning to the lake.
But then there is a memory. This past summer, on two different occasions, I was on the east-facing shore of two islands as weather approached from the southwest. Once on Wild Horse and once on Bird Island, I looked almost straight up and sensed the changes, but because I could not see the whole sky––my vision blocked by trees and the terrain of the islands––I felt alarm. I could see clouds amassing and flowing overhead, but I could not see if they were part of a larger system that might make the paddle home more menacing. Both times I suspended my explorations and resumed paddling so I could see around the islands. Fortunately, the weather systems did not become dangerous, and I returned without incident to my starting points. In November of 2025 it is as if we are on one of these islands, can look straight up but cannot read the whole sky. We see the edges of change and potential danger but have no way of knowing how they will develop, if they will pass benignly overhead or become life-threatening to more of us. On the islands I felt anxious when I sensed what was coming but had no way to evaluate it. If in the kayak, so as a citizen.
And finally, sorting memories before winter, I have a goal. Next spring I will be seventy-six. It is not getting easier to load my boat on its wooden rack, unload it without bumping the stern on asphalt, or pull knees to chest before sliding my legs into the tunnel of the kayak. Yet, I aspire to move smoothly, to apply strength at the fulcrum when it is called for and ease up at just the right moment. I aim to keep my balance and not move abruptly. As in the kayak, so as a citizen.
Almost every morning I put my hands in a yogurt container full of black oil seed, carry the seeds out the front door and cast a black arc to hungry birds. The way it feels in those first moments on the water, a memory of having only a partial view of the world, and a goal to move through it gracefully will sustain me until late April or early May.
In the forecast I saw what looked like two good days of promising weather for a paddle from the Walstad Fishing Access site to Cedar Island, about four miles north of Wild Horse Island. I gathered the necessary gear for camping overnight on the island, remembering numerous occasions when I made this trip alone or with friends. One more time I wanted to experience this island in the middle of the lake, gaze at the star river overhead, enjoy the gentle decline of sunset and the drama of sunrise.
When I arrived at Walstad I avoided the traffic of boats being launched or returning to the ramp by ducking through the trees and putting my boat on the ground in front of the shallow pool of water west of the parking lot. As I unloaded gear from the truck and thought about its careful placement in the boat, two mothers with young children waded in the shallows. One little girl crossed an invisible boundary and dared to squirt her mother’s friend with a powerful squirt gun. This set up a splashing contest and led to all the noise of water-play.
Once the boat was loaded, I left a note on the dash saying “Out to Cedar Island” for anyone who might wonder why my old Tacoma sat parked in the lot overnight. I then slid Bluebird into the shallows and gave mothers and children a wide berth in case I, too, might become a target for a long shot of water. As soon as I made the turn into the main body of the lake, I felt the resistance of a headwind. Calm and determined, I paddled on.
Paddling a boat full of camping gear feels very different than paddling an empty boat that bobs and swings. Unschooled in physics, I simply trusted the power of momentum. In good time I arrived at the point that helps define the entrance to Skeeko Bay. But here, I made a good decision based on years of experience. After studying the waves and wind I decided to cross over to the west shore of the lake, preferring to face the direct opposition of this energy rather than face it obliquely. I knew I could use landforms to blunt the effect of the wind and eventually cross over to the island once I reached the entrance to Canal Bay.
This plan worked well. I passed to the north of Shelter Island, crossed the beautiful gap between islands then coasted down the east side of Cedar to the little pocket where I have always camped. In late August of 2025 this area of the island had accumulated massive amounts of wind-driven debris, feathers from birds, grass torn from riverbeds, huge logs, pieces of broken docks, and bits of garbage. I found a little slot where I could pull Bluebird well above waves flowing down from the north.
Before setting up camp I took some time to think about the tall red crane erected on the point slightly south of Painted Rocks on the mainland. Red steel high in the air catches one’s attention. There is no point in lamenting what people choose to do with their own property, especially in Montana, but I could not help thinking about how this site is sacred to Native peoples, the stories they tell about Painted Rocks, the centuries of vision quests in this area, how this red tower and the massive concrete structure emerging beneath it must seem like a huge middle finger in the air.
Eventually, I swallowed this sorrow and set up camp on the ledge about fifty yards above the beach. Next, I returned to the beach and used two big sawn blocks of wood and a long plank to make a level, informal table, a perfect place to set up my stove, cook dinner and watch water and sky.
