Reflections on the Second Week of Fall – On a Kayak Built for Two

    Wednesday morning under sunny skies, the old red pickup bounced and rocked down a rutted trail to a dirt launch on Lake Wilhelm. Spence jumped out of the driver’s side. I hustled to set my camera bag out of truck-and-kayak range then met him at the tail gate. With visors of our baseball caps pointing towards each other, we lifted the tandem kayak from the truck bed and carried it to the mud green water. I squealed and wiggled in my new denim shorts. After a spring and summer of too rainy, too busy, and too exhausted postponements, we could finally kayak.

    Camera hanging from my neck, I sat in the bow. Spence pushed the kayak into the water. Oak and maple leaves floated past, then the kayak tilted towards port as if it were a hawk angling for a ninety degree turn. Clutching my camera with both hands, I leaned starboard until the kayak settled. I released the camera, took a deep breath, and pushed the paddle against the sandy bottom. Six feet off shore, Spence dipped his paddle with a whispering swish behind me.

    Guessing Spence’s paddling side and rhythm, I dipped my paddle to match his strokes. The kayak wiggled, and water splashed. Oops, I’d guessed wrong. Laughing with Spence, I stretched my arms straight, dipped, and twisted–great exercise for the abs. My legs toasted in the sunshine and cooled under paddle drips. I couldn’t maintain proper paddling form for long. First my elbows bent. Then my shoulders ached. I set the paddle across the bow and picked up the camera. No problem. Spence never complained about paddling while I rested.

    He angled the kayak toward the bank. “Do you want pictures of the great blue heron?”

    I scanned the bank. Camouflaged against shrubs and trees, the gray-blue bird posed as still as a statue on a branch sticking out of the water. “Sure.”

    Spence pulled, the kayak slipped through ripples, and I clicked photos. When he paddled to within thirty yards of the bank, the heron crouched, opened its wide wings, and flapped into the air. I followed with my zoom lens. Spence steered the kayak. The great blue heron squawked a protest then settled in bushes further up the lake.

    I shoved the camera into its bag and paddled with Spence. Water trickled around the bow. Blue dragonflies raced with the kayak. Random splashes from fish jumping to gulp insects startled me again and again. We zig-zagged through the tricky section with submerged logs.

    Perched atop snags, dozens of cormorants swiveled their heads to watch us. I aimed the camera. With birds moving, water rippling, and Spence paddling, the camera wouldn’t focus.

    “Stop paddling so I can get some pictures,” I called.

    The whispering swish stopped, the kayak settled, and the camera focused.

    Cormorants spread their wings wide. Did they intend to look mighty, or were they drying their wings before take off? One cormorant dove into the water and paddled away. Others pooped then flapped their wings. As if powering down a runway, each cormorant’s feet splashed a series of water plumes until it rose into the air.

    When the cormorants settled on snags across the lake, the kayak tipped side to side as if it were a fish thrashing on a line.

    I clutched the camera to my chest, and threw my hips right then left then right to counteract the wild swings. Why was Spence shaking the kayak?

    “I can’t get the kayak off this log,” Spence said behind me. “You’re going to have to paddle us off.”

    “Okay. When the kayak stops tipping.”

    The kayak stopped tipping.

    I exchanged the camera for the paddle then pulled twice. The kayak slipped free.

    We paddled under the Sheakleyville Road bridge. Echoes of swishing water tempted me. I hooted. The hoots echoed, and Spence chuckled.

    On the north side of the bridge, smooth water encircled an island of lily pads.

    Pop . . . pop . . . pop.

    “What’s making that noise?” I set the paddle down and listened.

    “I don’t know.” Spence kept paddling.

    “It’s coming from the lily pads.”

    “What do you want me to do?”

    “Stop so I can figure out what the noise is.”

    Spence paddled the bow into the lily pads.

    Pop . . . pop . . . pop . . . pop.

    Dime sized holes polka dotted the yellowing pads. Insects flew close but didn’t munch. Several pads swayed as if yanked from underneath.

    After five minutes, I sighed and said, “I can’t figure it out.”

    “Me either.” Spence backed us out of the lily pads. “It sounded like water dripping, but there were no drips. A mystery.”

    Later, I’d solve the mystery with an Internet search. Bluegills or other small fish suck dragonfly larva, worms, and grubs off the underside of lily pads making a pop and a hole.

    At the time, we paddled closer to the small birds wading in shallow water covering the spit of land between the restricted nature reserve and the small watercraft part of the lake. Four killdeer scurried, pecked at water covered sand, and turned their heads to study us. What did they think about the green monster with two heads and four legs? They circled and skittered around each other in a charming dance. Then one by one the killdeer hopped or flew to the restricted area while singing dee dee duh, dee dee duh.

    We paddled past the popping lily pads, under the echoing bridge, and out onto the lake with sunshine glittering off ripples.

    Kayaks, the first sign of others paddling on the lake, hugged the far bank.

    Heading back to the launch, I concentrated on proper form–arms straight, dip the paddle, twist the torso–and counted the neon green, blue, or orange kayaks.

    “Sixteen,” I called to Spence.

    “They’re probably a science class,” he said.

    Dip, swish, turn. Dip, swish, turn. Dip, swish, turn.

    My elbows bent, and my shoulders ached. I dropped my arms to my lap. “A gym class more like.”

    With 181 photos in the camera and fresh air in our lungs, we docked at the dirt launch and lifted the kayak onto the truck bed. Visions of birds, lily pads, sunshine, and water swirled through my head and generated enough energy that I could have floated home. Instead, I slid onto the truck seat beside Spence. The old red pickup bounced and rocked up the rutted trail.