Beautiful, Until it is Not

looking north; the barge is on the horizon!When I talk about kayaking on the Hudson I am always sure to add a cautionary note: look out for the big boats. Tankers, barges pushed by tugs, and container ships all ply the waters of the Hudson. The river is theirs, and it’s important to stay out of the way: boats can’t brake or swerve. They need to stick in the limited shipping channel. I have heard that the captains of these big boats refer to kayakers as speed bumps; most of the time they don’t see us at all.

It would seem that staying out of the way of a big boat would be easy. They take up a lot of room; they are visible. But it is not that simple. This morning as I slipped my boat into the water at the Tivoli landing, the water was lightly feathered.  At 41 degrees, I urged the sun and its promised warmth as it peaked over the eastern shoreline. A faint rumble emerged from the north. I scanned the river and saw nothing. But the noise wasn’t going away. It had to be a boat. I looked more closely. There, on the horizon, was a double barge, pushed by a tug. It was enormous. And it was almost invisible, thanks to my angle, the angle of the sun, the height of the barge. It all worked against me. I hugged the shore until it chugged past, then I made a dash for the western shore.

one way to feel very small On the western shore I was looking for sunshine and ducks. Ducks tucked in near shore south of the Long Pier. The tide was out and the water so shallow my paddles grazed the muddy bottom. I couldn’t get in close enough to identify any of the ducks, just dots on a shoreline. And the sun hid behind thick white clouds, a light breeze pushing me from the north. I wished I had brought my gloves (which I left sitting on shore to be sucked out with the tide).

I looped back across the river cutting across the rocky prow of Magdalen Island. The North Bay sucked me in. A calm draped my shoulders, as I pushed back in my seat, my feet still a bit damp and cool from getting into my boat. The energy of the big river left me as I drifted with the incoming tide. I put my binoculars to my eyes and scanned the mudflats, exposed at low tide. I  landed on the foraging movement two compact shorebirds, which I realized were Common Snipe. Why are they called Common? There is nothing common about a Snipe. Their long bills dwarf their pint sized bodies. And it’s a rare event to see one so clearly, the streaked back and short legs. Usually they skulk in tall grasses and take flight in a blur. Just as these two did, wheeling into the air.

I stroked into the bay, Common Mergansers taking flight in objection to my presence. Again: why Common? They are big ducks, with those great white bodies, tufted heads, long bills. Yes, common in that they are present, and so perhaps not so special to see. But once seen, they are remarkable birds. Perhaps we should get rid of “Common” attached to any bird. I count fifteen “Common” birds including the Common Murre, Common Pauraque, and Common Poorwill,  three birds I have never seen. Let’s change them to Special. The Special Raven and the Special Grackle, like the ones feeding like crazy at my feeder this morning.

The calm of the North BayA very special Pied-billed Grebe foraged in front of me. Not wanting to disturb the little bird, I turned around, heading back toward home, toward mid-term grades.

The bay before the railroad tracks let me know I was in for a ride. Wavelets formed, ruffling what is almost always a placid body of water. The wind of last night had awakened, and I could see the trees on Magdalen Island bending in the breeze. How fast the river changes. What had been a gentle morning was now a windy challenge.

I steeled myself for getting under the railroad bridge, bracing my legs and shoveling the water with determination. Once on the river the wind hit me. It took my boat broadside and pushed me south before I came around and pointed my nose north.  My hands, which had been cold, now were really cold. My body was cold. I stroked into the wind, the waves sloshing over my boat.

I like wind. But I don’t like wind when I am cold, when the water is cold, when the wind is moving one way and the current another, forming frothy white caps. The wind made this big river appear enormous. I thought: I am not going to make it home.

It’s a sad thought to have.

I then did the unthinkable: I rode my boat onto the rocky shoreline. I pulled it out of the water, and above the high water mark. And I walked back to my car. It was the coldest, longest mile-long walk of my life. Leaving my boat felt a kind of betrayal. As I walked, I went through all of my options. I would drive home and pick up the wheels to attach to the back of my boat and wheel the boat back to my car. No. I’d drive down the rocky path beside the tracks (no doubt illegal), then walk on shore and float the kayak north. No. I’d drive down the tracks as far as possible then paddle the boat to that point. No. I could see there was no getting back in my boat.

What I did. I drove down the side of the tracks, where people in pick up trucks drive out to fish, drink or make out at the abandoned stone dock to Sycamore Point. I gave thanks to Subaru as the gravel spit beneath my tires.  I kept on past the dock, the gravel less packed down, the passage narrower, until a large log blocked my way.

