How To Make Black Water

In my pre-paddling life, I somehow never learned that, as evergreen as they may look to you and me, cypress trees are deciduous. So watching them go from green to rust to dead has been a revelation. Now their needle-leaves either form carpets on the water or hang in black, webby clumps from the branches. At some point they will all drop, rot, and stain the water. Some call it tea-colored. I call it black. I become a bit wistful watching this happen so quickly. Were I listening to, say, Lou Reed's "Berlin" at the same time, it might just do me in. 

I came out again to Camp's Canal to find water moccasins. No luck there and a note to anyone paddling this time of year: get on the water by noon or you'll be coming back in the dark. The gators too are nowhere to be seen either, having crawled back down into their hibernation holes for the winter. None of this apparently affects the ibises or Great Blues, most of whom still wonder why I keep coming back to their house uninvited. In the distance, I hear Sandhill Cranes and Barred Owls. The reverb in this place is unparalleled.

Against my better judgment, I've let my kayak become my new office, and I will from time to time take a call on the water. In fact, I end up taking a good bit of equipment with me now, mostly to keep it from getting stolen from the truck. In fact, your seeing these photos is nothing less than a miracle. I came back last night and could not locate my new waterproof camera. After tearing the house and truck up looking for it, I went back to the canal and found it nestled in the weeds next to the river bank. It spent the night out there, which is longer than I've spent on Camps Canal.