With A Teaspoon

Day 329: My day had only just begun when I took this photo, and by the time it ended, I had packed the bow of the kayak so full of Lake St. Clair's Jewelweed that I barely had room for my feet and gear. Given that in one small corner of the lake the infestation covers more than an acre of shoreline, I feel like I'm dipping the ocean dry with a teaspoon. That said, I'm winning in a couple of spots, doing a "maintenance run" on them whenever I go out, pulling any stragglers or new growth. I've singlehandedly rescued one log from the evil weed, and have a fifty-foot stretch of shoreline almost free of the nasty stuff. Do I have enough years left to me to clean the lake? I sincerely doubt it, not even if I worked 365 days a year. Call it a "permanent job," if you will.

What to do today was a toss between kayaking and chanterelling, having had a report of "mountain gold" from Arnie. Wildfire smoke kept me housebound for most of August, and there was still too much in the air today for me to think about hiking up one lesser-known and very steep trail after mushrooms, so I loaded the 'yak on the car and took off for Lake St. Clair, honestly only intending to paddle a bit, visit the Sundews and come home. Consequently, I forgot to put a weed bag in the 'yak, an omission which left me prime prey for ants and spiders by the hundred. They like Jewelweed. And I won't say the evil weed is without purpose. An inadvertent encounter with a patch of nettles provided an opportunity for scientific study. Jewelweed is purported to be good against poison oak/ivy, and a previous nettling during a weed patrol had made me wonder if I hadn't reacted as strongly because I was already covered with the sap. When I got my arm in the nettle patch today, I immediately rubbed the spot with a crushed Jewelweed leaf. Voila! Instant relief! Unfortunately, it doesn't seem to work against ant and spider bites.

Port Of Call

Day 11: It would have been criminal to waste a day of glorious, golden October weather, so as soon as the nip was out of the morning air, I headed for Lake Kapowsin with no purpose in mind other than to paddle until my arms got tired. Of course, I'm ever vigilant for invasive plants, but other than the occasional blackberry vine, I found none. However, an encounter with a Nutria at the neck of the "inside passage" behind the island left us both feeling quite surprised. This was the first time I have ever seen one in the wild, and unfortunately, I was unable to get a photo before it slipped off the log where it had been resting. I got a good view of the hindquarters and rat-like tail. Nutria were farmed for their fur in Washington many years ago, and when the practice proved cost-prohibitive (the guard hairs are difficult to remove from the desirable portion of the pelt), many of the farms simply turned their animals loose. Now I know to watch for them when I'm on Kapowsin.

Pirate's Hideaway

Day 317: There are very few places where a small craft can be beached on the shores of Lac de Ste. Claire, and the hideaway of a certain notorious pirate certainly looks like an unlikely harbour from the water even at close range. It is set in deep shade, and although its particular shingle permits access, navigation into its protection is difficult to say the least, the line of course obstructed by deadheads of various shape and size. Only the most experienced helmsmen venture here, and only the most intrepid explorers go beyond the sanctuary afforded in its most immediate shelter. An ancient cedar stands as gatekeeper, ready to repel intrusion with its weaponry of sharply honed branches. The tangled lands beyond the shore are habitat for the most fearsome and enormous banana slugs known to exist, defended against all comers by the combined forces of well-armed nettle and blackberry.

A Boatload Of Bad

Day 315: Since I had to be in Yelm anyway yesterday morning, I threw the 'yak on the top of the car with a mind to going out on Lake St. Clair to remove the small infestation of Jewelweed (Impatiens capensis) which I'd discovered growing on a floating log about a month ago. Little did I realize how the rest of the day was going to progress.

It only took a few minutes to remove eight plants from the log, the tallest of which was about 2', but as I proceeded close to shore en route to the Sundews, I spotted a mound of the nasty stuff about 10' on a side and 6' tall nestled among thick blackberries. There was no way I could access it from the boat, and someone approaching from the heavily wooded land would need to machete a path through the thorns to reach it. Sighing heavily, I realized that I have my work cut out for me for as long as I'm able to paddle unless the rules regarding development along this side of the lake are relaxed. Jewelweed is an aggressive invader. As long as one plant exists on the shore, it will continue to spread to other areas of the lake. Further on, I noted another heavy infestation, this one covering close to 1000 sq. ft. Again, I could not access it from the water.

