13th Lake: Morning Part 1
At 8:30 the lake is dead flat. Not a ripple. The silence, which settled down on us as the canoe slid away from the dock, was complete. The eastern sun hit the western mountains along the shore straight on. They were illuminated as if from some inner light. The boat cut a smooth line in the water. The ripples moving away from the red bow looked like the skin of a whale; dark grey and shiny. Paddling the canoe early in the morning is something you try to do with a kind of sacred silence. I tried not to hammer the side of the paddles on the gunwales and paid close attention as they dipped through the water’s skin.
As we reached the middle of the lake, at its widest point, I spotted a loon coming in for a landing. The wings widely outspread on impact slowed this densely built duck as his body slid across the water; his broad chest tipped forward and he came to a stop. The water in front of him was pushed into small waves. I got out the camera and binoculars and we began following him from a respectful distance. He had joined three others and they split up soon after the last arrival. Our canoe ended up between the two pairs. We could hear them conversing with each other. Little hoots and chuckles; all probably a plan to get as far from the nosy canoe as possible. Each took a turn diving for food. They would tip forward in a flash and disappear under a small ripple of water. If you catch the sun at the right angle, you can see the revealing shudder of water and it helps keep track of their movement. Then the trick is to sit silently and watch the lake for the loon’s reappearance. They pop up some hundred or so yards away and I would move the boat slightly to be in a better position to photograph them. One suddenly broke through the water only thirty or so feet away, off to the left. I could get a good look at those fiery red eyes and brilliant black and white back. The loon seemed nonplussed by our nearness. He looked around for his companions and sang a song, letting them know his location. When he sang he opened his beak an inch or so and out came this haunting sound. The song bounced off all the mountains as if a dozen fellow loons, located in the trees, answered. Then, as quickly, he disappeared.
Rob paddled up a little later and told us there was an osprey winging around the lake. He had tried to call out when it flew between us. A few moments later, the huge bird soared past us along land’s edge, showing off its great wing span and eagle-like grace.
By 11 AM, many more canoes and fishermen and paddle-boats had come out and the magic faded. We got off the lake and headed back to the house, trying to hold onto the silence which had settled in our hearts.
