February 26, 2000

Tundra Swans

One of the great pleasures of kayaking is getting others involved. Although not exactly new to kayaking, this was Amigh's first trip in *her* boat. In exchange for taking her out with a couple of other CPA members, she agreed to write the trip report. What follows is her story.

Woody

MAP

Tundra Swans

Westmoreland State Park

February 26, 2000

In the dark and the mist and drizzle, I finished loading my car and headed out. I take odd pleasure in early mornings like these, cool and wet. Flying down 95 with the Dave Matthews Band cranked up, I'm jazzed -- nervous anticipation mixed with adrenalin, the ultimate wake-up.

I arrived at the launch just after Woody, and Gail and Bob arrived shortly after I did. Introductions all around, an exchange about the weather, and then everyone set off to suit up, unload their boats and gear. Joan and Mardi arrived soon after, and by 10:00, everyone was ready to go. A quick check assured us the water was fifty degrees, but with the fog, the cold wet air, and the wind kicking up waves and small whitecaps, it appeared much harsher.

Paddling protocol seems to call for the newer, slower, paddler to lead, and set the pace. Not wanting to hold folks back, I started out, heading north. But it took no time to realize that even with grit and determination there would be no way I could keep stride with these bigger boats and better paddlers. It had been months since I'd been on the water, and I had never had the experience of cold weather or waves. Even with the wind at my back it was an effort to keep my small boat on track and to keep up. I think Woody must have sensed all of this asking me if I had seen "anything but water since we launched." I laughed when I thought how I must look to others in my small boat with my poor technique as I sprinted to keep just a hair ahead of the group.

About 2.5 miles up river it was decided to explore Popes Creek, a tidal marsh. We stopped to stretch, snack, and some folks made adjustments to their boats. Back in our boats, we headed into the creek, but with the tide going out the water was shallow and paddling was slow going. But once in the creek, we happened on a spectacular sight-a flock of several hundred whistling swans, a fraction of the Eastern wintering population of more than 80,000 tundra swans.

Whistling swans, or tundra swans, are the largest of the Arctic birds. Preferring the long cold days of the Arctic summer, they nest in areas stretching from Alaska to Newfoundland. But by September, the Arctic days begin to change from cold to colder. The shallower waters preferred by these enormous birds begin to freeze, and the tundra swans begin a migration that will carry them more than four thousand miles and last nearly three months. Juvenile swans accompany their parents for the first year to learn the migration routes from the older birds. After a brief stopover these birds continue southeastward, arriving in early November at the Chesapeake Bay where they will overwinter.

An adult tundra swan can grow to more than fifty inches in length and can weigh upwards of twenty-five pounds. With a wingspan that can reach beyond eighty inches, these grand birds are all white save for a black bill and black webbed feet. Shy by nature, tundra swans are not approachable which explains why they took off quickly when they sensed our presence. These birds intuit any intrusion as a threat and an entire flock will take flight in seconds. Few sights have stirred me as the one of hundreds of white swans taking flight, so loud that even from a distance I could feel the deep low commotion of their wings beating against the water.

The outgoing tide was making it increasingly difficult to paddle, so we turned the boats around and headed back out to the river. With no change in the wind and the waves, I continued to struggle upriver. Falling behind, I admired everyone in their boats-Mardi, off by herself, strong, steady, confident; Joan and Woody in their Gulfstreams with their sleek Greenland paddles, gliding over the water with so little effort; Gail and Bob, with the precise rhythm required by a tandem boat. I wondered if I would ever be able to fly over the water like this group.

As we passed some steep cliffs, Woody explained confused waters. I had read about what happens when waves hit a wall or cliff-unable to stop, they crash the wall and become confused. We also talked about the size of the waves, the speed of the wind, and fetch, all things I had read about but now was experiencing for myself. Further up the river a long stretch of beach provided a good place to land and have lunch. Markers told us this was the birthplace of George Washington, and was steeped in history. A patrolling NPS ranger stopped to talk, swapped stories, and answered Mardi's question about something she had just found on the beach. A vertebra, he said, most likely from one of the many whales that once inhabited these waters. I was reminded that while this place was rich in American history, it would always be predated by the ancient natural history of this region that has left behind its own markers of sharks teeth and whalebone.

On the return trip the wind and water had calmed and I was beginning to feel more comfortable with the group and in my own skin. The trip back gave us an opportunity to talk, to share, and for Woody and Joan to lend their assurance that I was doing fine. Again, I had to laugh at myself as Joan reminded me that it wasn't the pace that was important, it was the place, and the company. Well said, I thought. Looking past Joan, I saw what I had missed earlier--the long leaf pines that topped the cliff ridge above the shore. Too concerned with pace and speed and technique, I would always miss the beauty the water has to offer. Overhead, another flock of swans was flying in formation, like prayer flags strung across the sky, and I thought about the distance they had covered to get here, to these waters.