As I made my way along the shore, I noticed more places where the weed occurred to lesser degrees. For the most part, it was in spots I couldn't reach, but there were a few exceptions. At the location shown above, I was able to get out of the 'yak and stood in thigh-deep water to pull over 100 plants from the log shown just beyond the bow of the kayak. I was wishing I'd remembered to bring a bag, because the plants were covered in ants, and as I continued on my journey, I kept picking ants off myself and the 'yak by the dozen.

I was heartened when a sweep up the far east side of the lake seemed to prove Jewelweed-free, but when I reached the north end of the lobe, I found more of it growing on a piece of dock which had broken free some years ago and was now a "raft" of sorts, similar to the original Sundew Island, free-floating and now lost somewhere among the tangle of weed and wood along the shore. It seemed the Jewelweed had found an enterprising means of transport, rafting to new locations to release its future generations. Not on my watch! I forced the kayak onto the wood-and-styrofoam structure and pulled every Jewelweed within reach. By the time I got back to the car, the bow of the 'yak was packed with roughly 10 pounds of Jewelweed, enough to fill a large garbage bag. Even so, those inaccessible groves of this persistent plant will continue to disperse seed. A catch-phrase comes to mind, as applicable in this scenario as in the one which birthed it: "Still she persisted." Yes, that will serve.

Heading Into Autumn

Day 1: 365 Caws began its run on October 14, 2010 with a one-year "mission statement" in response to a challenge from photographer friends who were engaging in various "365" projects of their own. Little did I expect that it would continue beyond that year! Today, 365 Caws enters its SEVENTH year of publication. If you're ever bored and need something to read, why not give the early years a look?

Heading into Autumn, the first storm of the season was predicted to hit last night, and while my wind chimes rang steadily for an hour or two, no truly strong gusts disturbed the night. However, almost two inches of rain fell in 24 hours, turning my driveway into muddy soup and pounding the last of the tomatoes into acceptance of their unavoidable fate. The deciduous trees are still hanging onto their slowly colouring leaves, most still green or red according to species, although the big-leaf maples in my neighbour's yard are starting to look tatty and worn. The pussywillow against the garage has shed the burden from its upper half into the recently-cleaned gutter, a complication induced by pure laziness on my part, not wanting to climb back up the ladder to remove the fallen foliage from the roof.

Still, I'm reluctant to take the 'yak rack off the car. I'd like to get in one more paddle on Lake St. Clair to check for more Sundew hibernacula, but that may resolve into a springtime project instead. The high country is certainly going to be closed to me by snow; as much as I love snowshoeing, I don't like driving on the stuff to get to the starting point. My lovely lichens will perk up now that they've had a good soaking, so my readers should expect more posts regarding the taxon I describe as "the wildflowers of winter."

A second, stronger storm is expected tomorrow night, possibly "historic" in nature if the forecasts are accurate. I'm hoping not!

Out And About In A Boat

Lest my word-play pass over the heads of readers outside the PNW, I must explain that when pronounced by a we't-coast Canadian, the phrase "out and about in a boat" makes no distinction in the round vowel sounds; "ooout and abooout in a booout" serves as a yardstick by which to measure Vancouverian origins as surely as a fondness for poutine. In addition to pronouncing "lichen" to rhyme with "kitchen," I am often found to be going ooout and abooout in a booout whenever the weather invites me, or rather, in a kayak.

For the most part, the shoreline of my favourite lake is either developed or too steep to "put into port" for a stretch break. I've managed to find short-term moorage in all but one arm of the X, although at high water, exiting the boat can be a little tricky. This location gives the easiest access to dry land, but on my most recent trip, I noticed that the big cedar tree on the right had had the lower three feet of its bark clawed off by some kind of varmint. There were no tooth-marks to indicate a beaver at work, and the size of the scratches eliminated even the smallest of bear cubs. Discussion of the anomaly with Kevin brought the culprit to light: porcupine! From this point forward, I will be more cautious when I steer my little craft into this secret pirate's lair.

