The Lakes
Unlike the glassy lake I make my way around in the sunshine under an endlessly blue sky, I find myself unsettled and turbulent. Today, my spirit is a bit low and shaken, so I set out to find some wild water to soothe the waves within.
ADVENTURE ART CLUB | DAY 20 | 9.20
HARPERS LAKE & BLANCHARD LAKE
CLEARWATER CROSSING, MT
It’s been a while since I’ve been to the Harpers Lake Fishing Access Site near the Clearwater Junction in Montana, but it hasn’t changed much. When driving down the gravel road somewhere off of Highway 83, Harpers Lake (and the wilder Blanchard Lake just beyond it) appear as if from nowhere - blue mirrored oases in the dry grassland. The lakes are set into a bit of a depression in the landscape, so they are completely invisible from the two-lane highway that runs alongside them.
Dropping down into the parking lot in the middle of a brisk fall morning, I take note of several other visitors on the banks of the water. A couple is laughing while fishing from camp chairs by their car. Some younger people are grouped on the dock casting off from the railing - a bit too loudly for my comfort. A woman drags her small sailing vessel to the sand and adjusts her life vest before paddling off. Two lone fishermen in waders position themselves at different willow-shaded spots further along the shoreline. I know from previous visits to this tiny lake that there is a brushy walking path that takes you around the bend to the other side. I want to escape the voices and presence of strangers, so I set off with my backpack in tow to find a peaceful spot to sit and draw.
As I make my way around the water’s edge, the mirrored, glass-like surface of the water beguiles. Here and there, I can see tiny bubbles and hear the “plops” of fish jumping into the air at odd intervals close to the shore and farther out. A helpful sign at the entrance to the lake tells me these are Cutthroat and Rainbow trout. I know that big birds of prey love to hunt these waters, and I’ve sometimes seen them perched in the boughs of ancient pines, surveying, or soaring above.
The way to find a peaceful spot, I’ve found, is to put in a little effort. Hike just a little farther. Take the path less travelled. Be inconvenienced. Choose some way that’s more difficult. Now almost halfway around the lake, this strategy has served me well, as I find myself alone underneath one of those massive pines that guards over the shoreline.
Meeting this tree feels like greeting a kind elder. I notice the way its roots have intertwined with the soil on shore, binding it together and displaying the high water mark of months prior. Looking closer, on a root that forms a perfect place to sit, I notice shells from the seeds of a squirrel’s meal. Another creature had the same idea to rest here a while. I set my pack down and explore along the shore, marveling at the water plants that reach and sway, the rainbow colored rocks below the water’s surface, and the play of light and shadow all around me.
After a while of looking, I carry on, picking up bits of human trash along the shore as I go, eventually reaching a grassy shaded spot on the trail from which I can see the entire lake, people, and any wild creatures. I even find an osprey feather in the brush. I construct my backpacking chair and take a seat right on the trail, peering through my binoculars at a great blue heron preening their feathers on a partially sunken log. No one else seems to see the bird, which I’m grateful for. I start to draw.
As I do, a bald eagle flies into another pine on the other side of the water, settles onto a bare branch at the very top, and screeches an announcement of their presence. I see it tilt its head back to let the sound tear out of its throat, beak parted, wings outstretched. It sounds like the call of a great king, claiming dominion over the landscape. The eagle stays there for the duration of my visit, swooping down only once to attempt to catch a fish before returning to its perch. As the heron leaves, I notice snapping turtles take its place in the sunshine. An osprey flies above me then takes off for the horizon. These visitations teem with life and speak to the abundance of this place.
After a while of drawing, I pack up my belongings and make my way to the water’s edge, this time stepping by entire colonies of butterflies grouping together on the warm grave. They flutter and fly when I move my body nearby, but as I claim a seat on the sun-bleached log the heron vacated, they settle into stillness, shimmering wings open and closed in the now abundant sunshine of mid-morning. If you’re quiet enough and still enough, nature settles back into its rhythms like this, undisturbed.
I watch fish of different sizes darting this way and that under the water’s surface, leaping occasionally to grab insects off the surface of the water in big gulps. Their movements are graceful and blithe, and I hope wholeheartedly that they stay this far away from the hooks and torture of the humans on the other side.
Despite this beauty all around me, I still feel low. It’s been a lovely weekend, but I feel adrift, disconnected from it all. The beauty of this lake and the magic of these encounters usually helps to ease my mind, but today the water sits along the surface, not quite sinking through my sand to the depths. Reaching my car after several hours of silent looking, I decide to travel over to Blanchard Lake, the second at this site.
Blanchard Lake is less “built up” than Harpers, and now that prime fishing and bird viewing hours have passed, I have the place to myself. The last time I was here, I brought Scout, and we paddleboarded around in circles, leaving just before a late Summer storm approached. Today, the sun is bright and brilliant, as I make my way through dry and thorny weeds to the water. It’s appalling to see so much knapweed going to seed all around me, choking the life out of native plants. Still, I try to stay present and appreciate the glint of the sun off the water’s surface.
The Clearwater River runs into and out of this lake, and at the start, I appreciate the sound of the current bobbing playfully over river rocks to join the depths before it. There’s no good place to cross here, so I move along the other marshy edge of the land before settling into a trail (more like a deer track) in the tall dry grasses. It’s clear not many people travel along here. I push my way along as burs and sharp seeds cling to my clothes in passing. I’m making my way to another large pine I see towering in the brush on the other side of the water.
When I finally arrive, this sheltered place feels desolate and sacred. I notice signs of bird presence everywhere - white stains on leaves and countless hawk feathers. I’m learning I’m drawn to the places large birds of prey like to perch for a while. From my seat on a root clinging to the steep embankment, I take in the view. It’s quiet. I start to write. I’m absorbed in the process, and several hours pass here in stillness.
After a while, tiny finches come into view, hopping mere inches from my feet. They know I’m no threat to them. A kestrel (perhaps some other tiny hawk) arrives and peers down at me imperiously from a branch above. I see a kingfisher across in the willows by the water. Wild life thrives in abundance in this valley.
I’m still a bit unsettled as I stand to leave, but I’m slightly more myself. I make my way back to where I parked, now in the full heat of a dry fall day. Looking back at the peaceful perch I’d just left, I’m filled with gratitude for a body that lets me explore like this, for a heart that’s willing to go there, for the capacity to feel as deeply as I do, and for these pockets of wild where birds abide, undisturbed.
Love & Gratitude,
- Christina
