Blind(s)

Late fall paddles have a certain thrill to them. The air

warms for a day, but the water has already begun its pull to cold. Sitting so

close to the water, my feet begin to numb from the cold of wet feet while I’m

in a t-shirt, basking in the sun. I think of it as two worlds: the

world of light and the world of dark, the world of warmth and the world of

cold. In other words, paddling is a lot like life.

On Sunday I ran into two men who swim with the Bard master’s

swim team I join from time to time. They were heading south so off we went

together. We debated popping into the North Tivoli Bay to disrupt the happy

gunshots of duck hunters.

When I first began to paddle I had no idea that

hunters took over the Bays for a period every fall. I wandered in and delighted

by the sight of a duck bobbing at the edge of a clearing of cattails, I slowly

approached. It was beautiful, that noble teal head, a white ring like a

necklace, a brown chest. I got closer scootching along with the current,

delighted that the bird was allowing me to admire it. And then I realized the

obvious. I swiveled in my seat. Behind me stood a hunter on a ramshackle duck

blind, gun slung to the side, shaking his head.

I could have paddled away and left this embarrassing moment

in the Bay, a secret held by the unknown hunter, his beautiful decoy and me.

But in fact, I tell this story a lot—there is nothing like telling stories that

make me look like an idiot. But there is something else to the story. I am

gullible, in more than decoys. Though I know people hunt, part of me still

doesn’t understand that people with guns want to shoot and kill other

creatures. By understand I mean that because this makes no sense to me I choose

to live as if people who hunt to kill do not exist.

We stayed on the main river that day, finally dipping into

the South Tivoli Bay, wide and open after a season clogged with the beautiful,

invasive water chestnut. On the return we bobbed off of Magdalen watching an

eagle shred its dinner. The warm air had created low-lying clouds that formed a

skirt around the Catskills on the far shore. I felt warm and strong and happy. I ignored that my feet were cold. I also

ignored the sounds of guns exploding on both the west and eastern shores. I had

journeyed onto the river to marvel, feel free, explore and have fun. And I didn’t

want to alter that, even given those shots that told me I am perhaps naïve in

how I see this world. This is my own blind.