Winter paddleboarding

By Ed Ohlweiler
Reader Contributor

When winter temperatures get into the 40s, I find myself excitedly wiggling into a wetsuit; which, despite being thin (the wetsuit, not me), proves surprisingly arduous. I only have two rules: it has to be in the 40s (or above) and I have to wear a wetsuit. Though I recently broke that last one on the grounds that it was a good day for a “polar bear plunge,” if necessary.

I load up a paddleboard that I’d borrowed from one neighbor and a paddle from another neighbor, which I find amusing since I actually own two different paddleboards in different states. It’s my firm belief that paddleboards (and beater guitars) should be like library books. And wetsuits are relatively easy to find at thrift stores.

Closer to the water, I throw the board on a sled because — why not? If you live in North Idaho, you probably already have a quiver of sleds. This one even survived the last sledding party (despite repeated kiddo abuse).

Already I’m getting nostalgic from the last “Snowvember“ paddle, which included a visit to a third neighbor where I was introduced to the secrets of brain tanning. If you think brain tanning is a weird way to spend your free time, you definitely don’t live in my neighborhood.

The author paddles next to some ice remaining on the surface of Lake Pend Oreille. Courtesy photo

In “Snowvember,” there was snow all around us but it had yet to “stick” down by the waterfront, which is where I saw the glow-in-the-dark hare, as I like to call snowshoe hares when they are pure white on a brown background. This is no exaggeration, on the way back it was actually dark and I did in fact see it, pretending like it was hiding.

My fears for its safety are alleviated upon noticing the recent telltale tracks in the snow. I get a little giddy in the spring when I see them completely brown, except for their snazzy white dress shoes. They remind me of jazz musicians.

The November moon is called “the Beaver Moon,” but I felt that should be changed to “the Otter Moon,” as I watched otters swimming around the railroad bridge by moonlight. That was pretty magical.

Approaching the shore, I find myself dragging the sled through the obligatory goose poop. No worries, goose poop also makes me nostalgic. Not that I love the long stout pellets, but I have so many memories associated with them, since geese love the same shores and places that I do. Hell, in Anchorage we used to play ultimate Frisbee in fields full of goose poop, often diving for the disc!

The water is calm, which means effortless paddling and vivid reflections. Already I see birds in the distance. Binoculars: check. I am a birder by marriage; and, in addition to that joy, which Pam has brought into my life, I also rarely find myself without a good pair of binocs. 

While they might seem a little unruly while paddling, it’s not as incongruous as skating around with a hockey stick and puck and binoculars, like I found myself doing this winter.

A small fish jumps, pursued, I like to imagine, by an unseen otter. The autumn’s milfoil is gone, so I don’t have to get dangerously close to the front of the board to keep the skeg out of the weeds. Just clear sailing!

Look! Common mergansers… mallards… even hooded mergansers… 

I drift by boat docks stranded ridiculously high in the air; some water slides even. Many exceedingly beautiful homes, others being remodeled or under construction. One worksite had a porta-john, which I make note of in case of emergency. Sometimes a thin sheet of ice will stretch out from the shore and I will have to paddle around it; but, when this happens, a cove of sorts will be formed on the other side and often these are just chock-full of waterfowl.

More mergansers… bufflehead… goldeneye…

I swear, if I ever fall off this board it’s going to be while looking through binoculars and pivoting to see birds with the paddle leaning on my shoulder. While I’m always mentally prepared for that, it’s pretty rare. There was that one time, but I blame the beer! 

The ripples coming off of the front of the board and the immaculate reflection produce that same sense of hypnosis as a good campfire.

A pair of swans and one “ugly duckling”…

According to our rather sizable collection of bird books, this brown signet would have been born last May or June. While they may be brown for two years, they only stay with their parents for five to 10 months — meaning this teenager is just about to become too cool for its folks.

Over by the railroad tracks, there are some lots with only gazebos and maybe a storage shed. These act as permanent campsites, probably because of setback requirements from the water and the tracks. I pass other places, even some modest homes and a doublewide-looking place that give me hope — especially since they actually look lived in — as well as an estate that is rumored to be on the market for $7 million. While I can’t validate that, I do know from the sign it is shown “by appointment only,” because I’d considered making an appointment — dressing up with my wife and turning it into a date night. Can you bring your own wine to a house showing? This is all so new to me…

A pair of great blue herons… lovers?… I wonder if I look like a one-legged water strider to that osprey way up there…

Now that I’m circling back, I realize that I’ve inadvertently corralled most of the waterfowl into one massive raft, and I am going to have to flush them to get back to my sled. I don’t enjoy stressing so many animals out at once. The other consequence is that eagles will watch intently to see if there is one that can’t fly or is having trouble. Nature truly is red in tooth and claw, I think while watching a seagull pluck the eyeball out of a large fish that is somehow on top of the ice.

A single pair of redheads — what a treat!… oddly, not a single coot… except me…

The whole raft takes flight, starting with the most skittish. Some run on the water to get primed for flight, and others — goldeneye — make a unique kind of whistling sound as they’re taking off. A few geese remain and voice their disapproval. I’m reminded of my friend Emily, who likes to shout at the Canada geese, “Go back to your own country!”

All in all, a wonderful day. So beautiful, so invigorating, so many birds. I almost don’t feel worthy of such majesty, until I remember the old “river rat” bumper sticker that reads: “You Deserve a Good Paddling!”