I had the kayak all ready, paddle, life jacket, fishing pole, dry sack and waterproof camera. Just as I was about to grab the handle at the front of the kayak and begin pulling it down the short incline to a stream that lead to Hothole Pond, a truck pulled up on the opposite side of the road. The engine shut off and I heard a car door shut. I looked up, in a bit of a hurry to get going on the morning and saw mom and dad's contractor, Graham walking towards me.
As with everyone Dad came in contact with, by the time I met Graham (about 3 years ago now) I already knew everything about him, where he grew up, what his parents did for a living, where he and his girlfriend were building their house, etc. We talked. He asked how Dad was doing, how he was improving, the usual stuff you inquire about when catching up with someone. Seeing the kayak, he asked if I was heading to Hothole Pond. I told him I was. He mentioned how the stream comes to a fork and if you go to the right it can get a little hairy and take you to a much larger lake, but if you go to the left, well, Hothole Pond if just a ways down over a beaver dam or two. Then he mentioned how Dad and our friend Bill (whom Graham has also done work for) had gone canoeing out there several years earlier and I smiled to myself. One of the reasons I picked Hothole Pond as my first outing in the kayak was because Dad had gone there and when he came back he went on and on, to everyone, about what a cool little spot it was. I've been by the stream every fall to take pictures, I just never had the means to make it all the way to the pond.
Soon Graham and I said goodbye to one another, I put the kayak in the water and headed down the stream, eager to see what all the fuss was about.
For a stream that flows into a pond, it was the stillest body of water I ever seen, let alone be on. Like glass, as I made my way down I could see the huge timbers, covered in algae and little water plants, as I call them, clear as the sun shining above me underwater. On the surface, lay a perfect reflection of the trees, an image cut only by the rippling water as my kayak sliced along downstream. It wasn't long before the woods gave way to an open marshy, swampy area carpeted with tall grasses, water lilies and purple pickerel rush. Along the way I saw a gray heron lifting out of the marsh up towards the sky, two deer, upon hearing me, hightailed it in the opposite direction and as I approached the first beaver dam, spotted the little sucker swimming over to his house and diving underwater. Winding this way and that, left and right, around bend after bend, I began to think maybe Hothole Pond didn't exist and I was just being led on a wild goose chase through a watery maze. And then...
The stream opened up and suddenly I found myself on the marsh side of what I would call a small lake. Now I'm not an expert in what qualifies as a pond but this was much larger than what I expected upon hearing the name Hothole Pond. Perhaps it was the stream leading up to, somewhat narrow in spots even though it was an open expanse but void of shade bearing trees. Perhaps it was the fact that there were no houses and I was the only soul on or surrounding this body of water. All I knew was a feeling of immense, grateful, solitude. I paddled to roughly the middle, drifted around, fished, relaxed. I had no concept of time. It was glorious.
After awhile, I resigned to the fact that I will most likely never catch a fish big enough to bring home and eat and so headed back. Once on land, I loaded every thing up and went home to tell Dad how it was. I told him it was exactly as he had described. I said it was so thoroughly satisfying an experience I couldn't wait to go again. I downloaded my photos and showed Dad.
These are those images....
h
As with everyone Dad came in contact with, by the time I met Graham (about 3 years ago now) I already knew everything about him, where he grew up, what his parents did for a living, where he and his girlfriend were building their house, etc. We talked. He asked how Dad was doing, how he was improving, the usual stuff you inquire about when catching up with someone. Seeing the kayak, he asked if I was heading to Hothole Pond. I told him I was. He mentioned how the stream comes to a fork and if you go to the right it can get a little hairy and take you to a much larger lake, but if you go to the left, well, Hothole Pond if just a ways down over a beaver dam or two. Then he mentioned how Dad and our friend Bill (whom Graham has also done work for) had gone canoeing out there several years earlier and I smiled to myself. One of the reasons I picked Hothole Pond as my first outing in the kayak was because Dad had gone there and when he came back he went on and on, to everyone, about what a cool little spot it was. I've been by the stream every fall to take pictures, I just never had the means to make it all the way to the pond.
Soon Graham and I said goodbye to one another, I put the kayak in the water and headed down the stream, eager to see what all the fuss was about.
For a stream that flows into a pond, it was the stillest body of water I ever seen, let alone be on. Like glass, as I made my way down I could see the huge timbers, covered in algae and little water plants, as I call them, clear as the sun shining above me underwater. On the surface, lay a perfect reflection of the trees, an image cut only by the rippling water as my kayak sliced along downstream. It wasn't long before the woods gave way to an open marshy, swampy area carpeted with tall grasses, water lilies and purple pickerel rush. Along the way I saw a gray heron lifting out of the marsh up towards the sky, two deer, upon hearing me, hightailed it in the opposite direction and as I approached the first beaver dam, spotted the little sucker swimming over to his house and diving underwater. Winding this way and that, left and right, around bend after bend, I began to think maybe Hothole Pond didn't exist and I was just being led on a wild goose chase through a watery maze. And then...
The stream opened up and suddenly I found myself on the marsh side of what I would call a small lake. Now I'm not an expert in what qualifies as a pond but this was much larger than what I expected upon hearing the name Hothole Pond. Perhaps it was the stream leading up to, somewhat narrow in spots even though it was an open expanse but void of shade bearing trees. Perhaps it was the fact that there were no houses and I was the only soul on or surrounding this body of water. All I knew was a feeling of immense, grateful, solitude. I paddled to roughly the middle, drifted around, fished, relaxed. I had no concept of time. It was glorious.
After awhile, I resigned to the fact that I will most likely never catch a fish big enough to bring home and eat and so headed back. Once on land, I loaded every thing up and went home to tell Dad how it was. I told him it was exactly as he had described. I said it was so thoroughly satisfying an experience I couldn't wait to go again. I downloaded my photos and showed Dad.
These are those images....
h