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Mendon Ponds

When I first arrive at Mendon Ponds on Saturday afternoon, the sky is clear blue and the sun shoots into every crevis of the landscape. The grasses are lit, the sky is lapis, and thin skin of ice on the pond is backing away from the shore.

I find my way to the green trail for horses that skirts the edge of the pond. The trail is a bit muddy here and there and pair of horses pass me and leave fresh imprints even in the harder sections of the path.

The view from the trail is about eye level with the pond, looking over the tops of cat tails. Off in the woods I hear a Pilleated woodpecker drilling away, and calling now and then. I spot a king fisher circling the pond and wonder what the king fisher does this early in the season with a layer of ice on the water.

The people on the horses and a few other hikers seem very intent on chatter, which has me looking to go off trail so I climb the hill to the east of the pond to get above them and any others that might follow.
In the grass above there is a group of chickadees that seem to take little notice of me, even as I approach.

I head deeper into the woods and cut up following deer trails. These are easy to spot because all of the leaves are matted down from the snow but the more recent deer have ruffed up the leaves, and have left scat here and there.

It feels good to be more off on my own. The trees are still and silent, but I can hear birds everywhere. Most noisy are the geese that are landing in the ice free sections of the pond or that are flying over on their way North. I get to the top of the ridge that circles the pond and walk along the rim. Now and then I stop and just gaze out, letting the mind settle into a natural quiet. I can feel myself melt into the surrounding area and settle down into the gullies and amongst the grasses in the warm sun.

 

 

Warm rain

Waking to the wind rattling the window I knew it had come. This false sense of return. But the kind that you know is a lie. Like when they ask "have you lost weight?" False but you like it and take it. I walked out to get the paper in a t shirt and it felt good. After coffee and a bit of "The Poetics Of Space" I climbed into the beat up honda with the roof rack for the Kayak and drove to work along the back roads. I had the moon roof open and the wind whistled in the roof rack. It's only gonna be like this for about 36 hours maybe 48 so I take all the fresh warm air I can.  A bit of rain starts coming down, but it's friday and I think "what the fuck", I 'll get to work just a little damp.".

Hemlock Lake

I found myself pointing the car towards Hemlock. I opened the sun roof and the red reflected glow of the seventeen foot fiberglass kayak fell into the car. The ends of the two blue nylon straps that held the kayak to the roof rack flapped against the car in an odd syncopation bordering on the conga drums in Santana’s “Oye Como Va”.

It took an hour of winding past farms, lakes and rolling hills to get to the lake. When I arrived at the North Landing, I found myself rumbling down two ruts that passed for a road to the launch. The place was totally deserted. I pulled to a stop and hopped out looking down the lake. The water was flat and still and quiet as could be. I hoisted the kayak onto my shoulder and carried it down the mix of stone and mud, gently resting most of the seventeen feet in the water.

Gliding out into the shallows was an experiment in silent elation. The red bow cut through the water with ease, as the lake weeds gently brushed the hull. It felt good to dip the black carbon paddle blades into the water and pull. Swinging the paddle forward, individual droplets of water fell in ringlets into the mirrored sky.