As I visit Gohere Bay once again, the place is filled with faces and voices echoing through pine and maple trees, bouncing off polished rocks and across green waters, filling clearings and rolling from empty cabins. Willard's booming laugh and Joe's broken, halting stories, Skaar's rolling gait and Chuck's long stride resonate. Pines are taller and aspen quake rhythmically as always. The water shimmers, glasslike or tosses in random waves as the mood and wind dictate through summer days.
Touring the camp is like visiting an old friend after years; a little aged, a bit more worn, yet familiar underneath. The moosehead is as large and imposing as I recall, the polished rafters of the lodge building are much closer to my head. New mounts mix with old, which makes the old appear faded and unreal or the new appear too shiny and not quite believable. The dock is familiar in length and function but gone are the hastily cut mooring holes, cleared by overly aggressive chainsaws, replaced by smooth boards with tidy cleats or rings.
Recent coats of paint appear at once fresh and weathered, such is the inconsistency of such things. A place for recreation and leisure in the midst of a land that demands constant attention and unyielding effort. Walking the hills, navigating slick granite, spongy moss, prickly juniper and chunky earth awaken new muscles and challenge joints and balance.
For an evening adventure, we headed to visit Skaar's cabin, situated at the very end, or beginning, of Gohere Bay. The cabin perches on a hill overlooking a small pool, fed by a tiny stream and picturesque waterfall. Well, that was many years ago when I last ventured all the way to the branch known as Skaar's Bay. Though I have taken may trips part way down the bay, I have been to the end only a handful of times, the most recent being a trip with Brad the last year I worked at the camp. As we eased down the shallow bay, weeds tugging constantly at the outboard motor, I recalled paddling out of the bay on my last trip with Brad. We had experienced some trouble near the waterfall and contemplated breaking into the cabin looking for tools. I should learn to keep such stories to myself.
As we trolled along, motor properly trimmed, the depth guage never showed more than about four feet clearance. I wondered about the stories of Skaar maneuvering a large cabin cruiser through this path and thought perhaps if he did this daily, the weeds might be less dense, though with only minimal clearance. We finally reached the pool and the depth guage showed eight feet of water and lots of underwater movement.
Nature is quick to change in these parts and quick to reclaim its own. The waterfall is nearly overgrown, though fallen trees, remnants of the heavy spring rains, lay across the falls and down the bare rock. I nudged the boat up to the rock enough to hold steady, climbed over the bow and began up to the old cabin. It was essentially the same, yet different somehow. The grass is taller, windows dirtier, shrubs grown larger and closer. Wandering back to the boat, the family was tossing lines into the water, a beaver splashed his tail emphatically, reminding us we were trespassing on his pool.
I pushed the boat off the rock and we drifted in the stillness of the pool, the setting sun casting shadows on the still water, dotted with green water-plants. The beaver swam back and forth, taking time to glare, sternly, at the intruders to his peace before slapping his tail against the water, setting off a percussive splash and then diving to traverse the pool again.
Finally, with mosquitoes biting and fish not, we fired up the outboard and nudged the boat toward home. Serenely, we eased through the dimming stillness until the point at the mouth of the bay was in sight when the motor began to sputter and the boat surge and stall. Out of gas.
I did mention something about paddling out of Skaar's Bay, correct. Thought so. It was time for Andrew to learn to paddle and Anne to refresh her skills. We made it out of the bay, into the more open waters of Gohere when a head wind kicked up. I grabbed the fuel tank and gave it a tentative shake, maybe.... I placed a paddle under one end of the tank, tilting it so the remaining fuel gathered near the feed line and bumped the starter.
The motor caught and roared to life as the last rays of sunlight drifted away over the trees. Barreling full-tilt up Gohere Bay, between the sentinel islands, guided by the yellow lights of the Camp.
No comments:
Post a Comment