I stepped into the canoe bobbing gently at the dock with
some trepidation; it has been many years since I ventured into watercraft. Norm
held it steady and told me to place my foot in the center. Awkwardly I managed
left foot and then right, and sat down on the floatation cushion at the front
of the canoe, breathing a small sigh of relief.
In front of and around me stretched Oliver Pond, a body of
water in the Adirondacks that is larger than its name suggests, perhaps a
half-mile across and a mile long. It is
a pristine wilderness pond, designated as such by New York State; we were
visiting my sister-in-law Gail who has for many years owned a cabin near the
edge. Northern forest rings the
pond, tall pines and deciduous trees, reflecting in water as clear as the stuff
that flows from my tap and as still as glass.
Norm climbed into the canoe; we untied the lines that
tethered us to the dock, and dipped our paddles into the water. We glided
through a silence so profound that the only sound was that of the paddles
sluicing through the pond. And then, we heard the loons. Their cry echoed off
of the water and surrounding trees, an eerie sound, filled with
plaintiveness and loss. A keening sound which would indicate distress if uttered by a human,
the note rises and breaks, and trails off. There is also a coloratura flutter,
more excited than sad, in the repertoire. After the cry, the echo, and then
silence; such a sound needs a counterpoint of space. And once again, the sound
of the paddles dipped into the pond, and nothing else.
We arrived at the floating dock bobbing about two hundred
yards from the shore, and tied up the canoe. Norm descended the ladder affixed
to the side of the dock, fished a bar of Ivory Soap out of his pocket and
proceeded to bathe. I lounged on the floating dock, amazed to be in such a
beautiful and unspoiled place, his discarded tee shirt draped over my
unprotected head to guard against the newly-emerged sun. Two kayakers drifted by, and we
hailed each other, each of us happy to be where we were. The loons, excited by
new arrivals, renewed their keening and fluttering, always allowing the echo to
die before repeating their cry.
Norm climbed the ladder, his ablutions finished; he
retrieved his shirt and we stepped back into the canoe. We pushed away and once
again we paddled and slid through the stillness, back to the landing; the loons
had fallen silent, and it was time to go.
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