There are few things that bring me as much joy as being on the water on a warm day. The immediacy of flow (an almost meditative state of focus and joy that happens when you immerse yourself in an activity you enjoy) is magical. I feel as though I lose every worry and become myself so wholly; the rest of the world and all its hundred million problems fade away into white noise. The first time I paddled to Moon Island this year was no different.
The water was glass still, and so tempting- of course I had to go for a swim. This lasted a whole three minutes, since the temperature was barely above 60 for the first time, but it was well worth it. The loons were out in force, filling the air with their eerie songs, and the paddle felt so entirely perfect. Only a couple boats shared the lake with me, and most of them were drifting, enjoying the spring sunshine we’d all been missing.
Some people are surprised to hear how much of my life has revolved around water, having grown up in a high desert. My childhood summers were spent on the waters surrounding my hometown and rafting and paddle boarding the Green River. I cut my teeth swimming, camping, and hiking in and around Flaming Gorge, Steinaker, and Red Fleet Reservoirs. When not soaking up the sun on these beaches, I searched for frogs in the swampy wetland that was the back of my childhood home- more often than not, I found no frogs, but returned home muddy, sunburnt, and exhausted, with jars full of snails that I begged to keep as pets (fortunately for the snails, Mom always said no).
In college, I struck gold in my program: outdoor recreation management, a program where many of my finals consisted of four day kayaking trips along rivers cutting deep canyons into the earth, where we floated, splashed, and whispered the rock layers to ourselves- “Kaibab, Moenkopi, Chinle”. I jumped into too many glacial lakes to count, had miserable days trekking through icy water in search of a dry campsite, and drank water so heavy with desert minerals that it stayed red even after two passes through a filter. Nothing makes you appreciate your kitchen tap more than scraping snow off of sand to try and melt enough to cook dinner, and nothing feels better than seeing a water source after a very dry 15 miles.
I think sometimes we forget that the survival of the human species is deeply connected to access to clean water- we privileged few who never have to think twice about drinking water from our taps take it for granted, until suddenly it’s gone. More and more, we’re witnessing water sold to the highest bidder, leaving disadvantaged folks to fend for themselves against lead pipes, poisoned waterways, and oil spills. Our food system leeches forever chemicals into our springs, rivers, and oceans, and the industry overfishes far too often. These worldwide issues keep me awake at night, wondering about the future.
I have hope though- why would I remain in conservation if I didn’t? Look around Squam Lake, and you’ll find plenty of clues that it remains a healthy watershed- sensitive salamanders and frogs inhabit vernal pools and the tiny caves under fallen wood, Usnea and oakmoss lichens that indicate clean air that hang off of trees along our trails, and a huge assortment of songbirds that search for caterpillars in the trees around the lake, to name a few. But, like any watershed, it’s a delicate ecosystem that is threatened in a hundred thousand ways.
These things weighed heavy on my mind as I circled Bowman and then Moon in my kayak; my privilege, my luck in getting to do what I do, the climate anxiety that settles over me on the regular. The sun and water is healing, at least this respect. I spent a few hours on Moon, sunning and reading and enjoying. This is always the case for me- if I begin to fear the future, I take a step away, and head out for a run or a paddle or anything else active and outside, and my head comes back to earth. Flow does that. Even through SPF 50, I got a hint of sunburn, which was hard not to celebrate this, after a long pale winter.
My time here in New Hampshire has been fleeting and precious, flowing like ephemeral streams of early spring. We’re barely starting summer, but already, the full time LRCC is headed into the last quarter of our term. Some days, I’m exhausted- conservation is hard work, and can be discouraging. Is what I’m doing only a tiny drop in the bucket? Of course, buckets fill with accumulated drops, and so do lakes. So I stay hopeful, and find wonder in the small moments spent alone on the water.
Kodi has spent the long winter digitizing and organizing the SLA’s education material. Needless to say, she’s excited for summer and the chance to be outside soaking up the warmth! Learn more about Kodi here!