Swimming Becomes Breathing

After several years of lake swimming in summer and a few years of swimming through the winter, I stopped writing about my swims. I haven’t posted a blog since January, my notes on my swims since then are cryptic, and the only record of most swims is solely the name of the lake in a square in my monthly planner or a photo somewhere on my cell phone.

This was the point at which wild swimming had, after several years, had become so integrated into my life that I spent more time swimming and less time considering each swim as material for my book. I stopped evaluating or rating each and every swim. Anytime anyone asked how the water was, I never hesitated in answering “Perfect, as always” even though the conditions varied greatly across the seasons. Every swim was different, every swim was perfect. And I meant it.

I am so grateful to live in a place where I can swim in clean, fresh water. Where swimming costs nothing. Where people gather happily to enjoy the simple pleasure of swimming, dipping, wading, or just gazing at the water. I had begun to take all this for granted, even though I know it is a rare privilege to live in a place where fresh water is abundant, clean, and accessible. Often taking something for granted, often through lack of attention or lack of appreciation, can precede that something disappearing or being taken away. Therefore, a few words of appreciation for two of my favorite lakes in Washington State.

Ross Lake during calm waters with a beautiful anvil of a cumulonimbus cloud in the distance. (Photo by M.D. Ruth)

A late-August canoe-camping trip to Ross Lake was one of the most glorious swimming trips I’ve ever taken. The water color beautiful blue-green, clear, refreshing but warm enough (75-ish) to lure in the cold-water adverse swimmers. My husband and I swam three to four times a day—sometimes a quick dip from a place along the shore where we could tie up our canoe to a log, other times a longer swim into a ferny grotto to a waterfall, or across a side inlet. Because this is a drowned river valley, there are no beaches gravel bars per se. The water gets deep very quickly once you are offshore—a delight if you like swimming close to the trees and rocky bases of the peaks that rise steeply on either side of the lake.

The quality of the water was idea, but it was our physical proximity to the water and the ease of access that made this “swim-cation” so perfect. When we weren’t on the lake canoeing, we were next to the lake out our campsite. Our four campites were all immaculate and all equipped with a dock, groomed tent site, capacious bear locker, picnic table, fire ring, and privy (supplied with toilet paper!!!). Though considered “primitive,” these campsites rated as “luxurious” for me: we had views of the lake, the forest, the glacier-topped peaks, the skies—including spectacular viewing of the Milky Way and Jupiter.

Ross Lake is the Ross Lake National Recreation Area adjacent to North Cascades Park in Washington State. It is not a natural lake, but the result of the damming of the Skagit River in 1949 by Seattle City Light to generate hydroelectric power for Seattle. The lake is 540 feet deep (max) and stretches 23 miles into British Columbia. The lake is remote and access is boat-in or hike-in only (boaters can have their boats and gear shuttled by truck over the dam from Diablo Lake in North Cascades National Park). It’s work to get to Ross Lake and paddling can be challenging when the winds kick up in the afternoon. The reward for the work is some of the Pacific Northwest’s most stunning scenery and a gorgeous body of water you’re never more than thirty seconds from getting in.

Lake plus clouds=paradise. (Photo by M.M Ruth)

After my trip to Ross Lake, I thought my next swim in Ward lake (my local neighborhood lake) would be a disappointment. This morning’s swim proved otherwise. I put on my bathing suit, sweat pants, sweater, and sneakers and walked an easy 20 minutes to the lake. There were a few people fishing from small boats but no other swimmers. I swam to the center of the lake and turned to float on my back just as an osprey appeared overhead, shaking the water off its wings in midair. It had a fish in its talons. Naturally, a bald eagle soon appeared. For a good twenty minutes, the kleptoparasitic eagle pursued the osprey across the lake and around the perimeter of the lake. The deft osprey—a hawk considerably smaller than an eagle—outmaneuvered the eagle with every turn. Ultimately the exhausted eagle gave up and flew off. I lost sight of the osprey but hope that fish was delicious. It certainly was well earned.

I swam back to the dock, dried off in the sun, and walked home.

Another perfect swim. As always.