I jogged the 200 yards--which felt like 2 miles--to my boat, relieved when I saw its pink body resting on the gravel.

My boat weighs 46 pounds. This means I can carry it from my car to the water, and that I have a system to get it on the roof of my car. 46 pounds is not bad, until you have to carry it several hundred yards. Because the 46 pounds are spread out over sixteen and a half feet, it is an awkward 46 pounds. I hoisted the boat on my shoulder and looked forward. I wished I could see my car, which I had tucked to the side in the bushes that line the river, in case a train swooshed past. I could feel my shoulder begin to sag. The wind grabbed the boat and swung it away from my body. I staggered a bit, caught my foot on a rock. What are you doing out here? I hefted the boat more securely on my shoulder, and marched on. Keeping moving, I told myself. My hands were freezing. Don’t stop. My shoulder ached. Don’t put the boat down. I knew if I put it down, I wouldn’t pick it up again.  Just keep walking, keep walking.

First Paddle of the Season

When I arrived at the Tivoli landing at 5 in the evening a group of people were hanging out at the dock, playing bad music and chatting. I didn’t know anyone and for a moment I had this horrible feeling that my landing, my reach, had been taken over and was no longer mine.

This feeling vanished once I was on the water. The air shifted between spookily warmed and cooler patches that rose from the water itself. The smell was of an enclosed room that needed to be aired out after a winter. I pushed South against the current and a level wind. Moving slowly, I was able to take in my river for the first time this season. And this is what I thought: there’s a lot of garbage out here.

It’s not a romantic thought, I know. Usually when I write about paddles in my reach, I glow with a certain satisfaction that I am in one of the prettiest places I know. But on this evening things looked raw, barren, the colors gray and brown dominated. I struggled to find my way into the beauty of a place I have come to love.

My delight commenced once I slipped under the railroad bridge and into the North Tivoli Bay. A Northern Harrier loped through the air, skimming the tops of the dried cattails. Red Winged Blackbirds made their dinsintctive conkladee call. A flock of Black Ducks flushed, taking to the air. I was back in my world.

The crocuses are up. The first Woodcock peented ten days ago. The bright yellow Winter Aconite dots the woods. Yesterday Peter and I found a Wilson’s Snipe as well as some Painted Turtles sunning on a log. It’s spring. It’s a time of firsts. You would think that at mid-age I would not get so excited over crocuses in the garden, but it’s the opposite in fact. Every year it seems to be more miraculous; those flowers bring me more pleasure. I took the cycles of the seasons for granted when I was younger; now I feel lucky I’m here for another round.

But my most treasured first is this first paddle of the season. It always feels as if something miraculous should happen. What did happen: I felt a tightness in my right shoulder, and then an ache in my lower back. I felt the cold seep through the bottom of the boat to cool my feet. The sky hung gray and uninviting over the Kingston-Rhinecliff bridge. I liked this quiet reentry into this water world, into my reach. The miracle was in the familiar, the grays and browns, the garbage, the ordinary.

As I returned to the big river, the Catskills shimmered in the distance, and shadows stretched in front of me. I started to see colors emerge, and felt the joy of movement under a wide gray sky.

Last of the Season?

First of the season is easy to mark. The first warbler, the first crocus up, the first paddle. We know we have been deprived and the first arrival or event is a joy, the mark of more to come. But last of the season is tricky. Sometimes it passes without realizing that was the last climb, the last rose in bloom, the final hummingbird at the feeder (or, the last kiss…). I was afraid I had already paddled my kayak for the last time this year. The trouble is, I didn’t remember that paddle, had not cherished each minute as it needed to sustain me for several months. So when a string of warm, sunny November days arrived, I decided that this was my chance. My final paddle of 2011.

I drove to the Tivoli landing at 3:30, late for a November paddle. The dock was underwater at high tide. “Four and a half feet of tide,” a motorcyclist loitering by the water’s edge said. He then asked if I had any matches.  I shoved onto the water as I smelled the distinct sweet smell of pot float out onto the water with me.

Just south of Callender house, a long, yellow mansion that grins down onto the water, I saw a mature bald eagle perched in a tree. A twin to this bird stood high in a pine tree at the northern tip of Magdalen Island. This seemed good luck.

The tide was so high I could barely slip under the railroad bridge and into the North Tivoli Bay. But once I squeeze through an even greater calm took hold. I realized I would be paddling into dusk and hoped for an owl—why not?—to come out and join me. 

