October Lake

The lake is a quiet place in October. Its surface is untenanted by loons or ducks, by blundering humans or otters paddling effortlessly in the turbulent waters by Geddes bridge where the (Canadian) Mississippi river surges in. There is a deep gorge above the lake, and the river makes its entrance between the granite walls, roaring, flinging spray in all directions and at high speed. 

Only a few weeks ago, there were swimming birds, weekend boaters and fisher folk everywhere. Kids played on the beach and jumped off the raft anchored in the shallows nearby. Their parents tended fires on the shore that sent up smoke signals and made burnt offerings to the wild gods. The place had a festive air.

Sound in such places carries a long way, and on summer nights one could hear the wind in the trees on the far shore, outboard motors and canoe paddles moving boats along in the murk, laughter across the water. It was magic.

Now there is just us and the north wind. Beau and I are wrapped up against the bluster and the chilling damp that goes right to our blood and bones. We have each other, a thermos of tea, a field notebook and the camera. We are content.