Stirring the primeval soup: Benewah Lake

I had noticed that an Idaho paddle club featured an outing to Heyburn State Park on their calendar so thought to explore new geographies, the lure of crossing the state line for love always the cereal box trinket for me.

Big disappointment. Benewah Lake smells like primeval slime and is seriously clogged with aquatic plants. The launch and dock are slippery with duck poop.

Yes, I still went in, such is my intrepid spirit. I had driven all this way, after all, some hundred miles from my mountain eyrie.

A group of fishermen in an aluminium skiff rowed in as I launched. Their catch was disappointing on this day too.

An osprey flew overhead, small compensation for the frustration of the paddle as each dip of my Eagle Ray stirred the lumpy primeval soup.Perhaps if I had had my other kayak, the sleek yellow Merlin, I could have launched from Rocky Point Marina and explored these multiple interleading lakes further, even paddled a bit of the drowned St Joe river - at 2307 feet, the highest navigable river in the world. Or was before human intervention and dam building made the whole area lakes.

But I had only brought B2T2 so I settled for a little tour of Benewah lake, challenging my squeamishness about murky still water. I looked up into the blue sky, looked down into the stagnant shallows, admired the rusty old railroad trestles which divide this lake from the next, then sunned myself dry on the mown grass of the picnic area where park workers were using a chain saw and muscle to upgrade the parking barriers. Restful, not, but all part of playing the hand that's dealt you.
Will I be returning to Heyburn State Park? Not likely to Benewah Lake but Chatcolet Lake for bird watching or a Rocky Point launch for a longer autumn colour paddle in the Merlin, a cautious maybe. I was glad that I had only paid the $5 day use fee and not sprung for a $40 annual pass.

Iron horse monumental with a heart like an axe

As one enters Plummer, Idaho, from the west, there is a warriors' memorial alongside the road.

The extensive parking lot, hosting vehicles with cycle racks extending like scorpion tails out the back is, I discovered, explained by the fact that monument marks the beginning, or end, of the Trail of the Coeur d'Alene's - a rails-to-trails paved bicycle path which runs 73 miles along the railway route from Mullen on the Canadian border to Plummer on the prairies.

I also found, to my relief, that the monument doesn't just honour valor in battle, but has good toilets as well - after all that was the initial reason I had been on the lookout for places to stop. On this fine summer day the structures were surrounded by green-gold waving prairie grass. No camping though. Not that I would want to camp alongside a tarred road, but you never know.

Framing the monument in my lens, I realised that, up there in the enamel blue cloudlessness of a July summer day in Idaho, the iron horseman was raising his peace pipe to a waning moon. As seen in the pictures in the previous post.

Keep me searching for a heart of gold/keep me searching and I'm growing old

Into the blue

To what extend are fractured lives made whole by love?

Today I hold a prayer pipe up to the infinite blue, hoping it will fill with the emptiness of a waning moon.

The horse is just a land canoe.

Hope. Put that in your pipe and smoke it.

Drowning not waving: inexorable fate

I dreamed of drowning the other night. No, not actually drowning but it was inevitable.

It was a salt water swim which started at 7 feet distance from the shore, but then a current carried me out. Suddenly I was 14 or maybe 28 feet out with no hope, given my weak swimming skills, of getting to shore. A tiny dot in a huge ocean of swells. Almost invisible. And no witness to my fate.

The numbers were flashing in my peripheral vision. Growing bigger in increments of 7.

Then I woke up and found the lawyer's letter in the mail. My delinquency chastised. Finally. The carnival is over.

Hmmm. Drowning not waving.

Time to examine my relationship with the salt water. A hui hou, Haleikeokekai. Farewell Beeeg Old Cedar tree. Goodbye, last illusion of home. After this, rootlessness.

Say goodbye my own true lover
As we sing a lovers song
How it breaks my heart to leave you
Now the carnival is gone

High above the dawn is waiting
And my tears are falling rain
For the carnival is over
We may never meet again

Like a drum my heart was beating
And your kiss was sweet as wine
But the joys of love are fleeting
For Pierrot and Columbine

Now the harbour light is calling
This will be our last goodbye
Though the carnival is over
I will love you till I die

Like a drum my heart was beating
And your kiss was sweet as wine
But the joys of love are fleeting
For Pierrot and Columbine

Now the harbour light is calling
This will be our last goodbye
Though the carnival is over
I will love you till I die
Though the carnival is over
I will love you till I die

Too alone

Too Alone

by Ranier Maria Rilke
From Rilke’s Book Of Hours
translated by Anita Barrows & Joanna Macy

I’m too alone in the world, yet not alone enough
to make each hour holy
I’m too small in the world, yet not small enough
to be simply in your presence, like a thing—
just as it is.

