Today -- surrounded by winter and its cold bones, snowy feet and shrunken days -- I am looking on my screen at John's leafy face near Thirteenth Lake where we paddled last fall.
The lake, the largest body of flat water in the Adirondacks' Siamese Ponds Wilderness, has its place among the appointed order of numericals. But I can only sniff out eight of them, all named for consecutive numbers and spread out like a watery necklace further south. The rest either vanished, or never existed.
Yet the number thirteen implies a potent meaning. Indeed: Judas who betrayed Jesus was his thirteenth disciple. And it gets worse: number 13 on a Tarot card indicates grim suffering and sure death. There is a brighter side, too: in Hindi, 13 represents your karma, and in some ancient cultures the number is associated with femininity and corresponds with -- guess what? -- the number of menstrual cycles in a full year.
Hey, this is just a lake, I remember saying to John. It is a fishing lake, so maybe it was named for the number of different species? Quick check: brook, rainbow and brown trout. Atlantic salmon and tiger trout. White sucker and black bullhead. Not enough, and no further clues.
We found Thirteenth Lake in the evening and followed the trail snaking between paper birch trees just to see what may lie ahead tomorrow. My bum knee, patiently awaiting its replacement, sounded its bone alarm every time I slipped on a wet rock and made muffled noises of discontent. I stumbled and slipped, and then I thought: we had our Julia, and if I could exercise some patience and wait till tomorrow I could slip gently into her yellow and green 17-foot-long body (yes, folding canoes are soft and colorful) and explore without all this bone racket. And enjoy it more.
The late October night came quickly, swallowed the white trunks and chased us back down the trail. Another long night, studded with emerging stars and a low-throttle wind. Then the morning glow of the lake as we carried Julia and our modest pile of gear. We glanced at the perfect postcard vista and soon were off.
And here is the thing: for us, photographers, sunny can be hard. Yes, it is good to peel off heavy jackets and turn our faces to the warm light. But the dark shadows take a sharp razor to the landscape, bright colors flatten as the day drifts toward noon, the nearly cloudless sky-dome drips indiscriminate blue cast all over, and before long we put our cameras away. Then, just in case we did miss something, we paddled close to shore. Aha!
Another birch trunk. Half submerged. Wonderful.
Now some massive conifers: what were they doing among all this riot of white trees?
And a one more aha!
We found a broken trunk bridging the lake and a steep bank. I remember trying to frame it this way and that, and keep together the peeling licheny bark, the dull sheen of the water and the bright trees beyond. John was nudging Julia for me, a bit forward and back again, patiently. Saintly, even. Then I climbed the bank, click-clacking with my knee bones, to pee and look ahead.
It was getting cloudy, with an even blanket of the incoming front unrolling from the west. Glory be.
I celebrated by taking a really silly picture: look, Ma, my hand!
Then the shapes began to appear, riveted with color.
A screen of grey tones, unfolding.
And free standing bouquets of leaves in the thicket of naked neighbors.
And Julia the canoe? She just glided forth on the water as smooth as it could be.
Yva
