North Park Monday May 9, 2022 1:05pm Air 70°F/21°C
I pull up near the launch on the side of the boat house to unload Blue. A red-wing blackbird struts through the green grass looking for bugs.
Two sets of Canada geese parents hiss at me as I drag Blue over the grass to the water’s edge. They lead their goslings off around the front of the OTB Bicycle Café attached to the boat house.
Standing beside Blue, I am tired, it’s windy, and the lake is showing a lot more current than its norm. The sun’s intensity is magnified by the water, as I look up into the cloudless sky above the road and parking lot. A pair of small black birds escort a red-tailed hawk away from somewhere. A bald eagle comes into the mix, the small black bird’s attention momentarily split. The hawk gives way to the bald eagle and expels white zig-zagging excrement, which dances prettily against the intense blue. I wonder if it will splatter on one of the runners or walkers below. The pair drives the eagle away. I would have missed it all if I had not forgotten my gloves and gone back to the car to get them.
My bag with extra water and rain jacket is strapped behind Blue’s seat. The jacket can be a windbreaker if necessary. Today I wear long sleeves to protect me from the sun. My hat and sunglasses, too, are a must. I flop into Blue with my usual grace with my back toward the lake and use a rocking motion to scoot us off the sandy grit. The stronger current tugs us a little bit, and the water is still a kucky khaki brown. As a child kucky was short for gross and yucky.
Fisherfolk have lines in, so Blue and I paddle toward the middle to stay clear of their lines. North Park is a small lake and often, the edges are full of fisherfolk. It is the only lake we paddle through the center of. The familiar rhythm takes over; it is woven into the memory of my muscles.
Cormorants drop into the water ahead of us. Five turtles sun themselves, and two groves down, three more turtles lay on another log sticking out of the water. The high sun bounces off their shiny shells, giving them away. Tree Swallows dart across the lake, showing me their metallic blue tops and uniquely sculpted tails. The hawk glides over the trees close to the lake. We stop to watch. It makes my heart sing to see them. I have forgotten about being tired. Even in this park I have come to for thirty years, there are more kinds of birds over the last couple years than any other time.
Coming up to the island, there is a woman fishing with her young boy and girl. I have never had the patience for fishing, and I always wished my children had learned to enjoy it with their father.
Blue and I weave through the small passage between the island and the shore, around the fallen logs and the sunken picnic table. One lone kayaker suns herself by the end of the island in a little red sun dolphin. I am heading for the back channel. The strokes feel good.
I needed to buy a new waterproof case after discovering half of the old one was missing. On the way to the park, I picked up a new one, meaning I did not pretest it. I should have gotten one sooner. I should have done a complete equipment check before the season. It’s too big to fit the new phone without blocking the camera. Every time I go to take a photo, I have to shake the phone camera lens away from the blue square on the back of the case. I am missing the good shots.
Up in the channel, four days of rain have made the water higher. It is easier to paddle, and the current is up. I see the same mother goose we passed a week ago; she hisses a warning down at me, though we are not close. A garter snake with one stripe down his back swims by, squiggling through the water.
Today it is quieter than last Monday evening. There are fewer people fishing though it is warmer outside and traffic is lighter. People must be at work, and there are fewer walkers and runners as well. I’m alone on the back channel today but for the peeping and twilling of birds. Honeysuckles are beginning but not yet blooming. A sweaty man without a shirt runs on the path above. He is working hard under the sun to keep his body shape. Blue and I keep paddling at a steady pace, and the path turns away, leaving us alone with the birds again. Patches of skunk weed pop up here and there, and dying cattails are the color of dry wood. A large blue heron startles and stretches his long body out over the creek; his shadow passes over a tufted titmouse hanging upside down from a branch.
I run into two kayakers, one stuck having trouble getting up the riffle and her paddle partner, who is coming back from the next one. I cannot get past the third bigger riffle. It is simply too fast. There is not enough space to dig the paddle in. Too shallow to gain the needed speed. I get out to port Blue to see if I can get around it. I can see the junction where the bridge crosses Pine Creek. I pause for a moment. I am so close. I have been trying to get to that point for years now, and it is so close. The water is clear here as well. But I do not want to walk through it up to my thighs while it’s still in the 60s°F/ 16°C.
I get back in Blue from our new position. I make one more attempt to go the other way, but Blue is automatically turned, heading towards the wall of the other shore and back down the creek. We slingshot around the corner, and I try not to eat the honeysuckle when we pass. Just knowing spiders lurk in there makes me cringe. I push off the wall with my paddle, and then we drift backward for a time; for some reason, Blue seems to go straighter when she’s going backward. So, we go quickly, and after another bend, we drift slowly as though this is the only thing we have to do this afternoon until we run into the next riffle.
I decide it is time to turn around before we hit a log or low-hanging branch. I look up and see yellow warblers singing, chasing through the trees. Naked willow branches are bleached against the sky. New green growth springs up from underneath dry curled leaves. I love nature and the quiet of the channel.
