April 18, 2009. Back on the river. On Friday evening I slid my kayak into the water off of Tivoli and shoved north toward Cheviot. As I put in a man pulled onto the rocky landing in his boat. He tells me he lives in Tivoli and paddles almost every day, though through this ice-choked winter he missed a few days. I paddle almost every day in the warmer months and have never seen this person. Makes me think about how solitary this sport is.
There is some new graffiti in the walls just north of town. Big bulky letters: Tell the Truth. Will do.
The ride was uneventful except that the wind was against me and the current with me so there was quite a chop.
Then on April 19, I headed south, wanting to loop down to the Kingston-Rhinecliff Bridge but the wind at my back made me think that the return might be unpleasant. Instead I dodged into the North Tivoli Bay to see what I might see. A medium sized snapper sunned on the banks. Another pointed his snout through the water. At the landing I saw eight tires stacked up, dug out of the bay the previous day by my friend Carol Lewis. I decided to add to the stack and hauled out a tire, filled with muck. Negotiating it onto my kayak, I managed to wrench my back (ice pack in place as I write this) so my efforts ended sooner than I wanted. What horrified me were the zebra mussels lacing the tire—they are now everywhere.
Back on the river I noted the dayglo orange porta-potty sunk into the river on the northeast side of Magdalen or Goat Island. Pretty attractive. Then I ran south to Cruger to check on the eagle there and was told by three men with Greenland paddles that they had just seen an Osprey. On my return I saw three mallard ducks in a fantastic mating bundle/fight. They were a frenzy of violence and sex, dunking each other into the water as if they wanted to drown each other. For a moment I felt grateful not to be a duck.
Years ago, when I lived along the shore of Lake Mendota, I witnessed 6 Mallard drakes actually drown the hen they were serially mounting. I had spent what felt like an eternity, and was probably 10 minutes, frantically throwing stones at this thrashing, sickening drama, until the birds drifted out past my range. As I was launching my fishing boat to intervene, the drakes flew off and her lifeless body floated to the surface. In a full on rage, I gunned out to her corpse as a stray male landed near her. I nearly capsized my 10 foot Penn Yan making a cut to divert him from her body. I was shaking with fury and helplessness. I collected her soft corpse and brought her back to shore. Away from further insult.
I bought a hunting sling shot later that day and bags of marbles. I practiced. The next time more than one male attempted to mate along my shore, I took a cold sight on his head and knocked him clean off his game. I knew how useless it was. It felt good.
Even now, that scene occasionally invades my dreams and I wake shaking the vision from my consciousness. Hungry again for revenge.
Posted by: Susan Fey | Thursday, November 26, 2009 at 01:21 PM