The prospect of a warm, windless day in January was more than enough to unshackle me from my desk, grab my paddle and launch my kayak in a nearby lake. I was in search of bald eagles, that magnificent bird that winters in our area. This was a photo expedition I had longed for throughout winter, and most of autumn.
Along with my camera, my kayak is a most indispensable tool. It can lull wildlife into believing I am nothing more than a log set adrift, or a harmless pile of debris. The trick is to paddle lightly and move slowly, certainly possible on a day with less than a wisp of wind.
I asked a couple of fishermen if they had seen eagles, but they said none had appeared that day. I also noticed that ducks were not nearly as plentiful as they had been the prior year. I saw coots and mallards, but no redheads, no pintails, no northern shovelers. My disappointment was eased by the sight of several American white pelicans occupying the shallows a few hundred yards away.
While cautiously watching me as I pointed my boat in their direction, the pelican troupe displayed no sense of alarm, no desire to flee for safer waters. I stopped the boat periodically, snapping a few photos, not knowing how close I could get before these pelicans decided it was time to move on.
Easing the boat ever closer, birds began peeling away from the flock one or two at a time once I got within seventy yards of them. I inched closer and lost another bird or two in the process. But one stalwart pelican stayed his ground, although he did keep a watchful eye on me. I was able to paddle within about thirty yards of him before he finally blinked, dropping into the water.
Typically wary of any movement and quick to escape, a blue heron seemed comfortable as I passed his perch on a stick protruding from the lake. Paddle too close, and they leap to the sky, irked to have been inconvenienced and sometimes shouting in disapproval. This one was watchful as I passed, but did not depart as I floated along.
I tucked into a cove that held a kingfisher and several duck species last year. No one home that day, but I did get a familiar eerie sensation, the same one I felt last year. The cove was choked with the remains of American lotus flowers. The stalks scraped across the boat, sounding similar to light fingernails, and the leaves floated just beneath the surface, in hazy view and pulling on the paddle. I was reminded of a scene from Lord of the Rings when Frodo succumbed to the siren of dead elves, their bodies lying inches below the surface.
Departing the oddities of the cove, I hugged the shoreline and heard scratching in the leaf litter. The sound was too loud for squirrels, unless there was a scurry of them. I scanned the bank and spied four large tom turkeys searching for acorns. They craned their necks like submarine periscopes, but seemed satisfied that I meant no more harm than to collect their images.
Meandering and paddling with deliberate strokes, I chased after a few mallard couples before finally turning my boat back toward the launch site. Three hours on the lake in glass smooth water with temperatures hovering just above 50 degrees was like a gulp of fresh air to a miner. Even though this winter has been relatively mild to date in this part of the country, the chains of four walls needed some rattling. Even if the eagles were scarce.