I want to know my own will
and to move with it.
And I want, in the hushed moments
when the nameless draws near,
to be among the wise ones—
or alone.

I want to unfold.
Let no place in me hold itself closed,
for where I am closed, I am false.
I want to stay clear in your sight.

I would describe myself like a landscape I’ve studied
at length, in detail;
like a word I’m coming to understand;
like a pitcher I pour from at mealtimes;

like my mother’s face;
like a ship that carried me
when the waters raged.

Tks to Beth Owls Daughter for originally posting this poem

Annointing at Deep Lake: eagles and doves

Another of the Sun Lakes Basin lakes in the Lower Grand Coulee, Deep Lake stretches 1.6 miles long and darkly bottomless, winding between high cliffs with desert scabland landscapes at the far end. Rattlesnake territory. Uh huh.The stormy day with increasing low cloud made the water impenetrable, sombre and a bit scary at times, dropping sheer and so deep from high rock cliffs.

Half way down the lake I shelter from pelting rain under an overhang while thunder rumbles around me. The cliffs are craggy and huge, populated in places with flowers and determined plant life. The dark eyes of caves watch me. There's no chance of beaching here and I think back to similarities with the Na Pali: the only way out is forward. These cliffs hold secrets they want to retain.
After the storm, an eagle feather floats on the water. As I reach for it an eagle shrieks overhead, swooping across to the opposite cliff, momentarily filling the sky with presence and shadow. I am a rabbit in his eye as I paddle for the light, Blue Bath Tub Toy for once obedient and tracking smoothly on the reflective surface. Then a flutter-clap of wings: the soft cooing of doves calms my jangled nerves. Grey pigeons are nesting in these cliffs too. The sword and the heart are both necessary.
At the end of the lake I pause to eat my breakfast on the water. A blue dragonfly settles on my toe. I feel anointed, finally, by the guardians of this place, the dragonfly is their emissary. The eagle feather their token
Little sunbreaks on the return paddle reveal dancing colours on the surface. There is a full set of pics on flickr here

Walking in beauty on State Highway 231

On HWY 231, between Ford and Reardon, the landscape transitions from craggy pine forest mountains into rolling hills of grasslands and wheat.
The little stretch of road takes me forever to travel as I take it slow, savouring the exquisite exhibition of gaudy roadside art.

Stormy early morning light makes drama in the colours of sky, earth, plant and flower. Sun and cloud shadow add a dimension of dark and light to the symphony.
I swear those farmers use their lands as canvas. Agriculture as art. To work the land is to walk in beauty, Byronic.

SHE walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that 's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!

Fire in the sky

The sun is in Cancer, the full Buck Moon moon in Capricorn. Does that make for mountain goats with crabby attitude?

Difficult to be crabby in a summer abundance of rose gold heralding the indigo and silver night.

This moon is named for the buck who are donning their courtship regalia, getting their new antlers around about now. Velvet is in the air. Pow wow calling. I am counting days. The canoes are on the water. Salt water speaks to my blood.

Don't let the sun go down on me: in praise of summer

Who needs to worry about a roof over your head when you have a tent and a truck?
With a million lakes ranging from high alpine to desert oasis within a few hours range of my wheels, a kayak and a tent, the few brief sunny months of summer wrap their endless days of rose gold and blue skied beauty around me. I grow berry brown and strong while I clock up miles of sage scented exploration on land and water. Viva! summer, viva! Long live the sagebrush rendezvous.

Aquamarine jewel: paddling Bead Lake

A day of bewitching light on water. Scared even myself with moments on this paddle. Aquamarine water so deep and clear you see all the way down to the bones of drowned elk and ancient tree trunks in the silted underworld.
Thanks to the snowmelt flooding which has resulted in a temporary no wake order effectively eliminating the motorboat fishermen, there's not another human around for miles. This 700 acre lake is best known for ice fishing in winter when it freezes over completely.
If a cougar had eaten me only the the blue bath tub toy would know. Turtles looked unblinkingly out of reptilian eyes. They would never tell. Butterflies danced on my toes

War chemical disposal: environmental stewardship anyone?

