Forty Below and Feeling Aglow

For your information, interior Alaska’s Clearwater Lake is ready for paddlers. I know this because Saturday I was part of a friendly flotilla—four boats, eight humans and one dog—that put in at the Clearwater River just below the campground, then paddled approximately five hours down the meandering river and onto a small section of the Tanana, where we took a sharp turn at a sign with an arrow pointing left and the word “Lake.”

At this point we were forced to paddle like escapees from Alcatraz, working our way up through a rapid current, that eventually led us to Clearwater Lake. Here we used the bows of our canoes to crunch a jangled path through approximately 100 feet of relatively thin ice that sat between the middle of the lake and the far shoreline, where we would soon disembark.

And when we chanced upon the lake for the first time, we were greeted by two enormous swans, trumpeter or tundra varieties and certainly mates for life, who I swear cackled over and over again, “It’s spring! It’s spring! It’s spring!” And they were absolutely right.

About forty of their swan friends and double the number of Canadian goose socialites lingered atop the remaining ice shelf that lined the shore of the lake. A harlequin couple, overdressed as usual, were the wallflowers of the bunch, loitering along the edge of the affair. Regardless, it seemed we had caught them all in the middle of a somewhat segregated cocktail party, with swans on the left and Canadians on the right. All were reconnoitering, reflecting on this year’s long journey north. And behind this gaggle, two lackadaisical moose stood on the shore, silently munching on willows, and paying no attention to this energetic flock. Surely they’d seen this all before, spring after spring after spring.

If you’ve never heard a couple of swans on take-off, they’re the bird world’s version of a 747, and if they’re ascending from a lake, their gigantic wings beat against the water, the tips especially slapping against the surface, until just airborne enough to be free. Amidst the grace of their flight, a subtle downward motion juts down awkwardly from their lower neckline with each wing flap. This balances out the downward thrust of their giant wings, and makes it possible at the same time for their elegant heads to surge forward with each flap, as if they were each their own winged victory of Samothrace.

In addition to this live rendition of Winged Migration, one of the day’s highlights took place after we stopped along a bank on the Tanana and had lunch. Here we all fell asleep in the sun. It was a rare kind of warm, unbothered sleep where one immediately goes to a heavy, relaxing place of pure dreamy content. I could have happily stayed here for a few hours, but our crew’s squirrel hunter and canine alarm clock, woke us all up with a raucous in the woods, and as the squirrel chattered away for dear life and the bad dog was scolded, we all came to and knew that it was time to paddle along. This was okay though, because that cozy rest in the rays was just the glimpse I needed to know that summer’s incoming laze will surely usher in more of the same.