I meandered past the dried cattails, the reeds now dusty beige. A swamp sparrow hopped up to look at me. I took my time, savoring the texture of the water, the clear coolish air, the quiet. Then I heard a shuffling along the shoreline, in the leaves. I imagined a beaver there, or some other animal coming to drink. To my surprise, there shuffled a pair of wood ducks. I had never been so near to these beautiful, vivid ducks,  with their magnificent colors—the glossy green of the male’s head and the distinct white circle around the female’s eye. I slid away, whispering to them: don’t move, stay right there. Still, they took off,  a rush of wings. They took to the air and looped south. I paddled on, unsettled that I had flushed these birds. And then: a shot rang through the air. I stopped paddling; my shoulders hunched. My wood ducks had been shot. I looked to the sky to see if one tumbled to ground. One duck lagged behind the other—perhaps wounded?—but they were both winging north. I watched until they disappeared on the horizon. I would never know what happened to those ducks. But my first thought was: I killed these ducks. If I had not flushed them they would be safe on shore in the north bay. And in that moment I vowed not to paddle in the bays during duck season again. This is not what I had in mind for my final paddle of the season.

I couldn’t bear to paddle on, so I turned around, heading back for the river. The sun made an indecent display as it sunk behind the Catskills. The colors were so wild, so vivid, for a moment I forgot my sadness over the ducks. I loitered in the wide bay by the tracks where a man stood, a pole extended into the water.

“Do you fish here often?” I asked.

“I do,” he said without looking toward me.

“Do you ever hear owls?” I asked.

“Not owls,” he said. “I saw one once, but it was hit by a train.”

No, this was not what I was looking for on my final paddle of the season. I coasted out of the bay and back onto the river, then chugged my way north. As I pulled my boat out at the dock—now above the tide line—darkness set in. And I thought: this can’t be my final paddle of the season. Though it is often the complexity of the river that intrigues me—tug boats sharing the water with kayaks, industry next to snapping turtles—on this final paddle I wanted only the good. So I will go out one more time looking for an outing that leaves a cleaner taste, a happier memory.

Hunting

“The river is calm,” the man said, walking past me and my boat. I nodded in agreement. But he wasn’t a boater, just a man at the launch at 7 in the morning with a cup of coffee and a cigarette.

The water grabs my ankles, seeps through my aqua socks. Too cold already.  I slip into my boat and settle in. A few strokes out I pause to take stock of a large freight boat shoving north. The water is calm, for now. Ten minutes later the bow of my boat slaps into the water.

The far shore is speckled with the early morning light, while the eastern shore remains cloaked in shade. I have on two jackets to keep warm. But the rotation of my shoulders and torso warms me quickly. I spy a few yellow-rumped warblers in the scraggly bushes that grow in the rocky shoreline.

The north Tivoli Bay lures me in. As I glide under the train overpass, the stillness of the bay immediately wraps me like a comfortable blanket. I stop paddling and coast.  In front of me is a dock that cut loose during Hurricane Irene. It washed into the Bay a few weeks ago and stands there, an odd adornment in a wide bay.

I move forward, wondering what treasures I will find this morning in the north bay when gunshots erupt from the reeds. My shoulders hunch. Duck season. I should have known that the same place I wanted to be would be where a hunter wanted to be. Part of me believes we can both be in this bay, part of me doesn’t want to get hit by a stray bullet.

Just as I decide I should backtrack onto the river I hear the call of a great horned owl.  Hoot hoot hoot hoot. It’s like a magnet to my heart and I forge into the bay. I follow close to the reeds, spying white throated sparrows, and  a chipping sparrow or two. Swamp sparrows peak out at me when I pish.  

Though I’ve decided to go into the bay, I’m not at ease. I try and calm my thoughts, which ping with ideas. The shots I heard were to the south. Hunters shoot at close range, and I’m visible in my pepto-bismol pink boat, wearing a blue jacket.

Truth is, I have respect for many hunters. They know these woods, the bays and the secret spots where ducks hide better than I do. They know ducks better than I do (this actually isn’t saying much! Ducks are low on the list of birds I am capable of identifying). But I wish they didn’t need to bring them out of the sky. As my friend Sonia said, “I just don’t like guns.” It’s that simple.

I spy a marsh wren, tail erect, in the cattails. A white throated sparrow practices its song. And then there’s the owl again. As I round a bend, my heart races, but not for the bird; I’m wondering if a hunter is around the corner. It’s happened before. But I often don’t see the hunters in their camouflage until I’m right next to them.

Today, though, there’s no hunter. And I start to wonder about insisting on paddling on, on insisting on sharing this marsh area when the sounds of guns in the distance leaves me on edge. The point of the paddle is to take in the morning light, the morning peace.

The owl hoots one more time, then I turn and take sure strokes back to the wide river.