Paddle Caching

Day 252: Although I've pretty much abandoned geocaching, occasionally one will crop up which I can't resist. Mostly, these exceptions take the form of "paddle caches," i.e., ones you have to access by boat. A new one showed up in the area yesterday, and for a variety of reasons, I didn't sprint out the door in pursuit of "first to find" honours. For one thing, it was windy. For another, it was a warm and sunny Sunday, the kind which brings out power-boaters and jerks on jet-skis. The last time I was out on Alder, a teenager on a jet-ski thought it would be funny to try to swamp my 'yak, cutting a powerful wake 15' from my little craft. If I'd had a phone with me, I would have called the sheriff. Apparently, this young man needed to be made aware that there are laws against trying to drown people. Thus Sunday was out, given the likelihood of other boaters, but in any event, not too many geocachers are equipped for marine caching, so I figured the "first to find" would still be attainable if I waited a day.

In the meantime, I tried to solicit backup, suggesting to Kevin (my friend and supervisor) that he could rent a 'yak for the day and join me. Sadly, he declined. However, after some major arm-twisting, I did convince my caching partner Dan to drive up from Olympia. We set out together about noon, island-bound on choppy water, paddling strongly into the wind. The waves subsided to a tolerable level once we reached the protected back side of the island, and there we hugged the shore, looking for a place to put in. The lake is a reservoir, and the island was once a mountain. Its sides are steep, and do not give easy access. That said, when we finally did locate a landing, we were a mere 387 feet laterally from the cache. Note that I said "laterally." We also had a vertical gain of 150 feet with which to contend, a path obstructed with prickly Oregon Grape and massed Sword Ferns. It wasn't the most challenging brush-crash the two of us have ever done, not by a long shot, but it certainly wasn't a "park-and-grab," either. Needless to say, we found the cache, an excellent hide by someone new to the sport. That in itself was remarkable, since new hiders lack the experience to know what differentiates a good cache from a bad one.

With the mission thus accomplished, we finished out the day by completing a full circuit of the island. It had definitely paid off to wait a day. There were only three power-boats on the water, and everyone played nicely together.

Spiny-Ray Day

Day 308: Today, ladies and gentlemen, my goal was to find out if the south end of Lake Kapowsin was as fishy as I've always suspected it would be. The fact that I had to get there by kayak made it even better, although Kapowsin is known for its multitudinous "mines," stumps which hide under mere inches of dark water, making the lake difficult to navigate even under paddle power. I got stuck once, briefly, and grazed several others. That said, fortune favours the bold, and when I reached the weedy shallows and lily pads, a few trial casts brought this nice-sized bluegill to the hook. It turned out to be the biggest of nine "sunfish" (that's what we called them when I was a kid). As a bonus, the lake served up an additional two perch, four smallmouth bass and one largemouth. It was a Spiny-Ray Day for sure, with a seven-mile paddle thrown in. Now that's the kind of day you can say getting out of bed was worth it!

From Calm To Tempest In 30 Seconds Flat

Day 306: There I was, casting among the lily pads, gleefully pulling trout out of Lake St. Clair when something tapped me on the head. And then it did it again. And again, which made me discard the theory that it was a confused dragonfly. That was when I noticed the pocking occurring on the surface of the lake, just a pip here and there. As quickly as I chuckled "Pitter-patter!" in acknowledgement of Mother Nature's sense of whimsy, the patter turned to clatter, soaking my shoulders and legs with a warm downpour. I looked up to see one lone grey-bottomed cloud directly overhead, one crabby weather-wether fussing among an otherwise contented flock of white sheep pasturing in a field of blue. Ten minutes later, the squall was over, and I was drying in the sun, another fish on the line.

