Out There Anyway

I went out kayaking on Monday, only the fourth time this year. Each time there has been a scrim of clouds in the west, the water grey with silver sparkles where the sun shone through weakly. Monday, the clouds were thicker, the lake still and smooth. The colors were muted, grays of tree trunks, dark green of the evergreens. Long rays of light streamed through cracks in the clouds. My grandmother used to say that this was the sun drawing water and was a sure sign of a storm. Old French legend calls the rays a stairway to heaven for souls going to God. Any way you look at it, it was lovely. The lake is full and running over, the little streams coming in with a chuckle of falling water. The brush alders along the shore have put out dangling yellow catkins, a sign of spring in spite of the lingering chill.

As I turned to return to the boat ramp, the clouds parted, the sun streamed out and blue sky and white clouds were reflected in the still water. Suddenly all the colors were brighter, sharper. I had thought of several reasons not to bother with kayaking on Monday afternoon. How glad I was that I went anyway! It got me to thinking, how much else do I miss by finding good excuses?

Pride Goes Before a Fall... In Temperature!

All through November and December, I’ve been bragging about how I’m committed to year round kayaking. I just put layers over my wet suit and off I go. Then someone left the back door to Canada open this week. I’m not kayaking with lows in the teens and “highs” creeping up on upper thirties. In fact, I’m not going outside much at all. A trip or two to the wood pile for more oak, ash bucket carried out to the compost pile and that’s about it. I sit here typing, one room removed from the wood stove and even in flannel lined jeans and a flannel shirt, I’m chilly. The cats are smarter. They’ve hardly left the living room for days. They have progressed this morning from the hearth rug to the chairs, must be warming up a bit in there. I miss kayaking, but not enough to go out at this temperature!

Foggy Morning

I’ve only made it out on the lake once or twice a week lately. No trouble with low water. The overflow pipe sounds like a jet engine. Up one of the streams that flows into the lake, the water was leaping in small falls over rock and tree root, something I hadn’t seen before.

The lake was wrapped in pale gray mist when I went out, deeply silent. When I stopped paddling, only the quiet chuckle of water under the bow broke the silence. I needed to be out paddling and praying. I don’t pray well in my house, too many things calling for my attention. The days and evenings have been full, all good stuff, but tiring and easy to lose focus in the middle of it all.

I paddled to the east end of the lake, around the island that was a peninsula all summer. Not many birds out, one blue heron, a group of mallards. The trees were gray, the evergreens almost black in the mist. I love the bare bones of trees in winter, each kind has a shape of its own and then each tree varies that a bit. The oaks, especially, seem to be lifting hands in praise. The few leaves clinging to beeches were a pale copper color. Some of the willow oaks still held onto yellow leaves. I look at their uplifted branches and remember Isaiah 61, “They shall be called oaks of righteousness, the planting of the Lord for the praise of His glory”.

The high water had floated some litter in reach. I filled the space between my feet. Litter annoys me, so I leave the park cleaner on almost every trip. I leave feeling virtuous. In a world filled with massive, insolvable problems, litter in the park is something I can have a small impact on.

No Fox Before Lunch

I was late getting a paddle on the lake because I had been asked to bless the opening hunt of the season for a local fox hunt club. It is lots of fun, like stepping into the pages of a British novel. The tall horses, the youngsters on sturdy ponies, the hounds milling around the hunt master’s horse, the red jackets, and in the middle of it all, Pastor Fran in alb and stole, there to pray before they loose the hounds and ride out. Then the alb got tossed in our car, and Chet and I climbed on the wagon behind the tractor to follow the hunt. We bounced across pastures and under the shadow of oaks, catching sight of one distant rider and seeing one lost hound that followed us back to the starting field. There was a hearty pot luck dinner laid out. No fox was seen, but a good ride was had by all. The fox, they explained to me, gets chased, but not killed. They ride for the fun of it and to keep alive an ancient tradition.

Soaring

It was late Saturday afternoon when I got to the lake, so I paddled down to the dam and back. The weather was warm and I wore only the boots from my winter gear. On the way back, a flock of turkey vultures were floating in high, lazy circle. Their flight feathers, lighter on the underside, were flashing almost white in the long rays of a late fall sunset. So lovely way up there!

I remembered our oldest son David coming home from eighth grade upset. He’d written a poem for English class and used the flight of the vulture as an image of something lovely. His teacher had marked it “inappropriate”. Vultures weren’t suitable for use in poetry. “But mom”, he protested, “They are beautiful when they fly. They’re only ugly on the ground. Why can I write poetry about eagles and not about vultures? What’s the difference?”

And the classic line, “It’s not fair!”

So watch the vultures fly. God made them beautiful when they are soaring as He created them to soar. God doesn’t make junk.

Out in the Cold

It was three thirty Sunday afternoon. I’d had lunch, a cup of strong Darjeeling tea, a ten minute nap and read a bit. The fire in the wood stove glowed. The cats were curled on the heart rug. Go out or stay in? Outside, it was chilly, breezy and drizzly. The lake was open again and on Friday I’d only had time for a quick dash down to the dam and back.

So I got out my life jacket and paddle, loaded my boat and set out. I wrestled the skirt onto the boat. With rubber boots on my feet, the skirt keeping my legs warm and dry, my waterproof jacket, snug life vest and my wool felt hat, I was ready.

The lake was gray, the sky gray, the trees dark. A brisk wind rippled the water. Paddling up against the wind, I was suddenly filled with delight. The warmth from within was different from sitting by the fire, but wonderful in its own way. My glasses caught the rain and the world looked like I was looking through pebbled glass. My chilly nose and finger tips made the rest of me feel warmer. Up my favorite inlet, out of the wind, I munched a mountain apple while drifting gently on the current, then back out into the wind.

Now I’m home again, with the fire in the wood stove, the cats curled by the hearth. Sometimes life is hard, but sometimes it is very good. Thanks be to God!

Little Woes

Sunday I got out my late fall equipment for kayaking, changed to the warmer life vest, got out the “skirt”. I arrived at the park, ready to paddle on the cool, damp afternoon. I opened the back door on the truck, no paddle, doing things differently and I forgot it. Back home, got the paddle and I returned. It was a lovely paddle, until I went to get back in the truck and found the little zip bag with my license and park permit gone. It was too late to look, so I went home. At home, I ran a load of towels and Chet said, “Why is there a puddle of water in front of the washer?”

First thing Monday morning, snuggly dressed in my wind jacket and boots, with the skirt in place, I set out to look for the little plastic bag. I knew it probably flew out when I pulled out my phone to check the time. I knew about where I was and which way the wind was blowing. So I paddled and searched. No little bag. But the sky was brilliant blue, the breeze was dancing the mist in circles, deer came down to drink.

It only took twenty minutes to get a temporary replacement for my license, but later that afternoon, the DMV office called and said to appear there before nine the next morning, because they had overcharged me. I drove home and called a repairman. The washer left with him, but he left a loaner. No news yet on the prognosis.

This afternoon I stopped at the ranger office to get a new park pass, only to find that the lake will be closed indefinitely as of tomorrow. Oh truly woe! The beauty of the paddle was off-set by wondering where else I could go, Cane Creek is so large, so close, so lovely.