Once more to the lake

I would dress softly so as not to wake the others, and sneak out into the sweet outdoors and start out in the canoe, keeping close along the shore in the long shadows of the pines. I remembered being very careful never to rub my paddle against the gunwale for fear of disturbing the stillness of the cathedral.  —E. B. White, Once More to the Lake

The final morning after breakfast I took the canoe out.

The wind was up. It took some purchase with each paddle stroke to propel it halfway to the far shore. More than once, despite my efforts, the wind took the bow. Finally, I decided to head up into it, cutting directly through the small waves that slapped against the boat.

Earlier that morning as I stood on the dock watching the mist roll off the smooth surface of the water, a beaver swam by, carrying a small fresh sapling in its mouth, ripples from its nose forming a V-shaped wake. Now the heavy waves on the open water obliterated the canoe’s wake immediately after each paddle stroke.

Eventually, with considerable effort, I approached a small cove on the northwestern shore, where I rested in the break afforded by the pines. I paddled past the Lake Labelle portage to the beaver dam, then turned and headed back down the lake.

A big hawk circled above one of the small islands in the center before disappearing over the tops of the pines. I looked up to find a cache of sticks near the top of a dead tree on the northern point. I estimated the nest to be two and a half feet in diameter.

I let the wind take the canoe, using the blade of the paddle as a rudder to navigate along the far shore. Here quartzite cliffs, perhaps 80 feet high, bounded the eastern shore. The morning sun reflecting off the water shot dancing bands of light up the face of the grey colored rock, like scores of luminous gulls flying in formation.

One section of these massive giants had broken off, leaving a narrow channel of water between it and the cliff. I maneuvered the canoe into it and threaded the needle into a quiet cove on the other side.

Shortly, I touched the dock. Out in the center of the lake a lone loon taunted me with his morning cry. A gull dropped down to rest on the rocky outcrop directly off the dock.

I drew in a deep breath of morning air and surveyed the panorama one last time.

Big Clear Lake will always be one, but never the same.

Big Clear Lake

Time is but the stream I go a-fishing in. I drink at it; but while I drink I see the sandy bottom and detect how shallow it is. Its thin current slides away, but eternity remains. I would drink deeper; fish in the sky, whose bottom is pebbly with stars. I cannot count one. —Thoreau, “Where I Lived, and What I Lived For” in Walden

At twilight I stood on the dock, looking out over the lake. Off in the distance a loon sounded its hallowed haunting cry. Overhead, the first of the evening stars appeared. The steady light in the western sky I judged it to be a planet — most likely Venus.

“Permission to come aboard.” A low voice sounded behind me.

I laughed and greeted my host and friend: “Permission granted.”

The dock rolled slightly with his step; I flexed my knees to keep my footing.

“How about a night-time paddle on the lake?”

“Sure; let’s go.”

I undid the bow painter from the cleat; and we stepped into the canoe, pushed off and slipped out into the still water.

Between the rhythmic paddle strokes you could hear tiny wavelets gurgling at the bow as they rushed along beneath the boat. As the band of light on the western horizon grew more and more narrow above the silhouetted pines, the stars came out in the broad expanse of sky.

“There’s the Big Dipper,” I said, pointing up ahead.

“Did you see the recent supernova?”

“No, I didn’t get out, but it’s supposed to be visible with binoculars. There’s Polaris and the Little Dipper.”

“I can’t make it out.”

“It’s upside down. Imagine it pouring into the Big Dipper below.”

“Now I see it.”

We continued along in the darkness into the widest part of the lake. Stars were visible at the horizon, points of light I had never seen back home, where the light pollution from our towns and cities puts out the dimmer stars.

We sat in silence on the still water and marveled at the splendor of the night sky. The notes of an owl sounded from the shore; a loon laughed in the darkness. Slowly, the canoe drifted around. Above the southeastern horizon the teapot of Sagittarius tipped toward Scorpio’s fishhook tail.

We navigated back to the dock in the dark, following the Milky Way.

“Look, you can see the stars reflected in the lake!”

We studied the points of light strewn like diamonds below the gunwales, precious gems shining in the black water. The heavens were visible under our feet as well as above our heads.

We passed the island in the dark, taking care to avoid the rocky spine that traversed the length of the lake. Shortly, we bumped against the dock. Securing the canoe to the cleat, we stood up, feeling the dock bobbing beneath our feet.

Nearby, in the woods below the cottage, whip-poor-wills began their nocturnal serenade.