Day’s run 14 miles! Just 11 the day before, stops to explore in the dinghy and read in the cockpit, anchoring three times in the same cove just because it is such a beautiful spot; maybe I’m not doomed to be the Flying Dutchman after all. Between Barbara’s good influence and this wonderful landscape, I’m finally doing that cruising I’ve heard so much about.
We swept under sail along narrow channels through marshes that gave me a vision of what cruising the Norfolk Broads in England might be like, cows at the water’s edge, trees a boat length away, vista’s of rows of trees between marshes, pastures, and hay fields. Elsewhere, the hills seem to plunge right down into the water with farms climbing their sides. There are a lot of cottages and vacation activity, it is hardly wilderness, but sitting on Strider[/] in warm, fresh water on what could be Lake George seems improbable and magical after the long distances and unforgiving coast of Nova Scotia.
We lost track of the eagle count somewhere around seventeen, a couple close enough to see their eyes. There are also loons everywhere. We heard two calling one morning more insistently than usual and looked out to see them yelling at a third bird splashing low in the water. We took it to be a gull because of it’s white head and it appeared to be sick or injured because it was painfully propelling itself towards shore with weak and waterlogged strokes of its wings.
The pastoral scene was turning into one of nature’s harsh tragedies before our eyes as we watched the slow progress of the bird across the couple hundred yards towards shore. It’s legs were clearly useless and I was beginning to dread watching it’s pitiful attempts to pull itself up to safety. It sunk lower and lower in the water as its feathers soaked up water.
When the bird reached the shallows, it suddenly sprang up and out of the water spreading huge wings and we realized that we were looking at an eagle. A couple flaps to shed water like a shaking dog and couple more powerful strokes brought it up onto a fallen tree and we could see that it had a good sized salmon in it’s claws. The eagle settled down to a leisurely brunch of un-pickled lox, scales, guts, and head. We were left to speculate whether this is a standard hunting technique or if a very determined bird simply latched onto a much bigger fish than it expected and got its reward through sheer guts.
Barbara’s hobby has been photography for most of her life and she has taken a zillion pictures so there will be a great album of the Saint John River system eventually. It will take her a while to sort and process them after she gets back so it may the stuff of winter dreaming about possible cruises.
We swept under sail along narrow channels through marshes that gave me a vision of what cruising the Norfolk Broads in England might be like, cows at the water’s edge, trees a boat length away, vista’s of rows of trees between marshes, pastures, and hay fields. Elsewhere, the hills seem to plunge right down into the water with farms climbing their sides. There are a lot of cottages and vacation activity, it is hardly wilderness, but sitting on Strider[/] in warm, fresh water on what could be Lake George seems improbable and magical after the long distances and unforgiving coast of Nova Scotia.
We lost track of the eagle count somewhere around seventeen, a couple close enough to see their eyes. There are also loons everywhere. We heard two calling one morning more insistently than usual and looked out to see them yelling at a third bird splashing low in the water. We took it to be a gull because of it’s white head and it appeared to be sick or injured because it was painfully propelling itself towards shore with weak and waterlogged strokes of its wings.
The pastoral scene was turning into one of nature’s harsh tragedies before our eyes as we watched the slow progress of the bird across the couple hundred yards towards shore. It’s legs were clearly useless and I was beginning to dread watching it’s pitiful attempts to pull itself up to safety. It sunk lower and lower in the water as its feathers soaked up water.
When the bird reached the shallows, it suddenly sprang up and out of the water spreading huge wings and we realized that we were looking at an eagle. A couple flaps to shed water like a shaking dog and couple more powerful strokes brought it up onto a fallen tree and we could see that it had a good sized salmon in it’s claws. The eagle settled down to a leisurely brunch of un-pickled lox, scales, guts, and head. We were left to speculate whether this is a standard hunting technique or if a very determined bird simply latched onto a much bigger fish than it expected and got its reward through sheer guts.
Barbara’s hobby has been photography for most of her life and she has taken a zillion pictures so there will be a great album of the Saint John River system eventually. It will take her a while to sort and process them after she gets back so it may the stuff of winter dreaming about possible cruises.
