June 21, 2022, Tuesday Air 65°F/ 19°C river 73°F/ 23°C Monongahela.
Geese sleep all over the launch area and down to the water. I creep along, waiting for them to move. One at a time, I get indignant looks as they walk off. I honk the horn several times; they are deaf to it. I roll along slowly. Neither of us picks up the pace. There are five dozen or more. Still, they care not about my need for a short paddle. Some heads rise, eyes open, but the rest of them, heads lie against backs and wings, eyes closed like sewn cotton as if they were stuffed.
They are more bothered by me sliding the kayak over the blanket down the back of the car. Once I have the cockpit on my shoulder, they scramble out of the way only so far as to be out of dropping distance.
I ask them, “Why are you bothered by the kayak and not the car?” I expect no answer from the beaks pointed my way.
Grackles walk on the stones that lie near the launch and which are sometimes hidden underwater.
Past the Hot Metal bridge, a near-silent barge heads downriver. Robins and yellow warblers sing, hopping in and out of view. A groundhog sits still and quiet at the shore edge, hoping I won’t see him. He makes me smile. A giant spiderweb spreads over the willow tree that is letting go at the roots, leaning heavily over the river; leaves turn yellow at the heart of the dead part of it. If it grows enough before a storm can pull it loose, it will keep growing up, its main trunk laying over on or in the water, its branches thickening and stretching to the sun. A sandpiper runs over gravel. A base-drum beats under percussion and woodwinds playing on the practice field; it is probably the Pitt marching band. The wind is blowing me backward as I gulp from my water bottle.
Swifts dart, and one green heron streaks ahead, probably the same one I saw a couple of weeks ago as he flew by. The water feels thick, like paddling through soap, and a red squirrel runs along the edge of the shore bouncing over logs. Mating metallic blue damselflies, dragonflies, and the twelve-spotted skimmers with their black and white wings hover and zip by.
I stop at the peninsula by Page’s Dairy Mart, the local soft ice cream place; it’s about 2 ½ miles from the South Side launch. It cannot be seen from the river through the trees, up on the corner of Carson Street and Becks Run Road, sitting under a railroad trestle. The line around the building on any given evening looks a mile long, as it wraps like a snake with an unruly tail.
A dark-eyed junco lands, cruising the shore for bugs. Today’s Catch of the day: a tube of half-submerged toothpaste and a glass container of foundation. Clearly, at some point, somebody was living here between Page’s and the pump station. Were they or are they homeless? There is a mattress, rotting clothing, and a balled-up discarded tent. All of which will float down the river sooner or later. Why is all this stuff left behind? Even in the park five blocks from my home, the same thing happens. Is it too hard to take, not enough time, or no place to take it to? What does nature mean when there is no place for you in it? Did it flood, ruining everything? This would be a hard, fickle place to live. The river can take as much as give. The peninsula comes and goes with the rain. Heavy rain upriver can change levels as much as rain here.
A blue and a white damselfly mate in flight, pausing on the kayak for one paddle stroke. Orange daylilies grow in a group partly in the shade, a treat to see unless I am paddling two days in a row. I will not see any more ’til next year. A fishing boat passes by.
Five vultures glide in the now cloudless sky. Two more make seven swirling together, creating patterns high up on thermals, black against blue.
Getting out of the kayak. The water is clear, and minnows swim all the way across the launch. The sun is intense enough; the minnows have shadows. The geese are still at the dock and in the launch area, but somebody shows up with bread for them, and they run off to eat it, getting them out of the way for me to bring the car through.