During the remainder of the afternoon, I wandered all over the island, re-familiarizing myself with the location of things I remembered—trails old and new, a memorial to a man who died at 55, the tattooed bungalow (an unholy Lascaux), and the location of the new tent sites created by Montana Fish Wildlife and Parks. In the process I found an artistic arrangements of stones with a common theme
and discarded cannabis paraphernalia, an accelerant to the island’s high. Then after dinner of freeze-dried lentils and dehydrated apples from a friend’s orchard, I found my way through dead fir trees and fallen mistletoe to the point on the southern tip of the island where one has a view of everything to the south, from Finley Point, up to the Mission Mountains, to the north shore of Wild Horse Island. As I stepped onto this limestone platform, I also noticed a milling flock of ring-billed gulls below me. When they eventually saw the disturbing silhouette of a human profile against the sky they took off. The setting sun turned the backs of their wings a golden hue before they disappeared. This is an image I must hold in my memory, my iPhone camera left behind in camp.
I returned to my tent, settled into my own nest and went to sleep. But during the night I woke numerous times to the sound of wind and waves slapping, then thundering against the rocks that form the pocket where I left my boat. I kept trying to evaluate the sounds, the meaning of the occasional boom when a bigger wave hit the shore’s stony armor. I got up twice, my path illumined by a headlamp, and pulled Bluebird even higher up the beach, eventually tying it to a small tree. I could not afford to lose my means of return. At first light I went down to the beach and sat in my folding chair to study the conditions. Waves continued to break against the north facing beach, swirled around barely hidden blocks of stone, and sent white splashes into the air. I could not time my photos to capture the actual chaos of the conditions. What should I do?
I had launched from the beach in these conditions on one other occasion when I made the trip with my friend Jeff Stickney. On that day we had each other if one of us got into trouble. Alone, with no one else on the island and no one coming to the island on such a rough day, I could not afford a spill in the waves or to have my boat broken against blocks of stone. Gathering information before making a decision, I took my water bottles and pump to the opposite side of the island where I could safely stand in the shallows, refill the empty bottles, and assess my options. Standing in the lee of calm water and looking at the waves between Cedar and Wild Horse Islands, I decided to carry my boat and all my gear over the island’s crest and down to the east side. In four stages I carried everything over the same ledges, through the same trees, down the dusty trail, turning right at the dead pine tree, and down to the opposite beach I marked by tying a strand of tow rope to a tree branch.
Eventually everything was stowed in a proper position, and I dropped into my seat. On the one hand it was a tremendous relief to have launched safely and to feel the push of a tailwind. On the other hand, I was quickly gripped by inexorable forces. I knew it was not safe to let these forces come at me from the right, crossing the way I had come. So, I made the barely better decision to let this energy push me south toward the southeast tip of Wild Horse Island. I had not reckoned, however, with what I call the wrap-around effect of even bigger waves coming from my left out of the main body of the lake. Waves from behind corkscrewed the boat. Waves from the left lifted and plunged the vessel of return.
I do not want to exaggerate the danger of these conditions. It is enough to say that a spill in the middle of this channel with almost no chance of rescue probably would have been fatal. I used nineteen years of experience to brace, accelerate and, crucially, to conserve energy, depending on each wave and the overall pattern of them, to make a long arc toward and then down the east side of the bigger island until I could rest a moment in the temporary lee at the end. From there I knew I could return to Walstad in smaller waves due to the protection of both Wild Horse and Melita. On a gravel bar opposite from the Boy Scout camp I hauled out, waded up to my knees and washed my face in the waters of relief.
Again, I pulled into the shallow pool and reversed the process of unloading gear from the boat. Stepping out into the parking lot, I was hailed by a young man in a big Ram pickup. He quickly began to tell me his story. “When life gets hard, I come out here from Wisconsin,” he said. He then filled in a few details, telling me about his experiences in Kalispell, Lakeside and Butte which he called “a fun town.” I wondered about what he meant by “fun.” He chatted on about breakfast that morning at a café in Lakeside that offered more breakfast than he could eat. At one point he held out a paper carton from the café. “Feel this,” he said, as he asked me to hold the weight of his huckleberry pound cake which certainly weighed more than a pound. He would have calories for the foreseeable future. After telling me about his new origami kayak back in Wisconsin, he offered help loading my boat. By my slow movements he could tell I was in no position to refuse. After casting lures from the dock a few times, he returned to his truck as I completed final preparations for the trip home. He gave me a fist bump, a strong handshake, and a lovely Irish name before we both pulled out of the lot and on to the highway.
Deprived now of precise information from NOAA about wind speed and direction, as well as wave height, I may never make this trip again, at least not by myself. On this occasion I brought the full strength of experience and knowledge of the lake to bear on the situation. I celebrate having made all the right decisions at exactly the right moment, but I do not wish to repeat this experience. There are other reasons to stay alive. It is time now to rest.