Maybe I spoke too soon, and I just found my rattlesnake. Sorry! More ugliness folks.

Searching for background information on the lakes around me, I discovered that in January 1947 the US War Assets Administration disposed of "20 000 pounds of highly dangerous metallic sodium" into Lake Lenore.

Even though I see fishermen there now, the War Assets Administration claim it had no fish in it, so it was okay to dump the chemical drums. And they even bragged about what they were doing on this newsreel. When will we stop making war an excuse for trashing the planet?

Driving the canyon: a scenic diversion

On 3rd of July I did a little After-Sunday-Breakfast-at-the-Palace-Cafe [a diner deluxe breakfast fit for the anniversary of blood of my blood, complete with young, pretty, not a dishwater blonde among them, harassed waitresses, a full menu of American breakfast items and old men, elbows on the counter, loering] mini 20 mile or so road trip on State route 821 through the Yakima Canyon in south eastern Washington state.

The Yakima river was flowing deep green, swift, dangerous and oh! so beautiful. This is not, however, water which I would paddle without the company of one who knows this kind of fast water. I know it doesn't look like much in this picture taken from a convenient pull out on the winding canyon road, but trust me, that water was radiating don't-mess-with-me urgency.
So on this day I looked at the water only, and walked amongst the dry lava rocks, snuffling the pure desert air, drenching myself with crushed white sage, looking up, looking down.

The cliffs were brooding, the sage fragrant, the sky an infinity of blue. A tiny bird chased a raptor, small silhouettes making bigger shadows against the basalt cliffs.

The chip of broken glass I picked up and pocketed said "West".

Yup. This is about as Far West as one can get. Somehow, inadvertently, without meaning to, I have done it. Gotten to the heart of cowboy. In that ringing silence I am in the nesting area for some the most faithful messengers of the numinous: hawks, eagles and falcons.

And I have yet to meet a rattlesnake.

Oh and as an aside: if you are in search of the perfect hashbrown, don't bother with the Palace Cafe in Ellensberg, historicity and all. Soapy, limp, dead fish consistency hash browns tasting of overused oil and fried egg, will never be contenders. In fact, for a vegetarian, the place is a no-go. Yes there is a bowl of fresh fruit, granola and yoghurt option amongst all those piles of pancakes, french toast and bacon and egg variations, but the yoghurt they serve is made with gelatin and loaded with preservatives. Then too, the service on the morning I dined there was slow enough to generate a hypoglycemic meltdown in a senior citizen.

The best part of this diner experience is the grainy enlargements of old photographs framed on their walls.

Taking the waters: Soap Lake

At the southern end of Lower Grand Coulee in the desert part of eastern Washington, walled by high basalt cliffs, is a meromictic mineral lake. The surrounding landscape is dry and scabby: sagebrush scablands. When the wind blows the edges of the lake foam and froth, hence the name Soap Lake

I have long had a love affair with this strange place. The water is soft and leaves skin feeling smooth. It is reputed to help with arthritic conditions.

A meromictic lake is one whose waters do not mix for whatever combination of physical conditions: a deep basin or a dense salinity. This means that the silt remains relatively undisturbed and provides record of geological history. This plays out in Soap Lake as distinct layers of warm and cold water. And a certain stillness. And incredible blue at certain times of day.

Apparently there are only about 120 known meromictic lakes in the world. Lake Tanganyika in Africa is one of these. The Black Sea is also regarded as meromictic. The lakes often occur in arid areas.

For years there have been rumours in the media about a giant lava lamp to be built at Soap Lake, to draw the crowds. For me, the healing waters are attraction enough, and draw just who they want to the place.

Unlike the geothermal hot springs which I dearly love, this is a cold water place. This makes it ideal for visiting in summer, though there are hotels in the little town which have piped the water through their plumbing systems so one can bathe in heated mineral water.
There seems to be a sizable Ukrainian/Russian/Eastern European community who gather on these shores speaking in their native tongues while plastering themselves with the creamy, black volcanic mud.

Healing waters. Healing earth.

4th of July weekend, I stopped off for a paddle with the BTT, and a swim, en route to feed some pigs a little ways down the road in Ellensberg.
I thought it appropriate that I spend part of my second US Citizen 4th of July holiday weekend at an oasis in a desert, surrounded by strangers speaking an incomprehensible foreign language, plastering themselves with volcanic mud.

