When I arrived at the Tivoli landing at 5 in the evening a group of people were hanging out at the dock, playing bad music and chatting. I didn’t know anyone and for a moment I had this horrible feeling that my landing, my reach, had been taken over and was no longer mine.
This feeling vanished once I was on the water. The air shifted between spookily warmed and cooler patches that rose from the water itself. The smell was of an enclosed room that needed to be aired out after a winter. I pushed South against the current and a level wind. Moving slowly, I was able to take in my river for the first time this season. And this is what I thought: there’s a lot of garbage out here.
It’s not a romantic thought, I know. Usually when I write about paddles in my reach, I glow with a certain satisfaction that I am in one of the prettiest places I know. But on this evening things looked raw, barren, the colors gray and brown dominated. I struggled to find my way into the beauty of a place I have come to love.
My delight commenced once I slipped under the railroad bridge and into the North Tivoli Bay. A Northern Harrier loped through the air, skimming the tops of the dried cattails. Red Winged Blackbirds made their dinsintctive conkladee call. A flock of Black Ducks flushed, taking to the air. I was back in my world.
The crocuses are up. The first Woodcock peented ten days ago. The bright yellow Winter Aconite dots the woods. Yesterday Peter and I found a Wilson’s Snipe as well as some Painted Turtles sunning on a log. It’s spring. It’s a time of firsts. You would think that at mid-age I would not get so excited over crocuses in the garden, but it’s the opposite in fact. Every year it seems to be more miraculous; those flowers bring me more pleasure. I took the cycles of the seasons for granted when I was younger; now I feel lucky I’m here for another round.
But my most treasured first is this first paddle of the season. It always feels as if something miraculous should happen. What did happen: I felt a tightness in my right shoulder, and then an ache in my lower back. I felt the cold seep through the bottom of the boat to cool my feet. The sky hung gray and uninviting over the Kingston-Rhinecliff bridge. I liked this quiet reentry into this water world, into my reach. The miracle was in the familiar, the grays and browns, the garbage, the ordinary.
As I returned to the big river, the Catskills shimmered in the distance, and shadows stretched in front of me. I started to see colors emerge, and felt the joy of movement under a wide gray sky.