A Kayak, a Camera, and an 83-Year-Old Woman:

What could Go Wrong?

 

Down the road a mile is Tern Lake, named after the Arctic Terns that nest there and raise their offspring before migrating to Antarctica, where they enjoy the Antarctic summers.   That migration route, round trip, is about 25,000 miles!

 

Because they are so lightweight, the birds are able to sleep while gliding and never flapping their wings.

But, I digress.   Decades ago, Tern Lake was called Mud Lake, and that name fit it exactly.  It was swampy, dotted with grassy islands, and hosted many, many terns during the summer.

Things changed over time and the marsh began to have a reliable water content stretching over three-quarters of a mile.   Road construction, the 1964 Great Alaska Earthquake, and a changing water table may all account for this.

After I moved to the area with my husband, I always thought I’d like to have a small boat to row around the lake and see what was there.  We never did.

Then, after I was widowed, I bought small kayak—about 9-1/2 feet long, bright blue plastic.   It’s a Swifty model called Perception, and weighs about 44 lbs.  It’s meant for the casual kayaker who paddles around on ponds and calm lakes.   It is most definitely NOT a white-water kayak.

 

I never considered how easy or difficult it would be to get into the kayak and then get out, and therein lies the ongoing problem.

It wasn’t too bad when I was in my late 60s.   I’d find a way to beach the kayak until it was steady and then find a way to stand up, even though my butt was lower than my feet.   Then I began asking tourists at the pullout to drag me onshore.  

That could not continue.   Finally, I devised the method I use today.

I found the perfect spot near the area I like to explore first.  Its behind a guardrail along the highway where there’s a small opening in the trees where I position the kayak.  My cameras and other gear are in a waterproof bag that I put next to the water, a place where I can reach it once I’ve launched.

Once in the kayak, I scooch down the gentle slope until I’m floating.   Then I retrieve the camera bag and off I go.

Getting out was a bit more of a problem.   Again, there’s the problem of standing when my butt is lower than my feet.   The solution was a rope tied to a birch tree.  

 

I ram the kayak onto shore until it’s stabilized, then grab the rope and pull myself into a standing position with the aid of large knots.   

By the way, the camera and gear are once again in the waterproof bag and already onshore.

Most of the time this method goes well.   If my trigger finger locks up, that’s another thing to deal with.

Just recently, after a pleasant float around the lake, I decided to use my phone to document my ingenious method.

I steady the kayak even more by putting the paddle from shore to the kayak and I can push down to help me stand.

Everything went according to plan until I stood and took my first step on the ground.  Backwards I went.  I wound up on my back, my legs draped over the kayak, and only my PFD (life vest) held my head above the water.

I am not unconscious.

I am not distressed and only a little bit in trouble.

Now, this was a fix.  I couldn’t roll to the right, the obvious direction, because I’d be in the lake.

I couldn’t roll to the left because that was not only uphill, but my left shoulder is almost useless.

 

I still had hold of the rope but was above any knots.

I managed, reaching over my torso until I had hold of a small willow stump.   Then, I was able to grab a branch farther away and pull myself around.

Finally, I was standing.  For a moment.  I’d walked around to pull the kayak farther onshore, and suddenly I was sitting on my butt.

 

I blame all this on the rubber shoes I wear.   No support and not much of a heel.

 

 

But all's well that ends well, right?