This June we produced our annual crop of whitetail fawns, a pair of twins born on the west side of the house and a single fawn born in the grove somewhere on the back slope. Again, I noticed something about how fawns perceive the world. Because everything is new to them, they are curious about everything––the smell of fence wire around the peonies, the behavior of crows, anything their mother eats. Early days with fawns remind me of the first few years of my sons’ lives. They were as curious as fawns about everything in the human and natural environment. Fortunately, they have maintained much of this early openness to the world.
These observations about young deer and my sons remind me of the qigong practice called Eight Silk Brocades. As this practice was taught to me, the fourth movement in the first set invites the practitioner to see everything in one’s field of vision. While doing this practice almost every morning, I have noticed that I tend to skip over some objects in my field of view as I turn my head back and forth. For example, I notice mahonia blooming in the rock garden on my right but miss the mix of shadow and light in the lilacs on my way toward my neighbor’s pine tree on the left. This practice asks a person to see not just the objects we want to see but everything else in the field of awareness. This is a tall order.
On July 23, the weather seemed perfect for a paddle out to Wild Horse Island. I began by paddling through a stiff headwind to reach the east shore of the Island, swam a couple of times off a driftwood-covered beach, then proceeded counterclockwise around the island, pausing again on the west shore before letting a faint tailwind push me back to my starting point. During the day I noticed my tendency to skip over some things in the field of awareness, but I kept reminding myself, influenced by qigong, to attempt to see the whole. As I approached the first cove, I noticed bighorn rams grazing grass and forbs on the slope above the beach.
This was indeed a wonderful encounter with wild animals at close range as they went about addressing the business of hunger and thirst. But trying to take one of my spiritual practices into my daily life, I reminded myself to also notice the three boatloads of people watching the sheep.
Beyond that, I reminded myself to notice two stones that seemed to have washed downstream from the same strata and were distinctly different from surrounding stones, a stone that reminded me of a flying saucer, and then a floating feather unlike any feather I had ever seen, one with two white dots in a black field.
After leaving the cove I noticed two kayaks traveling east. Again, trying to practice a way of seeing, I slowed down and adjusted my course as we converged from different directions. The woman asked about my “strange looking paddle.” This led to a wonderful conversation about Greenland paddles and then an even more amazing conversation about an academic background the man, my father, and I had in common, all in the middle of the lake. When I reached the west shore all my favorite spots were occupied by other people. Eventually I found a few square feet of gravel where I could secure my boat during a brief hike. I climbed a steep slope up to a bench, noticing that this trail was well traveled by animals on the island. After a brief exploration of the area, I dropped back to my boat. After lifting Bluebird over some sharp boulders and into the water, I felt a faint tug of intuition suggesting that I needed to simply stand still. I kept in touch with my bobbing boat by letting small waves push the kayak into the back of my legs while I kept watching the slope above me. Moments later about 30 bighorn ewes and lambs came bounding down the same slope I had climbed. They poured over logs and boulders, tried to balance on driftwood rolling in the waves, and walked past me, almost as though I was invisible.
Seeing the world as qigong asks us to see presented close encounters with two herds of sheep, their absolute confidence in their own footing and strength, but also the intuition that told me to stand still and wait.
It may be asking too much of the human brain to remain open to the whole field of awareness all the time. But at least on this one day in July, I felt richly rewarded for trying to see the whole field––objects and interactions that interested me as well as everything else in between.
Calling from Colorado, Ed, my brother-in-law, expressed the hope that we might paddle out to Wild Horse Island, a capstone of sorts to his long driving trip through the Rocky Mountain West. On Wednesday, we paddled from the Walstad Fishing Access to the biggest island in Flathead Lake. After we returned home I wanted to write about the experience, but it took me awhile to realize what most needed to be expressed. Not what it is like to paddle against a headwind both in crossing to the island and in returning to shore. Not the contrast between May’s warm air and lake water at 43 degrees. Not the island’s eponymous horses we never saw. I want to describe sight and insight about the snake, the geese, the rams, and the Shooting Stars.
After reaching the island and padding up its west shore I waded ashore in Skeeko Bay. I noticed a garter snake swimming about my ankles; it too wanted to be on shore and to warm up. After lunch on a sun-silvered Ponderosa log, I returned to the boat and found the snake in the shade of the kayak where it had sought shelter from the sun. While Ed and I prepared to walk the trail to the island’s isthmus, we watched a mated pair of geese sail through the trees behind us, fly out over the water, and with sun on their backs, make synchronous wing beats to slow their descent and land smoothly on the bay.
On our walk through the forest, we paused at the trees where Native people found the sweet layer of cambium beneath the bark during the starving time of early spring. Along the way, we did our best to name the season’s ephemeral flowers, then at the saddle, I outlined some of the island’s history.