Swimming with Geese in Munn Lake

Until last Thursday, swimming in Munn Lake has been a relaxed affair This early in the season, we swimmers have been sharing the lake with just a few fishermen, a scenic drift boat or two, and the delightful soundtrack of red-winged blackbirds in the cattails. Canada geese fly over the lake and might be nesting somewhere on the shore out of sight, but they are usually not on the lake when we are. Oh, but Thursday morning was different. There were two geese in the middle of the lake when we entered the water and then they flew off and we lost track of them. We must not have been paying attention. Suddenly it seemed a single goose was on the water and moving toward us. I have never had a personal encounter with a Canada goose but I knew they have a reputation for being aggressive, strong, and defensive when protecting a nest or goslings

So I put on my swim goggles to protect my eyes. The goose continued toward us and we made the assumption that it was protecting a nest so we swam toward the opposite shore. This goose was not posturing defensively, honking, or hissing at us. It was simply swimming toward us. Closer and closer.

When it got within a few feet of us (yes as in 2 or 3 feet), my friend splashed it with water and told it to go away but to no avail. In hindsight, splashing water on waterfowl was not a brilliant defense. Likely the goose thought “Fun! My people!”

We swam harder to evade the goose, but it continued its pursuit. We decided to swim in different directions to reduce our “army of two” and lessen the goose’s perception of us as a threat, but the goose picked one of us to follow: my friend. Who decided to simply tell the goose that we were friends and we were not going to harm it or bother its nest. The goose took my friend at her word and decided to continue on the path toward friendship. We decided to put our heads down and swim crawl stroke toward the boat ramp and leave the goose in our wake. Ha!

The goose followed us and waddled up the boat ramp and into the parking lot where we had left our towels and thermos of tea. When it came within a few feet of us, it stopped and began preening.

That’s when we noticed the monofilament fishing line wrapped around its ankle. From a few feet away it didn’t seem that the line was constricted the goose’s ankle but was more of a foreign-object irritant to the goose. It began tugging at the line and, because we believe in trans-species communication, concluded that the goose was asking for our help. It was pursuing us on the lake but couldn’t show us its ankle until we were on land. With the heartbreaking images of the mother orca whale displaying her dead calf above the waters of Puget Sound last summer still fresh in our minds and hearts, we were only too willing to answer this goose’s plea for help.

We didn’t let the fact that we had no wildlife rehabilitation skills, goose wrangling experience, or pair of scissors between us hold us back. Both of us imagined we could just throw one of our towels over it to keep the goose’s wings still while we untangled the fishing line. Yes, the goose was asking us to do exactly this. This is how goose whisperers are born.

After a few towel tosses and goose stepping…we admitted that maybe we should just call the Washington Department of Fish and Wildlife, which manages the boat ramp and stocks the lake with fish. Perhaps they had a wildlife biologist with the necessary skills and a pair of scissors at the ready. Until then, we couldn’t do much for the goose so we decided to help future geese by picking up strands of monofilament, lures, and cigarette butts from the area around the boat ramp. There was more than there should have been given there is a monofilament disposal tube right there next to the ramp. Our good deed done, we began walking toward our car, assuming the goose would turn back to the lake. Ha!

It followed us to my car and stood buy the driver’s door. Uh oh. I had read stories about young goslings and ducklings imprinted on humans and had seen the movie “Fly Away Home,” but this was an adult goose and we had only spent about 15 minutes in its company on the lake and another 5 on land. I slowly backed the car up and drove toward the road. The goose ran alongside my car by my window. And then it fell behind the car. Phew. We had outrun it.

I looked in the rearview mirror expecting to see the goose in the distance waddling toward the lake. But no. My rear-view mirror was full of Canada goose. This crazy bird was flying behind the car right at the back windshield. What is the only thing to say in a situation like this? “Holy shit!”

The goose didn’t expect me to slow down and stop before turning out of the parking lot and onto the road. So when I slowed down, the goose flew over the top of the car and slid down the front windshield. Yes, I had a goose on my front windshield, its wings stretched across the entire windshield for a few seconds before it landed in front of the car.

Had this goose imprinted on a blue 2002 Prius? What to do?

We’d turn right (away from a major road) and into the neighborhood where we would make a series of left and right turns and elude the goose. I turned onto the road and before I knew it, the goose was flying along side my car at eye level. Soon, I feared, it would be flying into the car, nestling down in the back seat, and putting on its seatbelt. I pulled the car over to the side, made a U-turn, and hoped the goose would fly back toward the lake as we passed the entrance to the boat ramp.

