Home Valley Lake

I had the good fortune to grow up in the aluminum row boat era. This simple water craft taught me a great deal about the laws of nature and the laws of physics. Steering a row boat straight from point A to point B while facing rearward took some mental calculation and physical coordination. First, I needed to point the boat toward my destination using one oar, then I started rowing with both arms in unison, unless there was a cross wind, which required a slightly faster motion from my leeward arm to compensate for the side force. Then, of coarse you had the regular inputs from your fishing companions. "Could you slow down a bit. My worm is skipping across the top behind us." By the time that I graduated from high school, I had a firm grasp on matter, energy, force, and motion, the four key elements of physics. I would be willing to bet that Albert Einstein and Isaac Newton spent a few hours in a rowboat too.

Then I bought a canoe. This new boat was sleek and fast, but I soon learned that I had upped my schooling from high school science to college level psychology. Try to imagine the stuff that passes through your brain when you are solo paddling across a ninety-foot deep lake with the bow riding high, catching every gust of wind which tries to spin you around like a top, and the sixteen pound catfish on your stringer is trying its best to jerk the canoe upside down. I'm pretty sure that I experienced most of the basic human emotions by the time that I reached shore.

One windy day at the Valentine National Wildlife Refuge, I learned another important lesson in civics and teamwork. Back then, Clear Lake was famous for its pike fishing and my brother-in-law, Mark, and I were on a mission to latch on to a big "gator." We launched the canoe on the south side and started casting spinnerbaits. The south wind caught our lures and sailed them way out into the lake. We were so intent on our fishing that we didn't notice that our boat was also rapidly drifting downwind. In a matter of minutes we covered the half-mile across the lake and were drifting into the reeds on the north shore. I looked back across the whitecaps at the tiny dot that was my truck on the south shore and suddenly realized that we were in for a battle of will over wind. I grabbed a paddle and tried to turn the canoe into the oncoming waves.

"Do you have another paddle?" Mark shouted over the uproar.

"Just that shovel," I shouted back pointing at the spade that I carried for Sandhill travel emergencies. I'd thrown it in the boat not knowing that it would help us out of this emergency. Mark grabbed the shovel and started digging water for all he was worth. He'd had surgery on his left shoulder so he was paddling on the right side. To keep us from going in a circle I had to paddle on the left. The wind was so strong that we had to work hard just to hold in place. We both found a panic gear that was driven by adrenaline and we transformed into a rhythmic machine that chugged headlong into the gale. We paddled until it felt like our arms would fall off, then paddled some more. About a hundred yards from the south shore we finally felt some shelter from the wind and we both collapsed from sheer exhaustion.

"Next time, I'll have two paddles," I muttered after I caught my breath. "And an anchor."

I learned the value of teamwork that day. It takes work as a team from both the right and left sides to move forward. Anything else and we're just spinning in dizzy circles, drifting further into oblivion. And it also helps to have a good, solid anchor.