We scanned the slopes and margins for bighorn sheep, mule deer, or horses, but we did not find any of these large animals. On the way back to the bay, I noticed that eagles that nested last year in a snag above the most visited area of the bay chose to locate this year’s nest somewhere else. I hope they found a safer and more secluded part of the island to raise their young. As we paddled out of the bay, we caught sight of three young bighorn rams. As easily as boys playing on a jungle gym, they scrambled over the rocks a few feet above the waterline, stood as silhouettes at the top, then vanished from view.
Leaving the cliffs, we felt the wind shift 180 degrees and oppose our every stroke. The return was even more difficult than getting to the island. We were not given the free ride we thought we deserved after paddling to the island.
As I think about the day, I feel as though I see clearly that each creature we encountered has its own life, a life separate from our own. Each animal and plant has a center to its own being, its own way in the world, and its own relations. They are not on the island for us, for our amusement, but for themselves. Each makes its own adjustment to temperature and light, to adversity or comfort, seeks its own safety, nourishment, and shelter. Each star has its own fire, trajectory, and circuit. In the same way that we humans had to adjust to not being the center of the universe at the dawn of the Copernican revolution, so we are not central to these other lives no matter how powerful we think we are. This was a good day because it de-centered us, dethroned us, and let us see, briefly, the autonomy of other living things. The grand total of two headwinds amounts to a warranted and appropriate humility. This is the gift we took home.
My brother-in-law is climbing through the turns along the river, on his way to Montana. On the phone he told me he wants to paddle to Wild Horse Island. I need to get ready. The lake temperature is still in the 40’s and no one has access to NOAA’s Graphical Forecast with its critical information about wind direction, speed, and wave height—another casualty of government efficiency. Preparation and experience count now more than ever.
I lift the heavy, dark-green Maine Guide Bag off the shelf in the garage and carry it into the house. It contains most of the things I load into the car before driving up to the lake. Inside the main compartment I find the skirt my friend Mary repaired over the winter. The Velcro had become fuzzy and did not tighten across my tummy as securely as it should.
I pull out my Astral personal flotation device and test my memory of what I put where. Is the extra energy bar still in the narrow pocket and is the wider pocket still available for my phone, at hand when I want to take a photograph but also available in case of emergency? Do the inner pockets still contain nose plugs for later in the summer when I practice self-rescue techniques, extra sunscreen and lip balm? Does the small outer pocket on the left contain a stirrup to help me step up to the cockpit in the event of an unexpected spill? Does the opposite little pocket contain a paddle leash for exceptionally windy conditions?
I review what I’ve placed in the lime green bag for emergencies—water pump, fire-starter, a can of sardines, pouch of electrolyte solution, a towel, headlamp, and knit hat.
Because Ed and I will paddle in early May I want to make sure that I have my dry suit with its new wrist gaskets. I see the tightly folded Farmer John wetsuit for Ed and a synthetic shirt. Reassured by what I am finding, I unzip the side pockets of the gear bag. Here I find my old neoprene booties and wonder if they will get me through another season. The ankle gaskets have cracked. I’ll give Ed my paddling gloves and trust my hands calloused from gardening to hold up under the friction of paddling. Ed can have the Pelican box for his phone. I make sure that the first aid kit has a spare key to the truck, my old Swiss Army knife, appropriate bandages, medications, a pen, tourniquet, and Ace bandage. In the opposite pocket I see my cerulean-colored paddle jacket that I love to pull on over my head and shoulders.
Satisfied that I have the essentials I need and that I won’t forget an extra paddle for Ed, I feel almost ready. I enjoy the rituals of preparation, the creation of order, and access to items that add to the margins of safety. At the same time, I notice how these objects stimulate memories. It is almost as if memories stick to pieces of gear. Handling my thickest neoprene gloves I remember conditions during a cold autumn when I welcomed their insulation. Looking at the leash I remember a time when a gust of wind stripped the paddle from my hands. Reviewing the first aid kit I remember a time when I desperately needed what it contained and did not have it. The towel reminds me of a swim and times I used it as a tablecloth. As memories adhere to the big Stanley screwdriver, a silk tie, or the red sweater I inherited from my father, so stories abide in faded fabric, the snap of a buckle, the sound of a zipper. All this is part of the pleasure of paddling a kayak, an experience I hope to share with Ed, a man at home in the mountains, but eager to cross the strait on the way to the island. Now we can both look forward to Wednesday.
