Reflections - by Mike McCay

Whiskeytown Lake...Late September

I am on the water early this morning. It's half dawn, the sun barely below the horizon, where light begins to dilute the shadows and colors awaken.

Just one boat launches ahead of me and I watch as the angler rubs his dog's ears, obviously a longtime companion, clearly comfortable with each other, ready for another trip together. They have a history and I wonder about it—where they have gone, what they experiences they've shared, and what this day will bring for them. Their boat slips away before I know it, disappearing around the point, the lake barely rippled by their passage. Clearly they belong...together, here.

I slip into my kayak, already at peace, and paddle out from the now deserted shoreline.

I spy a raft of mud hens, undisturbed and quiet for the moment, tucked in among one of many small coves. Behind them is a pair of Canadian geese, huddled together, mates, no doubt, with a lifetime ahead. As I near the grouping, three pintails take flight. In seconds, they are headed north at full speed. They fly with urgency, willing themselves to their destination. A piece of me goes with them.

As I glide closer, one mud hen moves nervously. It begins to paddle away slowly, then more quickly. Suddenly, it panics and stumbles into the air in the comical way mud hens fly—like they aren't certain if they want to or not—wings and feet slapping water. As the one flies, so it is joined by another, then more, until the whole raft is staggering across the water. I laugh out loud, which frightens the hens nearest me even more into a frenzied getaway. Soon, mud hens are flying in all directions at once.

The geese walk lazily onto the bank and turn their backs to me.

I round a point where there is a small cove and a campground. I spy someone standing near a campfire but hear no sounds. I am thankful for the quiet.

A hint of mist hangs like smoke and I pause to watch the interface between surface water and air, how they meet with seeming indecision while seeking conformity. I wonder which prevails?

On this morning, there is no wind. The leaves and plants are unmoving. The water is nearly still with just a ripple on the surface. I slip along the glassy surface.

A heron stands on a shore. I stop paddling to watch, but too late, it takes to the air, its voice out of proportion to its stature, loud and accusing.

I stop and gently drift. I hear a tree squirrel and spot it in a pine tree. Such a strange voice, so unexpected. For its size, I would expect a squeak or a chirp, not a deep-throated bark.

The brush line moves and I watch as a jackrabbit emerges. It is on its haunches, muscles bunched in readiness to flee. It hops onto the open shore and feeds. It meanders, unaware or uncaring of my presence, never looking my way. I paddle in for a closer look. It sees me and I freeze. To my surprise, it moves closer with a steady gait, eyes on me. It seems it made the connection that I was human as it suddenly disappears into the brush.

Drifting in the cove, I glimpse the lake bottom and I see a profusion of water plants becoming more and more dense. As the cove narrows, the plants are closer to the surface and soon I find myself drifting on a sea of plant life in a depth measured by inches...until I float over a clearing and find I can no longer see bottom. The sense of depth is surreal.

The sun is above the hills now and light has changed the shadowy structures. Where there was diffusion is now contrast, intrigue, possibility and movement.

An osprey drops and skims the surface. Quail feed in the brush and geese fly overhead. A deer appears in the distance and walks to the edge of the water.

And there I am among this, gliding slowly across the reflection of my soul, quiet laughter rippling towards the shore.