It’s impossible to take a picture of nothing. Blackness has no photons. Here’s a visual aid for the Concrete Operationalists reading this.
Last night I needed some time on the water, as did my friend Quiet Man. I picked him up after his kids were out cold, about 9:30.
The moon is a waxing crescent, but it still goes down shortly after sunset, so it was in essence a new moon. It was going to be dark wherever we went. I chose Lake Wingra, a lake practically built for solo canoeing.
Since Wingra is mostly surrounded by the University Arboretum, it’s pretty dark out there. Some ambient light creeps over the treetops from strip malls and streetlights. It ain’t much, but it’s enough to see silhouettes that allow navigation.
The smells coming off the lake are wonderful, at least to my nose. It’s a sweet, pungent smell that reminds me of the green stuff you scrape off the underside of the mower a few days after cutting the lawn that is more like hay. There’s a faint odor of silage, a familiar and comfortable smell for us Midwesterners. Add to that the occasional bubble of methane for spice and you get the olfactory picture.
The water was as smooth as glass. Actually, the water was as smooth and perfect as obsidian, and the only evidence we were moving was a slight reflection in the bow wake, a ribbon of some different shade of black. The solo canoes we paddled were silent and stealthy, and we surprised a substantial flock of geese who honked their way back into the cattails, and a beaver who slapped the water with his tail, which sounded like the crack of a rifle. It’s a big beaver.
Paddling on liquid obsidian 8 feet thick while breathing in silage is an uncommon occurrence for most people. I’m one of the lucky ones, and I’m grateful for these gifts from a 345 acre lake.
Respectfully submitted,
Canoelover