Carnivorous Forest

Day 254: I have been fretting over the well-being of "my" colony of Drosera rotundifolia (Round-leaved Sundew) on Lake St. Clair after their island went adrift in a storm last fall and lodged itself in a much shadier niche. I kept telling myself that just because I found the island in position at the north end of the northwest arm, it didn't necessarily follow that it had always been there. It is a raft after all, and may have drifted all over the lake over the years. Still, I couldn't help but worry. The Sundews didn't seem to be as lush as I remembered them, and I kept reminding myself, "It's early yet. They'll come on." Today it hit me: I didn't buy my kayak until August last year. And when I first spotted the Sundews, there were only a few. They didn't really take off until September. Now that we have that settled, I can say I am quite pleased with the way they're behaving.

In order to get a good picture of them, I had to wrassle an alligator, i.e., a floating log which was caught in branches, blocking my ingress into the bay on the sunny side of Sundew Island. I poked it with the paddle, and it bounced right back into place. I pulled on it and it snapped back like it was spring-loaded. Finally, with repeated thrusts of the paddle and some skillful timing, I managed to get the bow of the 'yak in between log and island, and then simply bulled my way through. All things considered, when the "door" went shut behind me, I knew I wouldn't be able to back out through it. There was just enough room to pivot the 'yak so I'd be facing the log for my exit. However, that meant the Sundews were behind me, and there were several more floating logs and poky branches to maneuver around. I am pleased to say that I am a lot better at backing up in the kayak than I am in my car because this adventure put my skill to the test, and getting out of the bay was far easier than getting in.

Adams' Island Adventure

Day 241: I let myself get psyched out by a log from another geocacher for a hide on Adams' Island, or I would have been out here in my kayak last fall. He'd mentioned taking an "accidental swim," so I assumed that getting in and out of the boat was tricky. Someone else had mentioned "ledge jumping," and that was enough to put me off the cache. Nevertheless, Mayfield Lake presented a kayaking opportunity even if I couldn't attain the island. In other words, I decided I had to see it for myself.

Now it has to be said that I am not the world's best example when it comes to filing a flight plan with anybody. I've hiked alone all my life, and seldom told anyone where I was going. Chances were good I'd deviate from the agenda anyway...one thing leads to another when you're an adventuresome sort...so telling someone I'd be up the Blah-blah Trail and would return at 4 PM seemed entirely pointless when I'd more likely head off with map and compass to try to find some bathtub-sized tarn and might not get back until almost bedtime. However, with concerns about dumping myself in the Cowlitz River, I took exception to the standard disregard for protocol and told three friends where I was headed. It was a classic GAR model...Global Assessment of Risk...Green-Amber-Red. For me, this one lit up the caution light.

Well, I got all anxious for nothing. There were several spots to bring the 'yak in on tiny Adams' Island, and while I didn't pick the easiest one, at no time was I in danger of tipping myself into the lake. I was more at risk when I went further up-river and got into whirlpool eddies just past the bridge. It was the closest I've come to being seasick in the kayak, and I prudently retreated before it could become an issue despite the fact that I really wanted to see what was around that next bend. Knowing when to call it quits has kept me going this long, even though my friends might tell you I sometimes push the envelope; I think I've struck a workable balance between "old" and "bold."

Ethics Of Fishing

Day 225: One of my readers has asked me to address the ethics of fishing, i.e., to justify inflicting pain on a fish I do not intend to kill and eat. This is a very complex issue, and since I caught and released six trout at Rapjohn Lake today, this is a good time to address it.

First let me say that you will find me in the forefront when it comes to acknowledging both sentience and self-awareness in many species of animals and birds. However, very few members of the scientific community will credit fish with either. A fish is a sleek, scaly packet of instinctive and conditioned responses, nothing more.

Here we must explore the difference between cognition and conditioning. Cognition is an active thought process, whether verbal or nonverbal: "I chased and chomped down on a green thing which was swimming in a straight line and something pointed pierced my mouth and I couldn't get loose" versus "> > > > > - *!* - !!!" (for lack of a better way to express it). The cognitive being makes direct associations through perception (action and result) whereas a conditioned response simply results in avoidance in the same scenario.

