Lake Eva & Chatham Strait
The morning was met at 0300 by bow-riding Dahl’s porpoises and gentle humpbacks, catching their sunrise constitutionals in front of an audience of two. It would be unwelcome, I presume, to sound the call at such an early hour, and so the benefit of etiquette is a private show for the bridge crew. A handsome payment indeed for such strange hours to keep.
A brief sleep and two shakes later, I am jumping into ankle-deep water, regretting my arrogance and cavalier attitude toward my under-utilized Xtra-Tuffs. Not to let a case of wet-boot deter me, I and my crew forage on, in pursuit of Lake Eva, and an early morning shock to the system. The hike is lush and refreshing. The oxygen in my lungs is a cool drink, and the dense green foliage a welcome change from endless seas. Marco Polo chants of “Hey, bear!” echo through the hills, a warning to that desired and feared beast that humans are approaching. About the time we reach the lake, the clouds burn away to let the sun reach our eyes, and we nervously prepare for the dip. A slight hesitation followed by fearless leaps lead us into a near-hypothermic state. Scrambling for shore and the warmth of air that only moments ago would have been considered brisk, these Polar Bears dance and shake until feeling returns to extremities, and heart rates return to normal.
Another wet-loading, another, “Why didn’t you wear your Xtra –Tuffs?” and another roll of the eyes and I’m safely back on board.
The humpback whale is elegant, majestic, and enthralling. Any creature that can induce on sight a sense of awe and peace holds a great and ancient power. Watching the rollercoaster curve that allows for simple breathing, waiting in anticipation for the fluke, the “ballet of breath” that is everyday to the whale only shames our own mundane respiratory patterns. What if we were as graceful? The pace of our lives dictated by a slow and conscious need to breathe.
Finishing the day out of Chatham Strait, the sun offers up its most indirect rays to ignite the mountains behind us. When snow sheds its white for more elite colors, we reap the reward. Purples and reds move across the mountain tops in rhythm with the sun. If it does indeed set at all, we should thank Apollo for the performance daily, and send our regards to the hibernating moon.
The morning was met at 0300 by bow-riding Dahl’s porpoises and gentle humpbacks, catching their sunrise constitutionals in front of an audience of two. It would be unwelcome, I presume, to sound the call at such an early hour, and so the benefit of etiquette is a private show for the bridge crew. A handsome payment indeed for such strange hours to keep.
A brief sleep and two shakes later, I am jumping into ankle-deep water, regretting my arrogance and cavalier attitude toward my under-utilized Xtra-Tuffs. Not to let a case of wet-boot deter me, I and my crew forage on, in pursuit of Lake Eva, and an early morning shock to the system. The hike is lush and refreshing. The oxygen in my lungs is a cool drink, and the dense green foliage a welcome change from endless seas. Marco Polo chants of “Hey, bear!” echo through the hills, a warning to that desired and feared beast that humans are approaching. About the time we reach the lake, the clouds burn away to let the sun reach our eyes, and we nervously prepare for the dip. A slight hesitation followed by fearless leaps lead us into a near-hypothermic state. Scrambling for shore and the warmth of air that only moments ago would have been considered brisk, these Polar Bears dance and shake until feeling returns to extremities, and heart rates return to normal.
Another wet-loading, another, “Why didn’t you wear your Xtra –Tuffs?” and another roll of the eyes and I’m safely back on board.
The humpback whale is elegant, majestic, and enthralling. Any creature that can induce on sight a sense of awe and peace holds a great and ancient power. Watching the rollercoaster curve that allows for simple breathing, waiting in anticipation for the fluke, the “ballet of breath” that is everyday to the whale only shames our own mundane respiratory patterns. What if we were as graceful? The pace of our lives dictated by a slow and conscious need to breathe.
Finishing the day out of Chatham Strait, the sun offers up its most indirect rays to ignite the mountains behind us. When snow sheds its white for more elite colors, we reap the reward. Purples and reds move across the mountain tops in rhythm with the sun. If it does indeed set at all, we should thank Apollo for the performance daily, and send our regards to the hibernating moon.
