Life Outdoors

This is probably the most dramatic photograph that I have taken in the past several years.  The irony of it's drama though comes partly through contrast, partly through dread, and mostly through it's isolation from a larger narrative. 

More on those ideas in a moment.  First can I just tell you what happened?

I was kayaking deep into the spring fed creek at the northwest corner of Mackinaw Bay.  These icy cold springs are one of the reasons that this bay (off of a bay, off of a bay, off of Mighty Lake Huron) created this quiet placid waterscape which could be mistaken for an inland lake from any of it's shorelines (except for in stormy weather).

I learned many of my canoe navigational skills in this creek.  It bends and twists in inconvenient ways for the human explorer (which are vital protections for the plethora of wildlife who lives in this stern wetland environment).  When our family was given a kayak, I explored the creek more regularly, almost daily during my annual visits to the cottage.  I love the severe isolation that the narrow creek affords.  The unexpected visuals that morph every year depending on water levels, beaver damns and migratory patterns.

Kayaking up the creek is not for the claustrophobic.  Once you're in, the shores are so near that you may have to paddle backwards for 10 minutes before you find a space to turn around.  And birds are constantly anxiously swooping at you.  The occasional deer, fox, beaver or otter will race away startling you just as much as you just startled them.  Your sweaty torso will be covered in cobwebs and bugs will hover near your eyes and mouth and nose.

But the beauty of it all: the grass, the reeds, the ancient dead trees,  the bullrushes, the wildflowers, the lily pads, the vibrant life just below you in the flowing water.  It's totally worth the cost.

And I was deep up the creek when this storm came wildly rolling across the sky. It was so outrageously huge and dark and sudden that all my apocalyptic fears from childhood religion were triggered.  Yes there were lightning flashes in all directions out of it and yes that funnel-looking-shape looked troublingly like ... a funnel.

I disentangled myself from the creek at top speed and only when I was finally back here at the mouth of the creek where all the locals come to fish perch and bass, only then, I pulled my phone/camera out of the ziplock bag where I keep it on the kayak floor and snapped this photo.

And then paddled back to the dock at the pace a frightened deer would run.  (Yes, my white-tailed flag metaphorically showing on high alert the whole way.)

I do love that this photograph contains the seminal contrast that makes the scene dramatic.  The water and the wetland environment are as serene and peaceful as always, but the clouds tell a story of fury and strength that I've often seen and heard unfold from the Cabin windows.

A storm on the great lakes is astonishing.  The lightning sounds like nothing you've heard before.  The echoing woodland offering even more amplification than the endless miles of water.  The waves in this secluded bay become fierce, and tall; almost ocean-like.  And if you're in a safe warm space watching: it's the most beautiful thing you can imagine.

I love camping and life outdoors because the main pleasures are so subtle, so calm, so intricate and specific that the quiet patient camper or hiker or kayaker can be transformed just by their holiness. 

But the lurking possibility of wildness is also always present in life outdoors and the Holy may Thunder or Roar or Whirl or Crack in terrifying ways at any moment.