It didn't seem right to call this a "trip" report since we didn't go far or stay long.
Out back, I unwrap the tarp from the Prijon and discover that it's half-filled with cold, slimey rainwater. I guess it's time for a new tarp. Kinda hard to get a 600 pound kayak off the rack! I open the drain plug and manage to get the stern lowered enough to begin to drain it. After 20 minutes or so, the hull is empty but there's still a solid stream of water pouring out of a drainhole in the plastic seat. It takes another 5 or 10 minutes before the seat is drained. Who knew the seat held so much water? Anyway, now I can carry it to the truck, towel the seat dry, get the dog into the truck, check that I've got our PFDs, a paddle, and a dry bag. Forgot the cell phone, but it's getting late and I'm not going back for it.
At the lake, I stand waiting patiently while the Park Ranger chats on the telephone and the sun gets closer to the horizon. Finally he hangs up and takes my $3. Back to the truck and down to the lakefront. Hmmm, my favorite little launching cove now has a big blue trash dumpster situated in front of it. I guess that's progress.
Sasha explores the area while I get the gear out of the truck. A group of elderly men and women are packing up fishing gear to leave. They slow down as they drive past, pointing and giggling at Sasha in her bright orange PFD. I smile and wave -- Sasha ignores them coyly. The sun is just above the treetops.
Kayak in the water, I mount the paint-roller tray she sits in in the deck rigging behind the cockpit. On previous trips I had been putting it on the foredeck, but having her weight forward makes the Prijon bow-heavy. It's a wide, blunt-bowed, retired whitewater kayak, and it's slow enough without being bow-down, so I want to try letting her sit behind me. She takes her position. I get in carefully so as not to rock the kayak. As I'm settling into the cockpit, I hear a loud commotion behind me, with the sound of little claws scrabbling on plastic -- then a big splash. I turn to find her in the lake, trying to climb back onto the after deck. Using the handle on her PFD, I lift her out of the lake and put her in my lap. Now I'm soaking wet too. She has a grim expression on her face and won't look at me. I think she's embarassed. I fish her perch out of the lake and mount it in the foreward deck rigging. We head out into the lake.
The water is glassy calm, and the shadows of the trees are lengthening out over the water. No-one else is on the lake. Everything is still. The wet little dog in my lap is still not looking at me or responding to me when I speak to her. I put her up in her tray on the foc'sle so I can paddle better.
We're already across the widest part of the lake. The kayak glides quickly over the still water. I practice long, low, wide strokes, turning my torso and reaching out a little to each side as I paddle. I have no idea whether it's any kind of stroke a purist would recognize -- I guess I'll never earn a black belt in "Greenland Style" or whatever. It feels good and it moves my kayak well. That's enough for me.
Sasha seems happier now, eyeing the bow wave folding back alongside her, glancing at the big grey heron that launches skyward off the bank in front of us and at the little floating birds that dive one by one as we pass by, and pop up a few feet away a minute or so later. She startles and "laughs" when a fish jumps right in front of us. But she's still not looking at me.
I decide to paddle on up to the beaver lodge in the stream that feeds the lake, at the far end. The banks of the lake are deep in shadow, and I look carefully for the gators that usually begin cruising about this time of day. We pass a pair of big white birds sitting in a tree on the south bank. We glide rapidly between the stumps and trees that are scattered across the mouth of the stream. Hundreds of little water bugs weave complicated patterns ahead of and all around us -- Sasha tries to follow them all with her eyes, fascinated.
I let our speed bleed off as we coast up the stream, threading our way between the trees and logs. I try to steer very quietly so we won't disturb the beavers if they're out. No good -- as soon as our bow rounds the bend in front of the lodge, a dark furry head disappers under the water.
We drift quietly up to the lodge. As always, we can hear little ones gurgling, suckling, and mewing inside. Beavers must be really prolific! Sasha strains forward to listen intently. I think the tender sounds of baby beavers awaken her mothering instincts. The big grey heron arrives overhead and makes a full-flaps steep descent into a tree nearby, knocking off several small dry branches on the way in. It sits watching us. Frogs begin to sing bass notes in the weeds nearby. The baby beavers continue to babble. We seem to have been accepted as a part of something precious and magical.
Too soon it's time to go. The evening is darkening here under the trees and it will soon be time to be off the lake. We back slowly away from the beaver lodge, into wider water, trying to make no disturbing noise, but... BOOM! -- from around the bend behind us comes the loud warning sound of a beaver who must have been watching us.
We turn about in the wider portion of the stream and head toward the lake in rapidly gathering darkness. As we pass under overhanging branches, large spiders in their webs are sillohuetted against a bright crescent moon in a blue-black sky. Sasha watches the water beetles again, glancing from port to starboard and back as they weave their patterns on the surface ahead and alongside. Entering the lake, we spot a small 'gator cruising on a parallel course at "periscope depth". As we come abreast of it, about 40 or 50 yards away, it submerges entirely and moments later the water boils suddenly where a fish had just jumped -- maybe the 'gator found its dinner.
I lift Sasha from her foc'sle perch and put her in my lap, but she immediately climbs back up for'ard into her paint tray. On this outing she doesn't want to be the little lap dog she normally is. Maybe it's the magic of being out here in the non-human world with all the wild things.
Halfway back to our starting point, we meet a long series of low waves telling me that a power boat was still on the lake somewhere. Probably some fishermen headed back home like us. As we get within sight of the boat ramp, I can see the taillights of a vehicle backing down the ramp, and a small white boat waiting to be trailered and hauled out. It's almost dark now. A sodium light is mounted on a tall pole near the little cove where we put in. We head in at cruising speed, our bow sliding smartly up onto the little bit of sandy beach there. Sasha stands up in her foc'sle perch and looks back at me expectantly.
Carefully climbing out of the kayak, I pick her up and put her ashore where she trots off to sniff at the trees and things. The lake is very dark now. This is the time of evening when the 'gators often cruise along the shoreline, stalking cats, dogs, and ducks that come along. As a matter of fact, there are hardly any ducks left. I keep an eye on Sasha as I put the kayak and gear in the back of the pickup. I call her when she begins to wander back toward the water. I shine a pocket light on the nearby water, fully expecting to see the usual twin coals of 'gator eyes glowing back at us, but this time we seem to be alone. When I remove her PFD, Sasha shakes off her unusual mood with the last few drops of water on her coat, and resumes her normal role of 15-year old puppy. We climb into the truck. The cabin light gives us a cheery welcome as we start up and head home. I think maybe I can cope with one more day of work tomorrow after all.
Ira Adams
on the frontier in Mississippi
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