An Evening Paddle with the Kseakayakers.

This evening my schedule permitted me to paddle with a local group known as the Kseakaykers.  It is a social paddle; there were about a dozen boats that launched from the Jacomo marina about 6:30. 

 
Gathering the Fleet. 

However, I took advantage of a day off and put in at 4:30 in the afternoon under the last perfect blue sky September 2009 would produce.  The vintage will be remembered.  Autumn's presence was apparent this afternoon, the air cool, maybe low seventies, the trees rusty or golden by turns on the timbered hills surrounding the lake.  But for a handful of pontoon and bass boats, I had the lake to myself.   Paddling across the lake, the crisp energy that saturated the air was like a tonic. 

 The original Jacomo Paddle Cub (Canadian Geese). 

On the east side of the lake, at beaver lodge One (as I have come to term it), I spied the skull of a small mammal on the steep bank.  I nosed the bow of the Stolen Moment into the weeds and went ashore.  My first thought was that the skull would turn out to be a beaver's.  Closer study revealed that the previous owner had a decent set of canine teeth, so now I am leaning toward possum.  I will have to contact C.S.I. first thing in the morning . . . 

I dawdled along the eastern shore "looking at things" until nearly six in the evening.  The leaves falling from the trees have made it possible to look deeper into the woods and spot the fox squirrels playing and feeding among the rough landscape, the ancient rock of the northern Ozark Plateau.   Floating still in a shallow wooded cove, the air filled with the tannic spice of the trees and rich loam, the plop of an acorn hitting the water was like a message from humankind's prehistoric past, a timeless voice whispering that this was the only reality; all others were fabrications and vanity.  From my vantage point, I saw fellow kayakers arriving at the ramp.  I left the cove and the squirrels, eager now for the tribal gathering on the far shore.

 Each one a captain. 

Boating together with kindred spirits is a high, the experience like a floating cocktail party without the artificial need for liquor; the air, water, and exercise is all the social lubricant that is necessary.  The conversations with my shifting acquaintances ranged from the Missouri River 340 race to the merits of various boats (once to ballroom dancing), and each other's general welfare.  Paddle up beside another boater, talk for a while, then move on to another or be joined by one.  This free-wheeling and leisurely discourse lasted the length of the lake. The sun had set by the time a few hearties came about at the south end and headed back.  Night, replete with a waxing gibbous moon, was falling.   Feeling the need for a workout, I left my last conversational companion (an elegant and charming lady) to a group of her friends. The air had cooled ten degrees, and was chilly on my bare arms, but invigorating and encouraging.  I paddled back at a strong race pace, the water flat and absolute, a purple-black mirror that pearled away from my bow in brief white tears.   

My forward deck lights, the starboard like a chip of glowing jade and the port a steady, brilliant ruby, were my only company on the dark water as most of the fleet had returned to the marina.  In the moment, the muted splash of my paddle and the sound of my breath kept me in rhythm.  An owl hooted in the wooded hills.  The moon's cold, white face was a glimpse at the coming winter.  I eased my pace near the marina, seeing that several kayakers were still loading, and waited in the darkness just outside the ramp lights for my turn.  Reflecting, it was an evening well-spent in good company.