I was determined to go paddling before the thermometer popped the 100-degree mark, before fires grew worse and the air became unhealthy from fires to the west and south. Having paddled in honor of my mother in May, and having introduced one of my granddaughters to the lake and its largest island in June, I wanted to paddle within myself in July, returning to places that are no longer new.
With the smoke in a blue-gray band above me, I stroked out of the marina at Finley Point, made a right turn and headed for Bird Island. I quickly fell into that beautiful rhythm of harmonious breathing timed to the pace of my strokes. Though I have made this paddle countless times, something about the island was different. Through the haze I could see that Montana’s Fish, Wildlife and Parks had installed a solar toilet near the south end of the island, above the beach where many people come ashore. I applaud their decision to reduce waste on the fragile island. Continuing north I saw the black blocks of stone that mark the entrance to one of my favorite coves near the opposite tip of the island. Rounding this angular corner I saw a cove I hardly recognized. Instead of a little bay with an incredible view and an accommodating beach, this half circle of shelter was choked with logs that had washed down from the north, trees that had fallen since the island burned, a massive, bleached post, and lots of lumber ripped from docks, nails in the air. There was barely enough room to slide my kayak into a secure position while I walked over the debris and dove into the water from one of the blocks of stone.
Refreshed by my plunge and a little hungry, I ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a couple of delicious rolls of baklava left over from a party we attended Sunday night. Since the lake was calm and with no change in the forecast, I decided to try something I had never done before—paddle from Bird Island across the width of the lake to Wild Horse Island. As often as I have paddled to Wild Horse, I had never made this eight-mile crossing. I drank half a water bottle charged with electrolytes and settled into a sustainable pace. In the thick haze it was hard to pick a target that would keep me moving in a straight line, but I aimed for a faint wedge of shade on the northeast corner of the island.
The miles seemed to fly by as I concentrated on rhythmic strokes. In mid-July the surface of the lake is usually clean; pollen has settled onto the bottom and tree roots and branches have come ashore. But this year the surface of the lake was covered with a yellow substance that I first thought was pollen, but then realized was dried algae. Throughout the crossing I made small adjustments to my course to avoid floating woody debris, branches, roots and bark. Eventually, it dawned on me that this year’s high lake level had lifted material from beaches and riverbanks across the watershed and set it in circulation. This was a different lake surface.
When I finally landed in a small indent on the east shore, I was sweaty from the effort. Not hearing the sound of boats and their engines, I stripped my clothes, left them to dry on hot stones and made a few breaststrokes out into the viridian. I thought to myself, all of us should swim naked more often and not leave this experience to children exploring water for the first time.
Curious about this part of the island, I dressed again and began to explore the forest above the narrow beach. I found a premier pink Mariposa lily. Having once found several white ones, I regretted having once mislabeled this plant as a sago. I also found a dead raven. Though I could not be sure–since the breast of the bird had not been consumed—I wondered if the big black bird had been knocked out of the sky by the fist of an eagle.
Back at the beach I found half of a broken stone that because of its color and dimensions reminded me of a cookie, but then found its other half in another location. I tested the fit and found it perfect. I think I have an eye for cookies. Together the stones reminded me of the ancient Jewish practice of cutting a covenant or the practice in English jurisprudence of cutting a contract. Once again, I realized that a familiar place seen with fresh eyes can be full of discoveries.
I returned to Bluebird, ate a wedge of my favorite Manchego cheese, salty crackers and the last of my baklava. In planning my return to Finley Point I decided to paddle down the east shore, cross to Matterhorn Point, then Black Point, the east side of the unnamed island in The Narrows, then cross to the last spindly cottonwood marking the mouth of the marina at Finley campground. This route would give me a brief period of shade every time I passed a point or island. In the heat of late afternoon I craved shade. I added sunscreen, filtered another bottle of water, ate a dried apricot or two, and settled into the next leg of my journey.
When I finally landed at the concrete boat ramp at the marina a woman came rushing up to me.
“Was that you way out in the middle of the lake? We watched you come across.
“Yes,” was all I managed to say, tired from almost 27 miles of paddling and not quite ready for human interaction after seven hours of solitude.
Strangely eager, she asked, “Would you like some help lifting the boat out of the water?”
Never before had I accepted such help, but conscious of many new things in a place that has become familiar, I stretched myself and said, “Sure. That would be wonderful, but we need to set the boat on the grass so I can unload my emergency gear.”
This friendly and strong woman seemed to enjoy offering this assistance and I confess to being grateful for her help. After we set the boat away from the concrete she said, “My husband and his friend will come over and help you lift your boat onto the saddles of the rack.” Not quite at ease with this change in myself, I simply said, “Great.”