Immigration as disorientation. Life as a continuum of strangeness.

This is turning out to be my blue summer. Blue kayaks, blue lakes, blue skies. Healing blue.

More about Soap Lake here and here

Swan lake with eagle: another desert dance (with bath tub toy)

After my attempt to save petrol by paddling closer to home was frustrated by testosterone and the ORV contingent at the Bingville Man Camp, I sought solace in the desert back at Alkali Lake, one of the the Sun Lakes in the Dry Falls area of the lower coulee.

When I headed out on the road, I was thinking of paddling the 4 mile long Lake Lenore. However, when I arrived, a strong wind was funneling up the coulee bristling the surface of Lenore. This helped me to decide on the more sheltered Alkali Lake just across the road.

It was a perfect blue sky day for the blue bathtub toy (BBT from now on) and I.

Four swans floated regally on the mirrored surface, as I rounded the first bank after launching. Unfortunately they departed for other waters before I could fumble my camera out of it's plastic bag. They did leave me a gift of a precious white swan feather of fidelity.Little puffy white clouds danced with their reflections in the water.After eating my breakfast floating in the reeds of a sheltered cove, I laid the seat back down and let the BBT drift as she willed while I enjoyed the sunshine on my chest and stomach. Fish sparkled and flashed in the green gold water below. Above me, an eagle sat in the king's seat atop a dead tree surveying his domain while crows called across the cliffs and swallows stitched air to water with their swift arcs.Restoration doesn't come better than this: sun, water, an oasis in the desert, eagles, swans, crows, swallows. Aaaaaaah! Worth the 6 hour round trip drive. All a part of my backyard, in a manner of speaking.

As usual, full album of pics on flickr here

Trash the planet, why don'cha

[Ugliness Alert:: normally I try to share the beauty and magnificence which I encounter in my explorations. This post is about ugliness. Human ugliness. Because sometimes it doesn't all come up moonlight and roses]I had heard about a little lake, deep in the Colville National Forest, just outside of my little mountain town. On a Saturday morning in late June, still unused to the idea of owning two kayaks, I load both up, one on top, one in the back, pack a picnic lunch and head out with my maps of the forest to search for Phillips lake.

Deeper and deeper into the forest on smaller and smaller, rutted washboard dirt tracks I go, bouncing and jouncing and grateful for the truck's raised trailhead package. At Bingville, the turn off to the lake, I find an encampment of assorted cars, trucks, campers, rvs and tents and the whole range of toys: dirt bikes, off road 4 wheelers, ORV's, ATV's. Smoke from campfires swirls and wisps.
A sign tells me this is a Man Camp. The bullet holed disc below echos the sentiments. Behind that another sign: "What happens in man camp, stays in man camp"

I see men and youths through the drifting smoke, but no women. I see rifle racks on trucks but no rainbows.

I begin to feel uneasy in my pink candy striped bikini top, pink kikoy, amber golden liquid sunshine Ford Ranger and blue and yellow kayaks. There's way too much testosterone and cammo around and I am showing way too much female flesh and bright colours for my comfort.

I head up to the lake, unsettled. When I find the little pond deep in the woods, it appears deserted. Smoke drifting across the clearing from a fire gives me chickenskin, though. I feel like someone is watching me. No one in their right mind leaves a burning fire alone in a forest, right?
The area is pretty well trashed. Rifle cartridge shells, drink cans, plastic and glass alcohol bottles litter the edges of the lake. Obviously somebody doesn't understand Pack In Pack Out. The steep slopes down to the little lake are scarred by tracks from off road vehicles, open invitation for erosion come the next storms.

I am totally creeped out by all this disrespect. I hasten back to the truck, roll up the windows, lock the doors and leave as fast as I possibly can on the rudimentary humpy, bumpy, rutted road. On the way out I encounter an ORV motorcade of maybe 9 vehicles, many with multiple riders, none of whom look over 13 years old. Planetary destroyers well into their apprenticeships. Next gen government leaders no doubt.

Maybe I have it all wrong. Somehow I had thought that public land means we all have a shared stewardship responsibility NOT that it is Joe Public's to use up and destroy.
Something was definitely not right in the forest that weekend. It might be further to drive, but I think I will stick to the oases in the sagebrush steppe down the road in Sun Lakes basin.