Monongahela Sunday May 29, 2022 air 68°F/°C river 55°F/°C
At the edge of the launch, a single minnow darts back and forth. There must be more; minnows do not live long alone. Of course, the geese still want food, the air is 55°, and the water is just barely over 68°. It’s time to go. It is 8:15 before I finish getting things ready and forgetting gloves, hat, and sunglasses. These are the things always at hand, the ones I always think I won’t forget.
A set of geese parents and their many molting teenage goslings look like they have bad hairdos but obediently swim in a line. There’s another group of medium size goslings coming down the middle of the river. The water feels thick, and a squirrel runs along the edge.
As the haze lifts, puffy clouds come in; before the Hot Metal bridge, a single seagull flies high in the sun, his white wings against a blue backdrop. On the other side of the bridge, a spider sits in wait on a white web, cast over an old, broken storm drain. It is creepy how spiderwebs disappear when the due dries up. They are works of art from a distance away.
I paddle out around the front of the first grounded barge. It is covered in foliage; I haven’t seen anybody on it in over a year.
“Hey, Hey,” says the fisherman.
Unfortunately, it is too late when I finally see the fisherman. I am not far enough out. I hook his line with my paddle, neither feeling nor seeing it. Near translucent dark and fine, one line is black and the other deep green instead of white. I am caught up between the two lines.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t see your lines.”
The fisherman says, “I thought I caught a fish.”
I apologize again, and with his direction, I untangle first my paddle, and myself, and then I back paddle with slow care. He jiggles and tugs, and the rudder is free of fishing line.
He was a good sport about it. I know it took a few minutes to get us untangled. If I had seen him sooner, I would’ve paddled out further. I am appreciative of his graciousness. The river is big, and so often I am alone on it. It is a reminder to pay attention.
The water is cloudy with groups of particulates and clear water around them. Across the river, a pair of prey birds glide in the air, one cruising across the water back and forth. Still, chasing a fish. The sun is not high, and so it is darker over there and in the haziness of the sky and air, the other zigzagging over the water. A man sits on top of what looks like a storm gate, but truthfully, I’m not sure what it is. Birdsong fills the air again. A female cardinal sits on a naked branch; without her redhead, I would not see her.
I hear them before I see them or feel them. There are a lot of people and loud music traveling by, and as the wake comes up to roll over, it rolls in waves; as it passes, the second boat comes, at least this one is not blaring music. It is loud because of the motor. This one is a pontoon boat, and its wake is minimal; the other boat has stopped ahead. I know just behind me, a Sunday barge is coming. It’s nearly quiet. I would’ve looked before I turned across the river, but now I wait for the barge to pass.
Two seagulls float on the water ahead of me. I remember not believing what I saw the first time I saw them, a few years after my first season. I thought we didn’t have seagulls. But sure enough, each year since then, more and more came. Less so the last two years; so far this season, not more than four together. There seem to be more of them when there are fewer geese in the winter.
The scent of wet mud overpowers the honeysuckle and the lilac. The train idling above is private, the track off Carson Street hums, and on river right there is at least some shade.
The turtle tree does not disappoint. The big softshell and another turtle, as I paddle to leave, of course, flop into the water. I wish my pleasure at seeing the softshells did not disturb them. A few more strokes and I get a chuff by the buck again, as the does’ white tails disappear into the greenery. Sticks lay in the water like bleached dog bones.
I look up at the eagle right before I pass under the Glennwood bridge; from here, he looks so big. One of his wing feathers is missing. His white head and tail stand out against the green of the trees, over my shoulder.
The water is up a bit as my sitting stone is surrounded by water. I habitually sit on this flattish stone and use it as a gauge for the river’s height. No minnows come as I toss bits of fried chicken skin; usually, they come by the dozens to nibble on it. I don’t know if it’s too early in the season for them, but there was that single minnow by the boat launch. No need to worry crayfish will enjoy the skin. I debate whether or not to go further today, but I think my peace is over, and it’s time to go home; there are more and more motorboats churning the water, blasting music, and making wakes.
Two soft shell turtles on the turtle tree
At the turtle tree, she hears me approach. I see the soft shell, and she flops in the water, but there’s one more I stay pretty far back, there is a second soft shell, but there’s a telltale shape closer to the end of the tree, a third softshell turtle. I am so excited to see three together it is like a community gathering. The first one flopped off as the other two just hung out. I think I see her snout swimming around the end of the log. I don’t really pause to watch; just paddle slow and quiet.
Soft-shell turtles look like hubcaps with feet and long pointed snouts. They blend into their surrounding well enough you might not see them, if they remain still. The females are the large ones it this species. These native turtles seem less common than red-eared sliders, but it may be they are harder to see.
I stay river right instead of crossing at Page’s. About halfway through the spot where barges still get tied up sometimes. A hundred angry wasps started up on shore, where they test driverless cars. A man runs like he is being chased by the wasps. His arms are up, and a multi-colored parachute lifts at an angle behind him. He is a couple of feet off the ground. The wasps stop, the chute crumples, and it is city-silent, traffic is light, machinery growls low to itself, and people are quiet.
I’m trying to look back over my shoulder. Realizing the wasps are a loud motor, the man is strapped too. The motor starts again; he is running, and the chute is lifting; he’s off the ground, the chutes up, 10 feet, 20 feet, double that. There is a huge black fan, cage and all strapped to his back. He is using his arms to pull on straps to guide the strips of red, pink, blue, and yellow streaking through the sky, across the river, and disappearing over South Side. All eyes are up facing southwest. motorboats stop to watch and wait.
The sun is high, and the parachute backpack guy is back up in the clouds. He passes through them like mist on the water. What does it feel like to touch the clouds? He is gone again, and his motor’s fading. I keep a lookout as I paddle into the launch. The whole time in the back of my mind, I think he is going to get arrested when he lands.
“Finished, loading up,” is the text I send to my daughter to let her know I am back and safe on dry land. A broad-shouldered guy steps out of his truck and unhooks a Ski-Doo from its trailer, and ties it to the dock. He helps me put the kayak up on the roof rack.