I piled wet gear, emergency bag, phone in its Pelican case, and first aid supplies in the bed of the truck. Turning around I saw two guys coming toward me asking for directions. One carried my Greenland paddle that I had tossed on the grass. The other lifted the bow into the back saddle and helped me slide the boat forward into place. It was a joy to have help. This was as much a discovery as the changes to my favorite cove, the pink lily and the raven. All that was new was beginning to find a place in a life I know by heart.
On Father’s Day I am still thinking about taking my oldest Pennsylvania granddaughter paddling on Monday, June 10. Bodhi spends time in the gym, treadmills at a steep angle and lifts weights. She is broad-shouldered and almost as strong as her father. Even though most of her paddles take place on the lazy Brandywine where she and her sister look for turtles, I thought she might be able to paddle from the Walstad access to Skeeko Bay on Wild Horse Island.
After pulling into the parking lot, I walked down to the dock, the lake now full as my wife’s coffee cup. I saw conditions like those predicted by the NOAA site I faithfully consult—winds out of the southwest at 15 mph, waves less than one foot, locally up to two feet. The only catch was that we would have to contend with quartering seas that would consistently push us off our compass point.
We laid out our gear and placed the boats on softer ground than the concrete handicapped pad. I offered my boat to Bodhi, a little more stable and faster than my old plastic Perception Carolina 14.5. When she accepted the invitation, I put my head inside the tunnels to adjust four foot pedals. On the second try I got them right. Because of the wind I also suggested that we wear our blue paddle jackets.
I nudged her off the ramp and told her to hang out and get a feel for the boat while I made ready to launch. At first, she felt uneasy with the rolling motion as waves pushed her port stern quarter, so we advanced slowly into the lake, giving her time to adjust herself to the conditions. I could tell that she felt anxious because she paddled hard and fast, as if eager to get to the island. In the shorter, heavier boat I found it difficult to keep up with her. We worked in manageable conditions for a little less than an hour, but the waves kept knocking her away from the tail of the island that we needed to be able to round. I occasionally dropped off the mark, urged her back up and tried to match her fast pace. About fifty yards from the island, I could tell that I had not made myself clear: she was going to try to land on the south-facing shore of the island where waves broke against the blocks of argillite. I had not adequately explained that she would need to postpone her relief until we entered the slightly calmer conditions around the corner of the island. Even before I drew close to warn her about landing, her instincts kicked in and she began back-paddling. Gradually, she came away from the island and, sighing, followed me around the corner where we both could catch our breath, though the wind still blew.
Deep in the shadows a mule deer buck, still in velvet, foraged for still-soft greens. Sight of her first mule deer seemed to inspire her and we paddled on. Still, I had a hard time matching her pace. Eventually we rounded the gravel bar that defines the entrance to Skeeko and we relaxed inside the protection of the bay. Bodhi called out her amazement as two bald eagles circled above us.
With the lake much higher than on my paddle less than a month earlier, we pulled the boats up onto the driftwood. After we extracted ourselves from our paddle jackets it was clear that we had both worked hard. My NRS shirt was soaked, as was her long-armed bathing suit. A cooling breeze felt great. Hungry now, we lifted tuna salad sandwiches from the bear vault and agreed that a person would become strong as a bear from trying to rotate the lid past two spurs and their catch. Orange and apple slices were the perfect accompaniment to our sandwiches.
After lunch I proposed that we walk uphill to the island’s isthmus in the hope of seeing the wild horses who sometimes graze in the grass around an old and derelict corral. As though she were on the treadmill at home, she strode up the trail leaving me out of breath at the top where we paused and studied the slope below. Not horses but Rocky Mountain Bighorn sheep moved in and out of deep shadows cast by the pines. I said, “Let’s see if we can approach. We’ll use the wind in our faces to our advantage. They won’t smell us. Be sure to pause in the shade of each little cluster of trees.”
Like a huntress, she moved toward the animals who seemed nervous but did not flee. We got closer and closer until I realized that the big animals were drawn to minerals on the margins of an evaporating vernal pool. This was a magnet for them. As a wildlife biologist later explained to me, their exposure to green grass had elevated their potassium levels which could be re-balanced by consuming sodium in the drying soil.
Bodhi and I stayed outside the old fence and never blocked an opening where the rails had failed. One time the largest ram, the tips of his horns blunted by time and competition, faced us squarely and stared, setting off our own alarms. But we kept getting closer and closer until only the wire stood between us and animals we could smell. We watched for several minutes, astonished by the good fortune of having such a close encounter with animals that often elude detection.
More than satisfied, we climbed back up the slope, pausing to find a couple of tired bitterroot flowers still blooming on the hot and dry slope behind the solar outhouse. Back at the boats we enjoyed more slices of fruit and kept telling each other how lucky we were.
