Driving past the yellowing cornfield on the way to the lake, I noticed the woods along its border had lost their deep green of summer, the leaves of various trees turning to their particular autumn hue with some seriousness now. Farther down the road, half-a-dozen crows were at the roadside under a black walnut tree, pecking at the fallen nuts that had been crushed beneath passing cars. In honor of it being two days before the Autumnal Equinox, I decided to abandon my physical training theme for the day and just poke around Lake Jacomo. At mid morning, the air was sixty-ish cool, overcast, and tinged with that peculiar softness only autumn brings.
The ramp at the north marina was empty when I arrived--most of the fishermen had started out hours before. I launched Stolen Moment and paddled across the lake and south into a ghost of a breeze. On the east shore I met a water snake that was making its way back to the sheltering weeds; I gently stroked its back with my paddle blade just to make a connection with it, and by way of counting coup. The snake took the touch with grace, continuing at an unhurried speed to the weeds. The encounter happened so fast I did not try to get my camera up for a photo.
Paddling into a narrow, wooded cove, I saw, not for the first time, a large pile of branches stretching from the waterline to the steep shore, looking as if they had been dumped there by a maintenance barge. This morning I happened to notice that some of the branches were fresh; some of them had leaves still on and were well under water. Many of the limbs were gnawed at the ends and the bulk of them rested over the trunk of a fallen tree that ran into the water. It occurred to me that it was a massive lean-to shelter, with the tree trunk forming the center line and allowing for a perfect den under the angle of the piled branches.
Beaver Lodge.
As many times as I had seen this and one other pile of similar construction, it never dawned on me that they were beaver lodges. In my defense, most of my time on the lake is spent paddling at a no-nonsense travel pace or faster, so I would not have time to recognize the branch piles for what they were, and as a river paddler I am used to seeing similar piles of debris tossed up at the flood line. That's a thin excuse, but I'm sticking to it.
At the southeast end of the lake there is a cattail slough protected by a shallow bay where motorboats cannot navigate. I spooked an osprey and a small, gossiping party of mallard ducks when I entered the little bay. I raised my rudder and paddled across Lake Jacomo's version of the Sargasso Sea, heading to the narrow channel in back. The water level in the bay averages about eight inches and is spiked with snags and shaggy with underwater weeds. It is areas like this where the benefits of a shallow draft boat pay off.
Cattail Slough.
By this time the overcast had cleared, and the sun was high in a cerulean sky. Frogs saw me, chirpped, and hopped up the shore to the weeds, not into the water which was maybe a little cool for them now. The channel at the back end was primeval, an eighty-yard voyage dead-ending in a shady grotto presided over by massive trees and an ancient water cypress. As I left, I plucked a long, thin bobber, its float a fluorescent pink, from the algae and duckweed, for my collection.
Osprey.
Back on the open water, the roar of approaching jet engines made me turn. Five A-10 Thunderbolts, aka "warthogs," came over the north woods and growled over the lake, low, in formation. I snapped a photo of them, wondering if I had been quick enough on the take. My guess is they were from Whiteman AFB, some fifty miles to the east. Mean-looking things, those A-10's.
A-10 Thunderbolts.
It was after noon when the jets flew over. Most of the bass boats had left the lake by now, and as much as I would have liked to stay, other responsibilities awaited my attention. The mile and a half back to the marina I covered at a race pace, getting my heart rate up and abating my guilt by a few degrees. As I beached Stolen Moment, a couple was putting their sailboat on their trailer, saying they were getting off the water before the storm hit. The sky had clouded up again, but with the kind of clouds that could hang around for a week without spilling a drop. Later, the sky cleared; it was dry and sunny the rest of the day.
Fair winds and following seas.
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