New sights in an old place
19/04/16 05:21
Like today, yesterday started out gray. The fog was lying all around and the world appeared in soft focus as the light crept slowly into the country. There is no sudden daybreak in the fog, just a growing awareness that it is no longer night. You begin to be aware that there is more distance and that you can see things a bit farther away. The colors are softer. It is a pleasant experience.
Yesterday I did something that I don’t think I’ve ever done before. I’m not sure why I’ve never don it before, it must have been common for the original peoples of the north woods. The Micmac and Cree and Anishinaabe must have done it frequently. The Dene and Gwich’in and Tagish people could not have found anything unusual about it. Salish and Athapaskan people must have known the experience from their early days. And for the Squamish and Snokomish and Salish and Tlingit peoples it must have been a way of life. But I had never before paddled in the snow.
Big, fluffy white snowflakes were falling as I unloaded my little kayak and placed it in the lake. As the snow fell, the fog parted and I could see the other side of the lake and the reflection of the hills in the absolutely calm waters. There was something very quiet about the day. Two geese scurried ahead of me and took to flight, but even the normally loud ones were quiet. I could see where the deer had spend the night in the grass by the edge of the water, the matted grass where they had lain dozing and chewing their cud was abandoned. They were probably nearby in the trees, but they weren’t in sight. The water was absolutely calm with a glassy surface that reflected not only the surrounding trees and hills but also the snowflakes as they fell.
Snowflakes disappear when they hit the surface of the lake. The liquid water is warm enough that the crystals instantly become droplets upon contact with the water. There is no splash like the rain. Just a falling snowflake, beautiful and distinct from the air around it soundlessly merging with the lake without fanfare or display. For moment I thought I saw a snowflake floating on the surface, but it turned out to be a white feather.
I was pleased to have a wooden boat and a narrow greenland paddle. I could paddle almost silently, with the only sound being the small bow wake splashed up by my passing boat. I listened, and what I heard was silence. I was surrounded by a world that didn’t need a soundtrack. The songbirds watching from their perches, the ducks witnessing in the reeds, and the beaver in his lodge all felt no need to make any comment at my passing. The campground was empty. Even the hardy springtime campers decided that the foggy, rainy, snowy weekend wasn’t the right time for outdoor adventures - or they had chosen other campgrounds. I had the lake to myself. Only one of the summer cabins even had smoke coming from its chimney and those folks were sung inside.
I have often written of peaceful paddling. Yesterday’s experience was that and more. Snow on the lake is sacred. Being allowed to witness it is to enter a cathedral.
I love to travel. I have been blessed to visit some very distant places. I have witnessed the beauty of many states and provinces. I have spent weeks traipsing around Europe. I have driven across the red country at the heart of Australia. I have ridden the bus on the back roads of Costa Rica. And I love to think about traveling. My study has atlases and maps all around. I have poured over campground directories of places that I have never visited. I can name the towns along highways that I have never driven. I speak often of my desire to visit friends in South Africa, to see the massive Lake Baikal, to explore the fjords of Norway, to paddle the inlets of Prince Edward Island. I have pictured Great Slave Lake and Great Bear Lake in my mind a thousand times but I have never seen them with my eyes. I can imagine trekking in Nepal and traveling to the extreme south of Patagonia. I would love to one day see the Great Wall in China and the urban markets of Kolkata. I would love to take my own pictures of the Taj Mahal in India and St. Basil’s Cathedral in Red Square.
I could make lists and lists of places that I have never gone that I would like to visit. A lifetime of traveling would be all too short to see the things that I have imagined seeing in my mind.
Although I know that my traveling days are not over and there are many new sights that I will see in the years to come, I am also aware that I will not make it to all of the places I can imagine traveling. My time is too short. My financial means are too limited. My love of home and family call me to places I have previously visited.
I have, however, discovered something that warms the heart of this traveler: There is always something new to discover in a place that I have been over and over again. There is great joy in returning to the places that I have already seen.
I go to Sheridan Lake nearly every week. There have been many weeks when I have paddled five or six days. I am familiar with the road between my home and the lake. I know the shape of the lake and the nuances of its shoreline. I know where the beaver lodges are and where the ducks make their nests. I can point out the snags preferred by the eagle and the stand where the owl keeps watch. The sights and the smells of the lake are familiar to me. I can paddle a straight line from point to point in the dark on the lake.
But yesterday I paddled in a whole new universe. I had never before paddled in the falling snow. It was an exotic adventure in a whole new world. There is rich discovery in traveling to a place I have been before. There is delight in the familiar, which remains interesting enough to continue to engage all of my senses.
A small boat and a simple paddle seems to be the perfect vehicle for my travels.
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