Scott Trauner

Freelance writer and founding editor of The Connecticut Outdoor News (www.connecticutoutdoornews.com) "Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing." -Benjamin Franklin

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Location: Connecticut, United States

Saturday, January 06, 2007

Flatwater in January? What's wrong with this?

The auto body shop near my house has a digital thermometer on its sign. I often ride my bike past it on my way to work in the morning to see how cold it is. Saturday, however, I drove by it while trying to decide where to go hiking; it read "73."

I had a whole menu of options nearby: Sleeping Giant, Castle Craig, The Mattabesett, Ragged Mountain. Then it hit me. I'd go paddling, instead.

I had put our kayaks in the basement last fall and didn't think we'd be using them for awhile, but when I carried my boat out of the hatchway, I immediately felt how much warmer it was outside than it was inside. I was wearing shorts and a thin, long-sleeved tee-shirt. It was January 6th.

When I got to the boat ramp at Lake Quannipaug in Guilford, there were four or five other vehicles with either boat trailers or roof racks. I launched, took a left and cruised under Route 77 to the marsh where I often find peace in summer, when frogs and turtles are basking and growth is ckoking the landscape.

Now, I felt like I had to duck just a bit more beneath the overpass. When I came out on the other side, the marsh was a lot more open. Where there is usually an entire platform of lilypads, there was black, still water. I was able to make an entire lap along the phragmites and the bare trees gave up the many cyclists that zipped by on RT. 77.

Out on the main body of the lake, there was a group of kids fishing off the large stones near the shore. There were boats trawling lines and a father and young son casting from their bass boat. Swans were gliding along the surface and hawks were circling above.

As warm as the air was, the water sure was cold. Just like the air over a hot road wavers in the distance, the surface of the lake was projecting the same effect. It felt like May. It didn't just feel like May, but it smelled like May, too. When I reached the island at the far end of the lake, I poked around a bit, expecting to see things blooming, just like Washington DC has seen the early bloom of their cherry trees.

Paddling back to the ramp, I passed the spot where my friend tried to teach me how to roll in his whitewater kayak last summer. It seemed like a long time ago, and there was suddenly an eerie feeling to being able to go flatwater paddling in January on a lake. The water dripping off my paddle wasn't just water, but melted ice. Or water that hadn't even made it to ice. Yes, it was nice to get out there on this beautiful afternoon, but there was an ironic reminder in the day's activity that maybe something is wrong.