Though the water temperature was around 52 degrees, we knew we would stay warm while working against the wind and waves approaching us now from the southwest. I told Bodhi, partly for my own benefit, that we did not need to hurry. We needed only to paddle at a pace we could maintain as the waves, taller now, pushed against us from the starboard corner and occasionally washed over our decks. This time Bodhi took my advice, controlled her anxiety about the long crossing from island safety to the southern shore of the lake. Having learned a great deal in the morning, she remained calm in even rougher conditions, let the boat move under her and paddled just behind me as I led us back to Walstad.
After landing, reloading the boats and stowing two mounds of wet gear I felt incredibly proud of my granddaughter. This had been her first visit to Montana, her first long paddle in challenging conditions, and her first encounter with heavy-bodied wild animals. Due to the trajectories of our lives and other commitments I have never been able to give my sons this experience. But my granddaughter will carry this memory as a prize in the pocket of her vest for the rest of her life—a gift for me on Father’s Day.
Yesterday I was able to make my memorial paddle in your honor, a paddle I try to make each year between Mother’s Day and your death day in late May, now fourteen years ago. When weather and time permit, I like to make this almost-annual paddle out to Wild Horse Island on Flathead Lake, a place you always wanted to see; yet for health reasons, this visit remained an unfulfilled desire. I would like to tell you about the experience in the simply human hope that our separate worlds might touch in some way, perhaps as gently as two twigs on a cherry tree. I am still writing you an occasional letter.
When I arrived at my launch site, wind poured off the Mission Mountains and ran through the strait between Melita and the big island. Conditions were brisk but safe. After crossing the strait, I approached the island and paused to watch a couple of Bighorn ewes nibbling on fresh plants and bending to the water to drink. They were so shaggy in the remnants of their winter coats that I could not tell if they had delivered their lambs.
After paddling up the west shore of Wild Horse I rounded the point and dropped into placid conditions in Skeeko Bay. After pulling my boat onto some driftwood and out of reach of rising water, I began to hike up the trail to the saddle. I was astonished by the quiet. In the first few hundred yards I heard one meadowlark and the wings of a robin. At the saddle I turned left onto what Fish, Wildlife and Parks calls “The Heritage Trail,” a path leading to some of the last signs of a brief agricultural presence on the island. Not far along I found the horses for which the island is named, but I did not approach. One of the horses swayed in an odd fashion. As the horse was not under stress, it may have been ill.
After I gained some elevation, I chose my own path through tall grasses along the edge between meadow and forest, hoping to find an animal trail and see a greater variety of flowers. As I walked along, I picked you an imaginary bouquet. As there are no rhododendrons and roses like you grew when you lived in in the Seattle area, I found the spring blossoms of the mountain west—arrowleaf balsamroot, larkspur, lupine, long-plumed avens, camas and the occasional shooting stars on the north-facing slope and forest edge. Near the top of the island I sat down and dangled my legs over a cliff. I had a perfect vantage point to look for more Bighorn sheep if they came into the small clearing far below, but they were elsewhere and not on the move. I ate my lunch and listened to the wind.
On the way down and back toward Bluebird I found scatterings of white bones in the spaces between tall clumps of fescue. On the island deer and sheep must simply die of old age as they are rarely pursued by predators like lions and bears who visit the island on occasion. Returning to the bay I gave a pair of eagles on a massive new nest a wide berth, hoping not to disturb them. I fear they may have nested in a location too frequently visited by humans and may not be able to bring their brood to the point of fledging.
Back at my boat I changed clothes for paddling in warmer conditions but knew I would face a strong headwind. I slipped back into the water grateful for the gift of my life, that I am still able to do these things at this late stage of my own life, and that I spent another day thinking about ways you taught me to appreciate the beauty of the world without ignoring its tragedies. In whatever way such a thing could come to you, I wish you a long slope of yellow flowers and the silence of birds on the glide. Love, Gary
Early last week I sensed an opportunity to paddle. By midweek a wave of tropical moisture that substantially dampened fires north and west of Missoula headed into British Columbia and Alberta. Canadians would be as happy to receive rain as we were. The remnants of the storm made it possible for me to make my favorite paddle—an open-water crossing from Finley Point State Park to Wild Horse Island—this time with a little help from winds out of the south.
When I arrived at the campground I saw what the lake looks like when it is 2.5 feet below its normal summer level. Boaters cannot use the docks at this level, so no boats were in the marina. Beyond the nearby islands and beyond the three fingers of Rocky Point my destination appeared as a rounded hump in the distance.