So does a fish feel pain? Yes, but the way its brain processes the pain stimulus is less sophisticated than the way a dog's or dolphin's brain processes it, and therefore it is "felt" as an element of conditioning, rather than a cognitive response. I know, that's a hard distinction to make, but it's crucial to this explanation.

The waters I've been fishing lately have all been "put-and-take" fisheries, which is to say that the Washington Dept. of Fish and Wildlife rears trout in hatcheries and uses them to stock lakes and rivers for the pleasure of anglers (and for the dollars they spend on fishing licenses). These fish lack any of the native fish's wariness with respect to predators of any sort, and are therefore doomed from the get-go. They've been fed hatchery food until they're fat and sassy, and then after they've had their food withheld until they've gotten good and hungry, they're turned loose in the lakes where fishermen are already lined up waiting for the truck to drop them off. They don't stand a chance against the hundreds of hooks baited with PowerBait, and many will be dead within a week. A month past Opening Day, most of the lakes will be "fished out," which is to say the only fish remaining will be the few which were able to avoid being taken, perhaps because they were conditioned by a few narrow escapes...like being hooked by a catch-and-release fisherman who let them go smarter, if with a sore mouth.

Island Landing

Day 218: Yesterday's kayaking adventure took me to yet another "new" lake where, in addition to catching five trout in the 11-12" range, I also discovered an island approximately twenty feet across the longest dimension. It held three or four large trees (living and dead), a number of small shrubs (mostly willow), and showed repeated use by Canada Geese as a nesting site. I found two eggs, one of which had been rolled out of a nest by some varmint, the other still nearly entirely concealed by mounded dry grass and down. In the process of exploring this small but fascinating microcontinent, I also learned that Canada Geese are useful in controlling the invasive snails which populate most of western Washington's lakes.

The only birdlife I observed on the island (other than evidence of geese) were Red-Winged Blackbirds, common also along the reedy shore. However, as shown in yesterday's post, Spotted Sandpipers were present at the north end of the lake. A pair of Bald Eagles were seen in and around a tall snag on the west side of the lake. That said, the island was a naturalist's delight, for all of its diminuitive size.

Pattison Lake Paddle

Day 209: Although I've pretty much given up geocaching after wrestling with the ethics of the sport, I do occasionally go out after a hide or two, particularly if I can earn five stars for terrain. Paddle caches are an easy way of doing that. In pursuit of two such caches today in beautiful weather, I not only discovered a new lake to kayak, I found both hides, paddled nine miles, and caught (and released) four 12-14" trout. Y'know, you can't argue with a day like that!

Pattison Lake is just a little west of Lake St. Clair of Sundew fame, although in a different drainage. It is divided into two lobes of approximately equal size by a narrow neck of water. An active railroad line spans the center of the "hourglass." I patrolled every bay of both sections, investigated every floating or partially submerged log with hopes of finding another suitable mini-ecology, but found no evidence that Pattison might also support Droseras. I suppose you can't have everything!

Almost Goosed Again

Day 194: While making my first foray into Sundew Cove yesterday, I very nearly got goosed again for not being attentive to my surroundings. It's amazing how well these enormous birds blend into the landscape. Only as I drifted up against one of the logs which supports the Sundew population did I notice Mother Goose on the nest about fifteen feet away. She did not threaten me, but I looked around warily to see if I could spot her mate as I propelled myself away. She did not raise her head from under her wing while I was photographing her. Later in the day, I returned to Sundew Cove and observed from a safe distance that she was still on the nest and had her head up, and appeared more alert to intruders than during our earlier encounter. I did not observe her mate.

Pirates Of Sundew Cove

Day 193: Ye'd best no' be thinkin' o' prowlin' a'ter th' treasure o' Lake St. Clair. 'Tis under th' eye o' a certain pirate cap'n an' she was out checkin' on it jist t'day.

