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Cave Run Lake is, in a word, huge.
A giant watery snake, its 8000 acres wind for miles, past rugged shorelines, above them, nothing but the densely treed hills of Daniel Boone National Forest.
This wild and wandering place, wonderful to lose yourself within—
but it could really happen here.

Each bend unfolds to look
just as the last.

Each stand of willows, each sycamore, each sweetgum,
planted on a ruddy rock bank—
shows no mark to guide the way, for one paddling slowly along.


So, looking backward over my shoulder, as we broke from the edge and traced a course toward the opposite shoreline, I scanned for an object to remember upon our return—
a mark that would be an easy target, a blaze from across the water to guide us back to our camp.


And thought this large, floating refrigerator,
unsightly as it might be,
perfect for the job.
How could anyone miss that??

We paddled on,
and discovered another, and another…and another.
Each refrigerator, each water heater, each soccer ball—
having found its way to this great lake
from someone’s private dumping ground,
now floated at the edge,
bobbing in the wake of passing boats,
arranged beside rubber tire planters.



Because, once dumped,
it never really goes away—
it just goes somewhere else.

In our day on the water, we passed 7 floating refrigerators, 10 floating water heaters and 12 soccer balls.
Tires too numerous to mention bob within piles of bottles and other waste.

Differences

Cave Run Lake, Kentucky

They sped past us on the lake—a handful of boats, each filled to capacity with young men, engines full throttle, voices above the roar, laughing.
And, sharply turning Red Canoe to ride their wild wake face-first, we waited and watched, buffeted by waves as they drove on into the distance, as a group.
The open water, theirs to write upon—
in sweeping curves carved across its surface.

baby Map Turtle

Once past, we softly glided along still water, tracing the shoreline for hours as it dipped and jogged into hushed coves and quiet fingers, the other boats-- all but forgotten. And we lost ourselves in the curious faces of baby turtles, a bounty of dragons and damsels riding atop the gunwales.

Before we could discern the source, loud rumblings from engines struggling against unwilling water suddenly drove several large birds from the lake to the sky, and we rounded the corner to find the boats nearby again. This time, maneuvering wildly in a small area just ahead of us, back and forth across the narrow channel, bearing down upon the one who had not flown off with the rest, to safety.
Hoping to drive over it, devour it with their engines and swallow it beneath the churning water, the pursuit of this desperate, unfortunate bird had become their afternoon sport.
And, although every part of me wished to scream out against them, “Stop it!”--
I held my hand to my mouth in silence.
And we backed Red Canoe slowly away.

I am reminded daily, of our differences—
as I walk the narrow lane past the homes of my neighbors, who, on one side of the street are dismantling their wooded lot, one tree at a time to achieve perfect green,
while on the other, they are planting a forest.
Shared place means nothing more.
We share a space, but not a purpose.


The next morning in our campsite beside the lake, we woke again to the song of the Wood Thrush, this time just inches beyond our tent wall, resounding in the dampness left from a night of rain—a private dawn concert for two.


And as he sang beside us, a chorus so loud and clear, repeating each phrase again and again until we knew the pattern perfectly, in that place between sleep and wakefulness, I found myself singing his same song.

Eastern Box Turtle,
Terrapene carolina carolina

As I walked the camp roadway toward the bathhouse later that morning, past the constant commotion of radios already tuned to the rambling pre-race commentaries, I found a box turtle crossing the blacktop pad of an empty site, his shell bright with color, eyes watchful of me and my curious approach.
Then, before another could stumble upon us and wonder what I found so beautiful in this slow-moving form—his questioning neck raised, each small step so deliberate.
I tucked him beneath the dense brush in silence.
And backed slowly away.

The Yoke

The soft rumble in the distance was unmistakable.
As the faintest stirrings of a newborn swiftly rouse one from the most exhausted maternal slumber, so, too, is this unsettled sky with its barely audible vibrations, to one on the water, piercing.

The joy of watching lizards darting over sun-warmed stone, heron nests filled to bursting with young chicks, and the colorful course of a spring-fed creek, had brought us effortlessly to this point, tracing the wilderness shoreline of Cave Run Lake since dawn, paddling Red Canoe. Now situated four miles’ distance from camp and with an electrical storm on the horizon, watching the speed with which clouds poured into and filled a sweeping, blue sky over the 8,000-acre lake, I was glad for our discussions of the previous night.
We would be weathering the storm here, and, from the mounting sound and darkening sky, it would be soon.

The lake had emptied itself quickly.
And without a radio to consult as to what we might be expecting to encounter on the heels of the tumbling clouds, the hasty evacuation of every motorized watercraft hinted of its severity. To this eerie vacancy, the absence of overhead blue soon was reflected in an unwelcoming cold, gray cast, spread across the water’s surface. The growing white-capped waves, to Red Canoe, unkind.
And as we paddled, life-jackets zipped to our chins and cinched just a little tighter than was normally comfortable, I was glad to have a target in mind, a plan for safe weathering.
Beyond the steep walls and deep basin of the lake proper, at the furthest reach of a narrow finger feeding it, we stepped out into the shallows and onto a woodsy shore, broad and flat, and densely treed. Where, above the sharp rise of slopes to either side, the rumbles grew louder, and clouds hurried past the silhouetted forms on the ridge.

Unloading our packs, we eased Red Canoe out of the water and tipped her to rest several feet from the water’s edge, upside down, and wedged between 2 small trees. Inverted as she was and tipped low to face into the storm, her body a shield against it, the seats became shelves to stash our gear, the yoke, our rod to hold fast within.
And, as a great wind roared overhead and brought the storm to settle onto the belly of the lake, with harsh drops that pelted the tip of our bare toes, we crawled inside her small chamber, grabbed the yoke and pulled Red Canoe down around ourselves.
With nothing but her shelter,
was every thing of need.

