Water & Woods
When I head out in my kayak, I usually bring my rod and camera, on the prowl for fish or fowl.
But sometimes, an unexpected adventure awaits. That was the case with two of my trips earlier this month.
On Labor Day came an impromptu paddle with Recorder photographer Paul Franz. At a moment’s notice, we headed to a spot in Deerfield for a trip down the Deerfield River.
We both made it down to Paul’s truck at the get-out point, but for a while there, I wasn’t so sure we would.
I’d been down this stretch before, and always got hung-up in the shallows about halfway down.
So, this time, I went left instead of right. It turns out, I went just a little too far left when I headed down the other side of an islet, where the river was rushing. I didn’t see the downed tree at the end until I was too far to turn around.
A few of its roots still clutched to the steep, sandy bank, and the trunk lay across the little island, a gap of less than 2 feet between it and the swift current. I saw this just before I was spun backward. I grabbed at a couple old roots sticking out of the earth until I found one that held, and I clung to it.
“Go back, save yourself!” I half-jokingly shouted to Paul. He couldn’t hear me, and by the time he saw my plight, he shared in it.
There was no root for Paul to grab, and I couldn’t hold him back from the current. He tried to bail out before the tree, but wound up going under it, upside-down in his kayak.
“Dear God, I’ve killed Paul,” I thought, until I heard him shout from the other side. He’d even held onto his fishing pole — though it fell out of his kayak on a tame stretch of river later.
My right hand still white-knuckled around the root, I contemplated my options as I strapped my dry-bag to myself with my left. I could follow Paul’s lead, go through upside-down and backwards and hope not to get pinned under the tree. I could climb out and try to walk across the current, but it was too deep and fast.
I tried to scale the gravel bank, dragging my kayak, but every handhold broke or pulled free. As I contemplated my next move, Paul popped into view. He walked to the far side of the downed tree, and after a couple tries, I swung my kayak to his outstretched hand, and he pulled it through the snag. Then I passed him my paddle and pole.
Unburdened, I worked my way across the narrow ledge of loose rocks at the shore, climbed over the tree and down its root, and walked to the rock bar in the middle of the river, where Paul hadbeached the kayaks. We had a good laugh, counted our blessings and were on our way.
I had a more relaxing surprise on the Connecticut River earlier that weekend.
That Saturday, I took my downstairs neighbor to Barton Cove for his first time in a kayak. We paddled around shore while I gave him a few pointers, then headed toward the island in the middle.
Here, he fished the clearings between the lily pads, while I headed for a smaller cove by the campground. He caught a perch; I netted nothing. No fish and no pictures of soaring hawks, eagles oreven turkey vultures.
Then, a rustling on the shore. My eyes followed my ears, and found a beaver. I hastily opened my dry bag and pulled out my camera, but by the time I raised it to my eye, the beaver was in the water.
I followed it, and it stayed above water as it approached a pile of sticks by the shore of the main cove.
At first, the beaver went right past its lodge. I thought it was trying to lead me away, and that it might try to scare me off with one of its trademark tail slaps, something I’d love to photograph. Butneither were the case, as it turned around and made a beeline for its home. This gave me the chance for a few head shots before it dove for its den door without so much as a splash.
While I went home without any fish stories, it was still a darn good day on the water — the beaver was the only one who wound up going for a dive.