If there was ever any doubt in the mind of the locals that I mean business about protecting the Sundews which inhabit this lake, it was dispelled today when I h'isted out the colors and made a patrol of all their hangouts. I found a couple of geocaches while I was at it, stopped and talked to my pal Jim from last year, but my main purpose today was to make a survey of the Sundew population and locate Sundew Island if it had gone adrift again. As luck would have it, the island (a few old timbers lashed together as a raft or part of an old dock) was right where I had last seen it. The Sundews, however, are still hibernating.

Out And About In A Boat

Day 190: Yesterday just wasn't a good day to go out in the kayak again. The forecast of "mostly sunny" didn't become an actuality until rather late in the day, and it never did really warm up. Today seemed to be starting out in the same manner, but once the sun got a toehold in the cloud cover, it successfully pushed the door open. I'd had a feeling that was going to be the case, so I'd put the kayak on the car and was just biding my time in anticipation of going out on the Tanager's first serious fishing expedition. Oh, I'd dabbled a bit last fall with no particular expectation of success, but today I meant business. I intended to catch at least one trout for dinner.

Like many fishermen, I harbour the belief that you'll find the best fish in spots no one else cares to explore. With that in mind, I headed to the north end of the lake where I'd crossed swords with a goose earlier in the week. Goose was patrolling and had widened his boundaries, but I got past him without incident thanks to a pair of ducks who diverted his attention long enough to let me pass. Throwing out a blue Roostertail, I got a strike immediately from a scrawny six-inch fingerling. Another twenty minutes of casting failed to draw a single bite, so I trolled a Wedding Ring as I paddled back to the boat launch at the south end, but unsuccessfully. In this desperate time, I was compelled to resort to a desperate measure. I pulled a couple of jars of PowerBait out of the trunk of the car.

At this point, let me say that I don't like to fish with bait. I am first and foremost a fly-fisherman, but over the years of fishing with my buddy, I've used lures when possible, but in the course of events, when we were together, bait seemed to be the standard. That said, PowerBait wasn't working either. I was on the verge of calling it a "good paddle day" and going home, but I decided to tie on a black Roostertail for the trip back to the launch. I hadn't gone a hundred yards when I had a hard strike.

Hatchery fish aren't much fun. They lack the spunk of native fish who have had to scrabble for their existence. This one came fairly easily to the net. On any other day, I might have let it go, but in wanting to be "one with the beautiful spirit of the trout" a la Greg Brown's song "Fishing With Bill," my mouth was set for beer-battered trout filets. The batter is maturing even as we speak.

Back On The Water

Day 187: The forecast was for 67° and light wind, so I put the 'yak rack back on the car this morning and discovered much to my delight that I'd skinnied up sufficiently to get in a pair of hand-me-down insulated waders. Summery temperature aside, the lakes are still quite cold and with no dock handy, wading out at least to knee-depth to get into the boat is pretty much mandatory. Even with the waders protecting me, my feet felt the chill, but once I was actively paddling, I was more than sufficiently warm.

Last year, I purchased the kayak after Ohop Lake had a toxic algae advisory posted. It was not a full warning which would have necessitated a closure, but people were being told not to eat fish caught in the lake and were advised not to swim or wade. There were plenty of other places I could go without placing myself at risk, so I put Ohop on the list for later. Before leaving this morning, I checked to be sure the advisory had been removed and was pleased to see that only three lakes in the county currently are thought to contain toxic algae. Ohop was not among them.

Ohop is a pretty lake, approximately 2.5 miles long and probably less than half a mile wide at its widest point. It hosts planted trout, bass and a few other species and is open to fishing year-'round (barring toxic algae advisories). It also is home to Canada Geese, as is any body of water in the Pacific Northwest, and this is nesting season.

