La Belle Ēpoque on the lake

On my early April channeled scablands roadtrip, my second night at Notaras Lodge found me moved from the lovely masculinity of the Kenny Ardell room (written up here) to the frothy La Belle Époque mood of the Honeymoon Suite.

"Oh you are going to love it" said the receptionist making my booking. "It has a magnificent view of the lake."

Well yes, that view it does have. Most of the room is taken up by a patchwork quilt covered, enormous bed placed with a view of the lake through french doors which open onto a little balcony. At first glance the bed appears to be an old iron bedstead.

Closer examination revealed the ironwork to be a decorative add-on, standing alone framing an ordinary bed at the top and the bottom. Illusions. I guess that takes care of stability and noise issues, this being the honeymoon suite and all. At least the bed in the Kenny Ardell room of my previous nightʻs stay was authentic logs.

There is an electric fireplace and soft carpeting, an abundance of hearts and a sweet little dining nook for two.

The imagery is romantic, European and, besides the collection of  sentimental, contemporary red heart bearing, plush toys, much of it invokes travel in another era.

I heartily approve of travel, but some of the places my mind went with the visual prompts on offer were not necessarily the decoratorʻs intention. Two white birds in a cage? Restriction, capture, inhibition, restraint. Trapped. Hmmmmm, in a Honeymoon room, the gilded cage is just too close..... Letʻs not go there.

And knowing what we know about the Titanicʻs fate, why would I want to invoke the Titanic when setting out on a new voyage in my life?

Maybe I am just an unromantic, dis-illusioned old maid. Grouch. Grouch. Grouch. I am sure many a loving couple have found delight in the room. I am just not so much a French frills kinda girl. I guess.

No matter which room one stays in, Notaras Lodge is an unforgettable experience, and has always brought me joy, pandering to my cluttered, visual, pack rat nature as these theme rooms do. With the mineral lake water piped hot into the rooms it is a winner.

Romancing the range

My plan for the channelled scablands road trip in early April included a sleep over in Soap Lake so that I could be sure to be at the waterʻs edge before dawn for a circumnavigation paddle of the lake.

Secondly I was on a mission to soak away the winter blues in the heated mineral lake water which is plumbed into some of the hotels in town - the theme roomed Notaras Lodge, whose tag line is "Luxury in logs",  being one of them. I had wanted to do this mid-winter, but the water pipe bringing lake water to the town broke in October 2012. It took quite a few months to get it fixed.

That simple twist of fate had me booked into two different rooms for the weekend. They couldnʻt have been more different in feel.

Notaras Lodge is a bit of a phoenix having risen from the ashes of a devastating fire. Each room is decorated around a theme providing beautiful platform and justification for the pack rat collection instinct which blesses some of us. The maximalist hoarder in me heartily approves. Notaras Lodge is a kind of  Disneyland for the second hand junk store addict: a purpose for and sometimes a repurposing of that fascinating bit if old farm implement!

For my first nightʻs stay,  I was assigned the Kenny Ardell room (room # 22). Kenny Ardell was apparently a "gentleman cattleman" of note, from the Moses Lake area.

The room celebrates masculinity. There are pictures of ropings, rodeos, stallions and bulls on the walls.

A coiled rope hangs around one of the bed posts which is solidly constructed of massive poles and draped with thick sheepskin. Lamps have cow skin shades.

Coiled barbed wire decorates a scene above the bathroom portal and everywhere itʻs  horses, horses, horses.

On the wall alongside the bed, one finds Kenny Ardellʻs KA branding iron.

The bathroom vanity is set about with memorabilia embedded in resin - guns, knives, belt buckles and the like from the gentleman himself.

Kennyʻs boots, his saddle and a longhorn skull decorate the walls opposite the bed.

The reclining chair is leather, an antique 1950s enamel stove serves as a potplant stand and in case you donʻt get it the word "MEN" appears in the rodeo collage of bucking broncos, bits and scenes from the bull ring.

Maybe I am a little perverse, maybe it is my cattle farming, horseriding background, but I have always felt comfortable in the Kenny Ardell room. And it isnʻt just that my initials are KA and ka is, well, Ka - the life force, prana or spirit in the ancient Egyptian scheme of things. I like being in a room celebrating vitality.

The only thing I would toss is the tacky nude picture above the bed. There are classier ways to introduce the notion of little birds of the night for emergency love. Gabriel Garcia Marquez would never contenance anything as poorly executed as that painting.

