6:15 p.m.-
No
air is moving tonight. I am floating in a motionless world. Tall-headed grasses
fringe my cubicle sides, bottle rockets aiming straight up at the sky. A leaf
now drifts past on a mirror of reflection, highway sounds sigh diffuse in the
east.
My
space just splashed with a loud violent clash, a fish seeking a meal at the top
of the glass. A greeny-shelled monster with two splayed antennae and ganglous
legs--is resting on the red lid of the cooler. It's been there for minutes now,
an eternity, measured by a bug span of life.
I
am anchored in my summer office. It's a place I come when away from the job,
either sunrises or sunsets depending on the day, to sort out what's real from
what's not. It's late afternoon and I have packed up the work and a dosage of
beer; EZ the dog sits in the bow, I'm in the rear.
I
found this spot years ago while exploring the river. It's part of a northern
flowage; a big lake at first, slowly narrowing upstream, from wide marshy
shallows into bona fide wild river with grassy banks at the sides and woods
dark and cool.
My
narrow hidden channel can be seen briefly in passing, which no boaters glimpse,
they speed past and miss it and I'm glad that they do. It appears unappealing,
weedy and drab; I've only seen two other vessels inside it in years. It's scary
to big speedboats and flattop pontoons, which stay safe in the mainstream while
blasting their tunes.
So
I enter alone but with EZ my old golden girl, idle up slowly, and the day's
pesky distresses fade quickly away. Beside tall grasses we glide, around a snag
or two, under some trees slanting down to the water, with an opening just right
for a small boat to pass through. Then beyond into wide sunbeamy meadows and
birds singing bright, deep currents shifting and dragonflies flitting.
There
is a cool shady tunnel to slide in to when the sun gets too hot. Further up
where big trees incline over and the current is quicker, relief from the heat
leans close to the boat and sand on the bottom holds fast to our anchor. The
deerflies are vicious and insistent, but only at first; they settle and leave
us alone after a few swear-worded minutes. It's all centered here, the point of
this life, to listen and ponder and scratch at bug bites.
On
the east edge of this shady passage is a meadow with blueberries that ripen in
July. But they hire air forces of flies every time I try to go pick them and
cook up some pies. These tormentors dip and they swoop, then hover and light on
unknown skin places, then pinch with a bite! There are beavers here too, though
mostly unseen, they sneak silently up from behind then splash a great tail.
Giving us a startle, I shout out a wail.
Off
on the side is a small creeky passage, alluring it is, narrow and beckoning. A
daughter begged to explore it on a visit last summer, but it was too shallow
and we turned back grumbling "bummer." A few weeks later the water
had risen. With the motor raised up to avoid a weedy muck bottom and
waterlogged logs, we negotiated it downward into a lily pad clog. Snowy white
water lilies splayed raucous and pure, nothing to do but unfurl the old oars. Then
tug and strain against green weedy goo, for hours it seemed, the sweat stung
and poured.
Beaver
who's been acting quite surly and splashing a lot has annoyed me too early. It's
only 6:30. We don't want to leave, and relinquish our spot, but EZ and I have
had just enough. A minute ago he surfaced nearby and yelled "get outta'
here, go away. And pack up your stuff!"
I
pulled up the anchor and called him an "ASS!" then started the motor
and gave it the gas. We're now drifting listing to starboard a tad (EZ's on the
gunwale), past where he last slapped the water, in hopes that our adjustment
will appease the buck-toothed old cad.
We're
now safely stopped fifty yards downstream, so EZ and I can let off some steam.
His last sighting was a few minutes ago, with a flippant tail slap and an
arrogant sniff, swimming away from the spot we've conceded, just a small bit
conceited.
Bullfrogs are chugging near the boat on the
left, hollering for fun--oh, they sound so bereft. The other night I witnessed
frog sex. One choked and chugged until a lady showed up. He wrangled her around,
then clutched her topside. He chased her intensely when she escaped in a splash,
then grabbed her again and let out a laugh. An interesting saga to watch big
frogs mate. I imagine he'll carouse until late, 'cuz he leaped away lively
for a new croaking round, fifteen feet over to a perky new sound.
I've
seen otters playing here. A family of funsters, with little ones too, frolicked
near a dead tree and slid down the bank. A whitetail deer chased a coyote into
the water, he swam hard in a panic as the doe huffed on shore, then breached
the far bank, glanced over his shoulder and stuck out his tongue. There are muskrats
abundant and dragonflies too, who settle on coffee cup handles and hat brims
and bare-naked toes. They iridesce colors uncommon to man and spread gaucious
wings, to warm themselves up in the flush of the sun.
8:35 p.m.-
EZ's
now chomping a grassy snack, since we've pulled anchor and were drifted into an
eddy near shore. She's got two deerflies attached to her snout; I should think
just a blur. She seems to not care that they're dining on her.