Down in the far (north) end of the lake, I was following a Kingfisher who was skillfully staying out of reach of my lens by flying to a new perch as soon as I turned the camera on. With my eye on that elusive bird, I drifted too close to a pair of Canada Geese, the female sitting on the nest and the male guarding her about six feet away. I don't know if he mistook the movement of the paddle for a wing, but something provoked him to launch an attack. He extended his neck, put his head on the water with his beak open and began paddling toward me at high speed, obviously incensed. I tried to move out of range, but couldn't navigate fast enough to please him, so he flew up out of the water and straight toward me. I raised the paddle and fended him off, his enormous body only inches from the blade. He flew up and over me and landed about fifteen feet away on the opposite side of the kayak, whereupon he launched a second attack in the same manner. The second time, he again missed the paddle by inches, overshooting and continuing his flight back to the nest. He landed on the water and seemed to be going to go back to the female, but as soon as my back was to him, he set off on a third assault, again with his neck at full extension and his lower beak scraping water. For all the world, that goose looked like an engorged water moccasin closing on a swimmer! Once again, he flew up when he got within ten feet of me and barely cleared the paddle I was using to defend myself. But this time, he had apparently assured himself that he had successfully repelled the trespasser (as indeed he had!), and he returned to the female's side. One of my grandmothers had her arm broken by a domestic goose when it struck her with its wing. I know to stay clear of them, but in this case, I didn't see the pair until it was too late.

Thus, the Tanager's first voyage for 2014 became a bit more of an adventure than I'd bargained for, but ended with no harm done to any of the participants. After seeing the successes other people were having with the trout, I beached the boat at the parking area in the hopes that I'd left a fishing pole in the trunk of the car. Nope, I'd put it away for winter, but it's in the car now and we have good weather coming again toward the end of the week.

Unexpected High Seas

Day 19: Half an hour later, I was down there in the far end and as I swung 'round to follow the eastern shore (right side of the photo), a series of low swells came surging across the surface, threatening to take the kayak broadside. I angled into them and rode them out, but they were just the appetizer. The wind came up, pulling the water into meringue peaks and dashing them into the cockpit. "Where the hell did that come from?" I grumbled aloud. "So much for doing two laps!"

The camera was on the floor of the boat, but I didn't dare stop paddling long enough to put it in the dry-sack. If the wind had turned the boat sideways, I could have been in trouble. The western shore was somewhat calmer under the wind-shadow created by the surrounding hills, so I put my back into it and tacked for open water, away from the hazards of barely submerged stumps. Once across, it was easier going, though I was still fighting wind if not whitecaps. A quarter mile from the boat ramp, the wind subsided into a gentle breeze. What's a sailor to do? I made for the far side and finished off the day with a leisurely navigation of the south end, one "lap" made with respect to distance travelled, although I missed out a piece of the eastern shore entirely.

A Jaunt With A Friend

Day 341: For the most part, active sports are something I do solo: backpacking, bicycling and now kayaking. Today was an exception. My geocaching partner Dan had yet to pick up the cache on the island in Lake Kapowsin and I was ready for another paddle. I suggested that we do a grand tour of the lake together, and he agreed. We met at the boat ramp at ten and immediately set off to explore the south end of the lake which I had yet to see. I was expecting it to be full of stumps and indeed there were plenty, although not nearly as many as I'd guessed. Water level was up about half a foot following the week's heavy rain which gave us some additional clearance. Even so, I managed to tag one but at least this time, I didn't get stuck.

Partway back, we cruised into a small cove to check out an odd structure which at first I thought was made of concrete. As we came closer, it was revealed as a bad camo paint job on a plywood box about eight feet tall, eight feet wide across the front and four feet deep. There was a strange figure of some sort perched on one upper corner which at first we took for a plastic owl, and we assumed that the "clubhouse" was a duck blind of some sort until discovering that it had no peepholes in it or slots for rifle barrels. Weirder yet, the "owl" turned out to be the head of a female mannequin staring out across the water, hair and complexion obviously much the worse for weather. There appeared to be a rough trail leading down the steep embankment to it, but no evidence of recent use. Nevertheless, the overall effect was creepy and unsettling even to me, and I'm normally unmoved by such things. The Lady of the Lake's eyes followed us as we paddled somewhat hastily away.

Next, we put in on the island so Dan could find the cache, explored a bit, and then sat on the "inside" shore to have our lunch. Primary goals accomplished, we finished up the day by navigating the stump minefield to the north end of the lake and then back to the boat ramp. We were out four hours and covered 5.25 miles.