Long Day’s Journey Into Night

I’m in mid-river and the only sounds are a cupping and a splash as my paddles scoop the dark water and lift, the slight creak of my life vest and the evening bird calls along the wooded banks. My paddle mates are much closer to land, mostly silent with their own thoughts or conversing quietly. Ahead, the blunt end of an island cuts the current in two. The night mist is rising off the water surface. The air smells of fish and an unknown flower in fragrant bloom. I am alone and loving it, just me and my kayak and the night, the shortest of the year.

I haven’t paddled my Loon since last summer, but in the past week, I have already been in a kayak twice. This evening, in a solstice celebration, marks my third time on the water. I never tire of watching the play of light and shadow, or the swirls and eddies that punctuate each journey. Two days before, I watched the sun come up while skirting the edge of Trout Lake, a spring-fed gem in upstate New York, in a borrowed Otter. Now I’m watching the sun set over the west bank of the Delaware River.

No real otters here or there, but up north a loon warbled his call several evenings in a row. Tonight, I settle for the raspy cry of the Fowler’s toads and pull my boat up the bank at the take-out.