No, it’s not a rabid animal. It’s just a creek flowing into the lake, but at its mouth, there is a lot of foam.
The frothy bubbles swirled and flowed in sweeping circles, making patterns on the lake.
This is clean, clean water, but for some reason the foam formed when the water splashed over the rocks at the mouth of the creek, and stayed frothy for quite some distance into the lake.
Foam like icing on a cake,
Lightly drifting on the lake,
Swirling, flowing, curling round,
Who knows where it may be bound?
Lacy curtain for a fish,
Saves him landing in a dish,
But when he jumps in the air.
Foamy mustache he will wear.
Evidence of long ago logging documents the size of some of the trees that used to grow around the lake. All around, lie smaller logs that have been knocked down by wind or by the annual flooding of the lake as heavy rainfall swells the feeder creeks, or snow melt causes the lake to rise.
So the lake has areas where a boater must take care to avoid half-sunken logs and deadheads.
One such deadhead was just below the surface of the lake, so some thoughtful person attached a white float marker to it as a warning to boaters. I don’t have a photo of this marker, but it was a fair distance from shore.
I should mention that when Emma was only six months old, the Captain was walking along the banks of the Missouri River with her in Montana. Without warning, Emma jumped from the four-foot-high bank into the river. She loves the water.
So you can guess what she did as we motored along, and Emma spied the float. She must have thought it was a duck that needed to be retrieved.
A flying leap, an Olympic dive, two gasps from us in the boat!
The Captain immediately shut down the outboard motor, called his enthusiastic dog back to the boat, and hoisted her aboard. I expected to get shaken on, but what I didn’t count on was that she leaned on me on her way back to her front row seat and got my backside sopping wet before she gave me her shower.
I remember the Captain asking me then if I still loved my dog.
A few days of R and R were in order, so we took our old trailer to a lake that was about three hours’ drive from home, and set up camp.
Once the main chores were done, I sprawled back in my lawn chair and looked up.
This is what I saw. Although there were people camped next to us, it was quiet because they were out on the lake in their kayaks. The peacefulness of the place was a moment to treasure. On the coming long weekend, it would be much more of a party place, but for now, it was wonderfully quiet. Just the whisper of the leaves high up in those trees.
Later we would try our hand at fishing in the lake, but it was so hard to decide whether to hold the fishing rod or the camera.
Now that I’m home and it’s the weekend, I can’t help but wonder how the party is going. I bet it is noisy and a complete change from the quiet few days we spent there. Timing is everything.
Do you see a tiny dark creature at the base of one of the forest giants? It’s Emma the Explorer.
Look at me, Anneli. I’m at the foot of the Empire State Tree. I can’t climb, and there’s no elevator. It sure looks huge from where I am. Click to make the picture bigger and maybe you’ll see me. I’m black and have a white nose.
Giant cedars standing tall,
Many here have yet to fall,
Others tumbled to the lake,
Fell so hard the earth did shake.
Still they keep their feet on shore,
Though they won't grow anymore,
Flooding waters soaked their boots,
And by force they lost their roots.
What these giant trees have seen,
Since they first began to lean,
Has a bear once scratched his hide,
On the cedar's sunny side?
Has a buck his antlers rubbed,
Losing velvet as he scrubbed?
Did an eagle perched aloft,
Make his nest there, downy soft?
Cedars lying in the lake,
Tangle trout that lures do take,
Lucky fish will break the line,
Swim away and feel just fine.
Silent sentinels await,
And one day they'll meet their fate,
Younger trees will then stand guard,
While the old ones fall down hard.
But the cycle carries on,
Wood in water will be gone,
Many seasons come and go,
And the young have room to grow.
Brothers at the beach,
Their cares are out of reach.
They shovel sand,
Walk hand in hand,
And keeping tabs
On anything that crawls.
Brothers on the stones,
They lick their ice cream cones.
And peachy too,
In chilly air,
They don’t despair,
Each lick a treat to savour.