The goose turned and ran along side the car (see video above). Illegal move #1: I grabbed by cell phone and tossed it at my friend. “Quick! Take a video!” The only reasonable response to this request was, “No, I’ll hold the steering wheel and you take the video.” Illegal move #2: My friend held the steering wheel and yours truly fumbled with my android camera and managed to capture the video of “our” goose. When I noticed a car coming toward us and the goose, tossed my camera onto the floor and flashed my headlights. The car slowed down and then stopped. The goose landed and stopped. This was our chance to escape.

We drove past the goose and the stopped car, but for reasons neither my friend nor I can explain, I turned back toward the boat ramp and parked the car behind the port-a-potties. Because this is what trained wildlife biologists do. They hide from wildlife so they can better observe their behavior. Tucked behind this impromptu "duck blind,” we were sure we would be soon seeing our goose waddling or flying back down to the lake. We waited and waited. And then my friend got out of the car and snuck up toward the road. No goose. The coast was clear. Phew.

We drove away from the lake again and headed home. Only to see our goose standing in the middle of the road about 500 feet ahead of us with cars stopped on both sides of the road. We figured the goose would be confused by so many cars and not be able to track mine. We lucked out this time. And headed home, hoping the goose made it back to Munn Lake safely.

Upon returning home, my friend called a few wildlife biologists and rehabilitators and described our encounter. The listened patiently. “Uh-huh.” “Uh-huh.” “Huh.” “Wow.”

The only explanation they could think of was that this particular adult goose had likely imprinted earlier on someone who had been feeding it and may have looked like one of us. Which might have made sense if were were standing in a yard tossing cracked corn at it. But all this goose saw of us was our heads sticking up out of the lake as we swam.

I'm not sure we'll ever know the real story. I have been back to the lake twice since our Close Encounter of the Goose Kind. Our goose wasn’t there nor were any of its buddies. I am hoping our goose will return so I can be sure our encounter wasn’t a dream. It was so surreal that I sometimes wonder.

When I told this story to another friend, she loaned me her copy of Bernd Heinrich’s Geese of Beaver Bog. This lovely book chronicles his time raising a Canada goose gosling named Peep when his son was 3 years old. This is a story of intentional imprinting and opens this way.

“The speed limit on the highway a mile form my home in Vermont is 45 miles and hour, and Peep was pushing it. She was winging along a foot or two behind and just to the left of the cab of my Toyota pickup truck…”

So it’s obviously a Toyota thing. Just to make sure, I’ll read past page 1 and let you know.

Munn Lake Wild Swim #4

After just four early-season swims in Munn Lake, just south of Olympia, I am feeling more comfortable getting into and swimming in cold water. “Cold” is getting warmer in this lake. My first swim, on March 21, was in 52 degree F water. The water (at least in the shallows) was 60 degrees F today, though it seemed colder without the sun and with the air temperature only in the upper 50s.

My friend and I usually use the concrete slab boat ramp to enter the water, but this darling little rowboat was coming ashore and its owner was going to be using the ramp to trailer the boat. To make sure we were out of his way, we moved with a bit more alacrity that usual. Which was a good thing. It meant we didn’t dawdle on the shore. We splashed water on our faces (a trick to help reduce the shock of the cold water on the rest of your body) and were fully immersed in under five minutes.

It’s amazing what happens in those first few minutes of immersion. The anxiety about getting in (which had been building up all afternoon) dissolves in the water. You stop holding your breath. You breathe somewhat normally. And your body relaxes into the water. And then the water feels good. Or perhaps what feels good comes from the fact you got in. You did it—not exactly gracefully but at least without screaming and thrashing and stating too loudly the obvious: “It’s sooooooo cold!”

My friend and I worked our way to the middle of the lake with a combination breast stroke (head above water) and crawl. At first I could do about 10 strokes before my face hurt. But then, as my skin numbed, I could do 30. But my legs were also numb and my muscles fatigued quickly and I my breathing was becoming a bit more labored than I like. Being sensitive to your own comfort and capability in cold water is essential and I felt no need to push myself into the hypothermic zone.

Splashing water on your face helps with the entry into cold water and sipping hot tea helps with the exit. I like to keep a thermos of hot rooibos tea and few cups in the car. Warming up the core from the inside (instead of from the outside with a hot shower) is best immediately after a cold-water swim.

