The crew at Columbia Bottoms deserves a big shout out for the fine work they did clearing the roadways of snow so that the few folks who braved the “snow day” could get to the river. Of course, I was the only one with the intention of actually getting on the river. The others seemed content to sit in their running cars, heaters blowing, radios blaring.
Using methods perfected by modern North Pole explorers, I turned the canoe into a sled and pulled it pulk style down the portage to the river. At the end of the trail, the opportunity to climb aboard and ride the canoe / sled down the bank was too much to resist. For just a moment I thought I would actually be launched into the river, but my thrilling ride fell 20 feet short of the open water. As four eagles alighted, I turned to admire the trail I carved, then shoved off into the unusually tranquil Old Man River. It resembled a white russian cocktail, ice bergs turning ever so slowly in circles at the edge of the channel, while slush and broken sheets moved downstream mid channel towards the Chain of Rocks.
Three very rotund beavers appeared as I paddled upstream along the Duck Island bank. Like Hollywood movie stars facing an unexpected paparazzi, the look they gave me said it all. “Are you kidding me? We’re dining. It’s private. Do you mind?” It wasn’t until I was well past them that they decided to break away from the dinner table, a selection of willow sticks strategically placed at the waters edge. They nonchalantly slipped into the frosty river. One tail slap from each, a good day salute or a middle finger protest, I’m not sure, then I was back to the paddle, watching the amazing sunset and the flocks of gulls and geese, so many that an air traffic controller would have been nervous about a potential mid air crash.
I approached the top end of Duck Island with relative ease. The river, slow and thick, moving just enough to prevent freezing in place. The eagle’s nest was empty. I wondered about the need for the eagle family, who’s year round residence it is, to remain on guard at all times, protecting their turf from the hundred or so eagles that are now in the area. As I began to ferry cross into the channel and the ice, I watched as the young one, the third year eaglet found his way home. He sat just off the nest, whistling. Replies from mom and dad or maybe the new neighbors began to ring loud and clear. The eagle’s call as a soundtrack…sweet. I floated back downstream, tea cup in one hand, paddle in the other pushing the icebergs away. Yes, indeed a happy hour of winter paddling!
