I don't take my kayak out nearly as often as I should. Oh, I keep that sucker in my SUV all summer long and into autumn, but I really should take to the water more often than I do. I also tend to go to the same pond over and over again. To be fair, my usual spot is a large pond, larger than some of the things we call lakes around here. It has interesting wildlife. I've seen several heron, lots of turtles, an otter, geese, ducks, and quite often fish will jump right out of the water and splash back in again, scaring the ever-loving buhjeezuhs out of me.
I often pass another pond, one I've never paddled.
I've spotted a picnic area and a parking lot with a small boat ramp there. It's not too far from my house, so I spontaneously decide to give it a go. It's a pretty small pond. It's also deserted. I should be able to kayak its perimeter and traverse it a few times in an hour or less. And, no, I am not deterred by the amount of goose poop in the small grassy area.
The pond is murky, not with vegetation, but with brownish water. It's calm, and I've done my research so I know its depth is only about nine feet, but it's strange not being able to see below the surface. The launch site, a bank of earth that meets the gravel boat ramp, is deeply muddied despite a recent run of dry, extremely hot weather. This may explain the opaque water. I sink into the wet ground and wobble a bit before sitting atop the open kayak. It takes a few attempts to maneuver my way from the shore since the mud is pulling at the kayak and the oar I use to push off.
Finally, I'm in the open water.
I scoot around the perimeter, realizing the lack of fallen trees or limbs means that I won't be seeing any turtles today. As I head across the pond, I spot movement. Quietly and very, very slowly, I inch over toward the opposite shore where I see a hefty, regal heron. It is stunning. It is the largest one I have ever seen in the wild, and it politely stays unmoving as I get within about forty feet. I don't want to crowd the bird. This is its home, and I'm the invader. Plus, to be honest, if that sucker flies at me, I'm going overboard, and no one will ever find my body.
The remainder of the paddle is blessedly uneventful, if not a little too sedate, and I work my way back toward the launch area. I see one goose, and then I spot another one. The car is only a short way from the shore, maybe twenty feet, but I don't need to contend with an angry goose or two, so I slap the paddle on the water several yards away, hoping to move them along. I decide to chance it, hoping for benevolent geese as I grapple with the vacuum effect of the muddied shoreline.
By the time I break down the kayak and gear and get it loaded, which takes only about three minutes, the geese are back and have called in reinforcements. I rapidly slam the rear hatch shut and jump into the driver's seat, although I am fully prepped and ready to jump in from the passenger side, as necessary.
Safely behind metal and glass, I sit for a moment and get my phone oriented. My reverie is interrupted by frantic honking and the bellow of a gentleman in a work van. "Come on. Move it! Get the hell out of the road!" I look up to see my feathered friends meandering back across the busy street, single file and with space enough to be total arseholes, off to wander about the nearby neighborhood, perhaps to terrorize the elderly, harass the young, or piss off a dog.
Maybe the town should consider installing a plastic coyote on the goose-poop-infested lawn of the small park that houses the launch access. It might encourage the dumbass fowl to enter the pond from a more wildlife-friendly location. You know, like where the heron hangs out. It might help the traffic flow, too.
It certainly would make kayaking less exciting, though.
