OCTOBER 21, 2024 – This morning in these parts, the sun peeked above the distant eastern shore of the lake at precisely 7:32. A good 20 minutes before, I’d slipped the kayak into the water and paddled quietly, effortlessly along our shoreline. I still felt like a free-floating spirit in a dream, gliding magically past the trees and rocks which gained luminescence inexorably in the dawn’s growing light. When the scattered cirrus clouds miles above changed from gray to pink, I changed course and headed away from shore. A dozen or so strokes produced enough momentum to remind me of the freedom and contentment I experienced as a kid on a bike coasting down a long incline. I remembered how I’d snatch side views and watch trees, dwellings, people float by, as if I were stationary and they were all on the move.
By dipping one paddle blade into the water, I set the kayak on a broad circular course, which afforded a sweeping view of the large oval-shaped lake as it woke from its overnight slumber. A few lake gulls were already searching for breakfast, and I watched with amazement as they soared above, then dropped to the lake to snatch up fish, leaving behind not a sound, just two or three ripples over the glassy surface.
Then, just before Apollo’s chariot flashed above the horizon, I spotted a solitary loon about 20 feet straight ahead of my bow. It angled its bill in the classic way a loon, turned its head slightly left, then right, and dove under. You never know where a diving loon will reappear; it could be anywhere within a broad arc around its dive point. On this occasion, my eyes (and iPhone camera) were trained on the pillar of light rising above the horizon, marking the likely spot where the Olympian’s chariot would soon break into view. In that moment the world around me remained so silent I could hear my pulse.
Out of nowhere I heard a splash beside me. Reflexively I turned my sight in the direction of the disturbance and voila! There was the loon, not five feet from the side of the kayak. If it was surprised by its proximity to man and his floating contraption, the loon didn’t show concern. It swam slowly away, its lighter profile standing out against the distant southern shore, which had not yet caught the gleaming rays off the golden chariot, which by now Apollo had driven into view above the eastern shore.
I reveled in the light of daybreak and the sounds it conjured—crows cawing, jays calling, and water slapping gently the sides of the kayak as I rocked it to send ripples across the mirror-like surface of the lake—disturbing as well, the reflection of the high-flying clouds and, I noticed, the moon, still an hour away from slipping behind the western shore.
By 8:00 I was ready to return to terra firma—and a hearty breakfast.
Just before 9:00 I jumped on a half-hour business call, then another, which took me to nearly 10:00 and the arrival of a friend, Jeff Steltz.
I met Jeff five or six years ago on the Birkebeiner Trail, the nearest trailhead of which is not more than a 10-minute drive from the Red Cabin. On that occasion, we took a long enough break from skiing to get acquainted.
Anyone you meet on the Birkie Trail, of course, has at least one thing in common: x-c skiing. What’s not as common among Birkie Trail skiers, however, is downhill skiing. Jeff, it turned out, is as enthusiastic (and proficient and experienced) at downhill as he is at x-c skiing. Beyond skiing and enjoying the great outdoors, our initial conversation there on the skating track of the greatest point-to-point marathon ski trail in North America revealed simply that we shared a common worldview.
Yet, as far as I was concerned, there was an even more basic trait exhibited by this fellow skier that told me he was a stand-out individual of character. To explain requires a slight digression.
Over the years I’ve noticed that many skiers, particularly the most serious, can’t or won’t summon the basic decency to return my typical greeting such as, “Hello!” or “Hej!” or “Great day for skiing, huh?” If a skier is shooting for an Olympic medal and speaks English with a Scandinavian accent, fine, I’m willing to cut the individual some slack in the reciprocal response department. But just because a skier is wearing a snazzy one-piece ski-racing outfit designed to make him or her look like a pro because it’s plastered with the logos of ostensible sponsors, except the money part works in reverse, because the skier paid $500 bucks for the outfit and is now a mobile billboard providing free-advertising for all the ski equipment/accessory companies that are collecting license fees from the outfit’s manufacturer/distributor . . .
Where was I going with this? Oh yeah, if a skier is one of these snazzy out-fit wearers and isn’t an Olympic medal contender but simply dreams of Olympic fame and in actuality aims to finish toward the front of the first wave of 11 in this season’s Birkebeiner (citizen’s) Race of the masses, I’m sorry, that skier hellbent on a three-hour workout can cut me half-a-stride of slack to say, “Hi!” (and mean it), when I say “Hi, how’s it goin’?”
Now take Jeff Steltz, who’s no casual, “swish-swish,” slide-and-glide skier, plying the course with bamboo poles and fish-scale-bottom (euphemistically called “waxless”) touring skis. Jeff is what I’d classify as a serious x-c skier. I mean, he’s out there on the Birkie Trail for a workout; to earn his next a high-caloric meal; intent on setting a PR in his next Birkie Race (assuming snow and weather conditions cooperate). But by gosh, Jeff didn’t ignore my “Hello!” He responded and in a tone that invited a supplement, such as, “Great day out here isn’t it?” which, in turn, called for stopping and the easy conversation that ensued.
In other words, Jeff was not from the mold of full-of-yourself-skiers.
We became Facebook friends, and by this means stayed in touch and kept tabs on each other’s posts and travel whereabouts. In following this blog, Jeff was aware of my recent dock removal exploits. Since he and his wife are also lake homeowners, Jeff could relate to my dock “engineering” challenges. Moreover, as a mechanical engineer (recently retired), Jeff has the technical chops to understand the versatility of the most critical technological devices of civilization: the wheel and the lever.
When he read about my “red line” regarding a solo attempt to remove four of the five sections of Red Cabin Dock No. 2, Jeff sent me a message yesterday evening offering to lend a hand, or more critically, two hands—today. In a flash I took Jeff up on his generous offer.
When I led him out to the project site, it took the master engineer and dock owner under seven seconds to see and understand exactly what the challenges were and more critically, how to address them safely, efficiently and proficiently. We went straight to work and in about the time it takes to say, “The fishing is great!” no more than two dozen times, we had the entire dock system disassembled and stowed compactly and out of sight on land. And to my great relief, no one was injured or ever at material risk.
The efficient dispatch of this chore lifted a great burden off my mind and allowed us time to hike up and down the tree garden trails at a measured pace. If anyone can appreciate my cultivation of the white pine and overall preservation efforts, it’s Jeff Steltz. After our extended meanderings, we drove into town for a take-out lunch and took it back to the Red Cabin. On the sun-splashed front patio, we enjoyed our repast and savored a long and rewarding free-ranging conversation.
A slight breeze had worked its way out of the day’s earlier calm, sculpting the lake surface into a million small ridges and troughs. At its declining angle the autumnal sunlight shattered across these miniature waves producing a sea of diamonds. When Jeff called attention to these gems, my own focus on them was sharpened. From the perspective of our patio chairs, that’s exactly what we saw—a vast collection of sparkling white diamonds. I’ve seen such an effect on water many times, but I can’t remember having seen them at such an angle that the sparkling light looked exactly like flawless diamonds scattered across a jeweler’s velvet.
Their extraordinary appeal prompted me to say, “I’d rather have the good fortune to see those diamonds, however ephemeral they might be, than to own so many diaonds and have to worry about where to store them and how to protect them against theft.”
Jeff agreed wholeheartedly.
Upon his departure, I thanked him again for his essential assistance in the dock removal—and most important, for the fine conversation. As he drove away, I thought, despite what we read and hear, the world is full of really good people, and Jeff Steltz is most definitely among them.
Subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.
© 2024 by Eric Nilsson