Once I warmed up back at home and looked at my photo of the little fishing boat, I realized how much it looked like a water boatman—the aquatic insects that have long oar-like legs that help them move across and under the water with natural grace.

Water boatman. (Photo by E. van Herk - nl:Afbeelding:Notonectaglauca.jpg, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=506562

The Shape of Water

"No one can say accurately how many lakes there are in Western Washington or the State as a whole. Man-made ponds, reservoirs, and natural lakes all form and disappear with surprising frequency..."

So says Ernest Wolcott, author of the Lakes of Washington, still the standard reference book on the subject. The first volume includes data and discussions of 3,813 lakes. Yes, that's right. And that number refers to inland bodies of standing water in the western part of the state that  over one acre in area. It also includes all named lakes even if they are under one acre. 

Lake St. Clair is 233.1 acres is southeast of Olympia and is accessible for swimming, fishing, and boating from two public boat ramps managed by the Washington Department of Fish and Wildlife, which stocks it with rainbow trout, brown trout, and channel catfish. The lake also has naturally occurring populations of bluegill sunfish, largemouth bass, yellow perch, and black crappie. 

I was not there to fish but to swim in one of the 3,813 lakes in our state--one of the 108 lakes in Thurston County included in Lakes of Washington. Swimming in freshwater lakes is one of my favorite things to do though I didn't discover this until 2007, my first summer in Washington. A friend had mentioned Black Lake, the county's largest lake accessible through Kennydell Park. Compared to the YMCA lap pool where I usually swim, Black Lake was enormous, a little freaky (what's on the bottom of the lake? what's in the lake?), and thoroughly exhilarating--especially when a bald eagle flies close overhead and lands one of the towering trees along the shoreline.

I was hooked immediately and began seeking out lakes wherever I went. I always packed a bathing suit in my suitcase or backpack just in case. Knowing there were no snapping turtles or water moccasins in the lakes here (as there were back in the lakes in Virginia where I grew up) and knowing the risk of stepping on a sting ray or getting wrapped up in a jellyfish was zero (unlike in southern California where I swam in the Pacific), swimming in Black Lake and other freshwater lakes in Washington was liberating. Nothing was going to sting me, grab my ankle and yank me into the depths of the lake, or bite off one of my toes. Pretty soon I had bagged 22 lakes and was swimming from late April to early October. Well, jumping in and out quickly in April and October and swimming fully immersed and for at least an hour during the warmer months.

Every lake has a story to tell. Lake St. Clair, for instance, was gouged out during the retreat of the Puget lobe of the Pleistocene-era Vashon glacier about 14,000 years ago. This glacier had covered the land from Canada south to southern Puget Sound with a sheet of ice 3,000 feet thick. Huge chunks of this ice, mixed with sand and gravel, detached from the ice sheet and became stranded as it retreated. The melting chunks of glacier formed depressions called "kettles" or "potholes." In the case of Lake St. Clair, this depression filled with water--currently to a maximum depth of 110 feet. The lake is fed by Eaton Creek and drains to the Nisqually River.  

It is not a pristine wilderness lake, but one that is well-developed (with housing, especially on the south and west sides) and popular for recreation (fishing, swimming, boating--including higher speed motor boats in the large southern basin). On a weekday morning or cool overcast day, you can slip in to the quiet lake from the east boat ramp and think you have it all to yourself. 

A mysterious little seabird lured me to the West Coast in 2001. I wrote a book about this bird (Rare Bird: Pursuing the Mystery of the Marbled Murrelet). One of the nicknames of this bird is the "fog lark" because it flies in the early morning, often in the fog, along the Pacific Coast. After five years of looking up into the fog to spot one of these fast-flying birds, I turned my sights to the fog and the rest of the clouds that obscured the murrelets. I spent many afternoon floating in my neighborhood lakes looking up at the clouds and pondering the water cycle. Last September, I published A Sideways Look at Clouds, a work of narrative non-fiction.

And now, after studying the clouds while floating in water, I am turning my attention to the water--to the lakes themselves to see what I can discover about the lacustrine loveliness of my home landscape.

One of two public access points to Lake St. Clair leads you toward a small island (private property--humans and bald eagles)--one of four little islands in this irregularly shaped lake with many narrow arms to explore. You need a Discover Pass for parking at either boat ramp area. More info on access here.

Sure, we're smiling now but we were not so happy getting ourselves into the lake on this brisk day in "June-u-ary."