The lake disappeared behind cloud and lightning.

We stayed under Red Canoe for 2 hours in a thunderstorm with strong winds, lightning and heavy rain on Cave Run Lake in Kentucky on June 24, 2009.
Now safely home and stowed in the garage, you can see the yoke (far right, with notch) and seats we sheltered beneath.

View more ABC Wednesdays here!

First Night

Cave Run Lake, Kentucky
sunset

We had gotten into camp the night before.
Arriving late in the day, but assured plenty of time before sunset for both finding the Zilpo campground down its winding course past dimly marked turns, and erecting a modest setup of our site—
a small nylon tent, two collapsible canvas chairs and a plastic cooler, which we stowed beneath the government-issue, half-ton picnic table.


Our site this time, our choice, #21—marked with a faded asterisk on an old map of years ago and saved from a previous visit, when we drove the camp loop one last time before check out, marking, as was our habit, “better” sites to remember in the future.
This time, we had grabbed the only site within 25 feet of its own beach—preferred by many with children for its easy wading or flat, sandy play space--chosen by us for its smooth canoe access. Unloaded from the roof of the car, within just several steps, the red canoe slid effortlessly down the well-worn path to the lake edge. Bumping its way over the network of exposed roots of a row of sweetgum, that with each day’s walk began less and less to resemble snakes, it found its way to water, and was locked in place for the night.

Our beach and Red Canoe

The tent site was less cooperative.
Constructed of very fine gravel, it had at one time been malleable. Years later, however, and compacted beneath camper’s vehicles and hundreds of feet, it had hardened into a close substitute for concrete. No rock, no hammer, no axe would convince the 8 feeble tent stakes to dig in nor hold tight. Thankfully, the beach provided the solution, in long, weathered logs, washed onto the shore and left scattered amongst the sweetgum stand. We dragged two uphill, and tethered the tent securely.



By the time darkness fell, we were resting around a small fire, sleeping bags in the tent, unrolled and ready—the light from the few struggling flames, all that was needed for the subject at hand—our plans for the next day’s paddle. And, although the forecast threatened to stall us with the afternoon summertime classic, “pop-up thunderstorms,” we decided we would make a go of it, throwing ponchos and extra plastic wraps into our bags, packed and set aside for the next day. We would watch the sky and play it smart.
Many days are lost in waiting for rains that will never come.

Fishermen

A fishing boat on the water before dawn woke us, racing against the rising fog across the smooth lake to reach a quiet cove before the heavy, gray blanket could be lifted by the first morning light. Lingering long enough to savor the first minutes of this day’s waking in the woods, we hovered around the heavy, dew-kissed table, holding our breakfast, while a Wood Thrush sang from every corner of the campsite, choruses resounding of the deep woods, heavy air and daybreak.
And wondered about the interesting collection left on one of the chairs by someone in the night.





Can you guess what happened here?

(click to enlarge)

Secret Passage

Hidden Creek

If I had to say what I hope for,
the place I wish to uncover as I leave the shore and start upon water,
it would be a place such as this.

Set back from the din of the crowds on the lake, a keyhole passage barely seen, where shallow water past a gravel bar turns many away at the door.
Where steep shale walls line deep clear pools, and whirligigs spin in a spot of sun. In water so cold and clean, it teases you to sip from it.
Where with each bare step, a crayfish scoots ahead and disappears, backward into the blur of a beautifully crafted mosaic.
And though you know it isn’t true,
just for a moment in this cool and quiet place,
it feels as if you’re the first to have found it.

Creek Colors

Towing the Canoe

Running Wild

Morning
Cave Run Lake, Kentucky

Across the river and an hour south, we enter wildness—
Daniel Boone National Forest and within its northern boundary, 8,000-acre Cave Run Lake, its surrounding hillsides several shades of gray, as it begins each day in stillness below a morning mist.



With the sunrise, we are suddenly surrounded by the glowing red banks that rise steeply above us to a darkened tree line and drop sharply through the water below. Slowly, we follow the lake shore, separated by just inches at times, as it jogs and dips for miles and miles into quiet coves, crooked fingers of a giant hand.
This space between land and water, rocky and rough, yet rich with life.


The roots tangle here, in the last effort of each tree’s survival, as those at the edge slowly tip and tumble—the walls beneath them each year, crumbling further back, releasing them into the depths of the lake.

Eastern Kingbird,
Tyrannus tyrannus

An Eastern Kingbird darts out and back—successful in grabbing a small meal from the air, before perching in a snarl of fading, weathered wood. Then, too, moves on along this edge to the next, skipping and feeding as she goes.

Hidden
(click to enlarge)

Fence Lizard,
Sceloporus undulatus hyacinthinus (ssp.)

Warmed in sunshine, a plump, spiny lizard sprints within this red and gray patchwork, then stops for a moment, dissolved in a puddle of color, her long and slender clawed toes, curled carefully around a small rock. Invisible in her frozen stare, our eyes are locked until she disappears into a crevice and we paddle on.

Black-shouldered Spinyleg,
Dromogomphus spinosus

The young trees, sycamores, river birch, and sweetgum, begin here, rooted from seeds set out across the surface, floating until they are settled in the stillness of this edge to start again.
A clubtail dragonfly with emerald eyes finds their small stature and broad leaves a welcome resting spot as he cruises this immense watery landscape, acres across.

All so different, all so new, so wild—
and our day on the water has just begun.

See more Camera Critters here.