I have heard people complain about the lower water level, occasionally blaming the tribes for this disappointment. In fact, the Salish and Kootenai peoples who control water releases at the dam are bound by federal contracts. In addition, they cannot be held accountable for climate change and drought, both contributors to the lower-than-normal water level.
I stowed emergency gear and lunch and made ready to paddle. As soon as I crossed the mouth of the marina I felt the corkscrew motion caused by waves slapping the port stern quarter. I paused and took the feather out of my paddle. In these conditions I did not want to stroke air while thinking I would meet the resistance of water. A flat paddle would be better, the wave motion making balance a little tricky. Having made this adjustment, I settled into ten miles of water and the rhythm of countless strokes, eventually landing at the East Shore access on Wild Horse Island. From a kayaker’s standpoint the lower water level allowed me to come ashore on a broad beach normally unavailable unless one is willing to risk paddling in the cold conditions of April.
On the comfort of a big log I ate my banana and blueberry muffin and a thick triangle of Spanish Manchego cheese. I drained my water bottle, knowing I could filter a full bottle for the return trip. While I ate my eye was drawn to a long cottonwood log. At some point in its life the wind broke off a side branch that had once been married to the main trunk. Time, water, and stones polished the soft ripples in the grain.
Though I had visited this spot several times, usually while circumnavigating the island, this time I decided to look more closely. I noticed many things I had ignored or overlooked. With the lake at a lower level I saw harder stones trapped in the mudstone ramps that once formed the floor of the lake basin and may have been part of the foundation of the mountains raised by shifting tectonic plates. I found a miniature version of the process among the countless stones on the beach.
Climbing into the forest I immediately sensed the effect of more than an inch of rain. Within a day the patient mosses had swollen and recovered. Among the mosses I found the humerus of a horse that long ago had laid down its heavy bones.
Bunch grasses were full and soft and invited me to sit down and enjoy them.
Hiking higher I saw massive pine trees thrown south by relatively recent storms. Dropping back toward the water I inspected more closely the chimney of a once splendid lodge that was built in a cantilevered fashion over the lake. The concrete had been poured against the log walls leaving horizontal flutes, and the face had been decorated with beautiful stones from the beach.
About a hundred yards away I found strands of an old telephone line, white ceramic nobs like flashlights in the forest, but telling the story of how people once communicated on the island. I also discovered a cold cellar that the lodge cook must have used to keep meat and vegetables cool for hungry guests arriving from the mainland. As the roof had fallen in, it seemed like a gateway to nowhere.
While wandering around I sensed that the wind was beginning to shift around to the north. If this change continued it would ease my paddle back to Finley Point but would again create quartering seas requiring my concentration. I went back to Bluebird, made ready, and headed home. Along the way I was careful to avoid the rocky spine now exposed at the northern tip of Rocky Point. Here the waves were actively breaking and seemed a hazard. In another hour I slipped into the marina and was relieved to be out of the rocking motion of endless waves.
Having a whole day and an evening to enjoy the experience, I put my extra food on the picnic table for an early dinner of sardines, Dakota bread from Great Harvest bakery and a crisp apple. Unfortunately, I was out of monster cookies.
Sometimes a paddle takes the form of a story. It has a trajectory, a narrative arc, and concludes with something that feels like arrival. But other times a paddle leaves one only with images, fragments and small observations that might eventually find their place in a story or simply sit in one’s memory like stones on a beach. I have learned that it is best not to force life into the form of a story. I am content with seeing clearly, looking more closely, enjoying the time we are given.
Every year I try to paddle to Wild Horse Island in May. I do this to honor my mother who died this month sixteen years ago. Some people have ideal mothers. My brother and I were not so fortunate, thanks to a surgery when she was in her 20s. Medical mistakes set her up for a life of pain, chronic illnesses and multiple addictions in response to physical and mental suffering. Despite these difficulties, and partly in reaction to them, I remain the recipient of so many things. In truth my mother gave me everything I needed—a wariness of intoxicants, desire for a conscious life, my love of language, and attentiveness to the world within and around me.
Because she gave me the gift of life I am able to paddle to the island, hike its ridges, explore its valleys, appreciate its wildflowers.
Almost certainly she would have noticed and called attention to the way Balsamroot turn toward the morning light,
the composition of stone and flower, hard and soft,
an owl feather still wet with dew,
a once-living tree suspended above the current of its journey and the storms that threw it there upon the stone.
Trained by her at the window of sunrise, I notice the way cumulus clouds form the central reflection in ovoids, see the kestrel, on its perch in a pine tree, step in a full circle as it surveys the world.
Given a perfect day for paddling and a chance at life, I am nothing but grateful. In response I offer her the the whole island’s bouquet.
ospreypaddler 