I enjoyed several long mineral water soaks in the Kenny Ardell room.

Smokiam circumnavigation: paddling into the mystic

A few weekends ago Little Yoni and I did a road trip through the channelled scablands. I had unfinished business with Soap lake which has long held a fascination for me as an important place of pilgrimage, written up here and here and here

I have always wanted to paddle at dawn on this meromictic oasis in the desert and I have always wanted to circumnavigate the lake. The last time I came to do this, the dreaded lurgi got me by the throat, making my arms lame and sending me home without dipping a paddle in the water.

The sand is running out on my time on the continental rock.  I planned a sleep over in the little town of Soap Lake, to facilitate an early rising for paddle into the mystic.

Early April is still pretty chilly in these parts. Little Yoni and I were prepared but eish! if I were going to stay another season in the area I would definitely need pogies and booties. Fingers and toes were pretty darn cold in the beginning.

Initially the outlook for sunrise was not promising as we slipped into the water in the indigo dark before dawn hours while the little town still slumbered.

A little way down, however Little Yoni and I were noticed by the local avian population. Geese and all manner of waterbirds gave us the time of day. Then the light entered in magnificence!

 There is nothing so sublime as the experience of first light in a desert, on a magically charged mineral lake. At one stage I considered living here so that I could experience this prayerful, transforming beauty as a way of life.

Away from the little settlement of the town on the south end of the lake, the geography gets really interesting. Knobs and cones and flat tops and lava landscape cliffs. The scablands in early spring are the greenest they will ever be. Dawns luminosity only accentuated the verdancy.

With the rise of the light came wind. I got to experience the origins of the "soap" part of the Soap Lake name in the sudsy soap bubbles caused by mineral content in the water when the wind blows (or when churned by a paddle wielded by a splashy paddler keen to make progress against a chilly wind).

A sweet scented indigenous shrub bloomed out of cliff. Later I noticed white yarrow (achillea millefolium) clinging to a gap in magnificently lichen-painted rock face.

A couple of Canada geese (Branta Canadensis) families nest on the shores of this lake. They are so well camouflaged that if it werenʻt for the hissing with which they greeted the Little Yoni intrusion, I would have missed some of them.

At one stage I got that "Who is watching me" feeling. Looking up, I  find the sentinel on the cliff has a goose neck.

Apparently this family nests up there on the cliff top each year.  When the goslings are ready for the wider world,  they hurtle from cliff top into water. What a tribe to be born into!

Around about this part of the journey I got to watch a cliff swallow early morning ritual. The whole flock flies out into the wild blue en masse, wheels and returns to the cliff side nests in great whooshing sweeps accompanied by a crescendo of cheeping as they brush the cliff face. I am thinking they must catch insects in their flight and return to feed the babes. As I have mentioned previously, photographing swallows in flight is my definition of impossible. I lost my little Canon camera after videoing cliff swallow nests on Deep Lake in Sun Lakes State Park last year. Swallows, it seems, want to be experienced and not recorded. Still, for the record those little black dots in this image are swallows. A definite case of the experience far exceeding the recording of it.

The wind picked up steadily as the day dawned. I put the single blade aside and used the double blade. Even so, it took quite a bit of sweat to get back, since it was headwind all the way. Little Yoni is a lovely contemplative companion but isnʻt the wave rider that Merlin kayak is. It was pretty hard work for  so early in the season. I was soon stripped to barest minimum clothing and sweating sweetly.

A local elder pottering with a dog at his dock when I returned to my launch spot told me the water temperature was 41 degrees, the wind 12-15 knots and gusting. He also supplied the anecdote about the geese after proudly informing me he had the best view in town. Loading Little Yoni I happened to notice that he had a telescope mounted in his picture window overlooking the lake. It is entirely possible that it wasnʻt just the geese on the clifftop giving me the watched feeling.

His opening comment however couldnʻt have been truer: "Would have been easier in a kayak" Truth. Little Yoni the canoe and I had struggled against the wind. Doing the best we can with what we have at any one time. The lessons of Old Coyote with me always.

I had a magnificent theme room booked in the Notaras Lodge where the mineral water from the lake is heated and plumbed into the bathrooms. I was looking forward to soaking away the dawnʻs epic 10 miles exertions as I munched on goat milk yoghurt and fresh baked rye bread from  Momʻs European Foods and Deli aka "the Russian store" which can be found at 242 Main St Soap Lake, right next to the petrol station.

We were born before the wind
Also younger than the sun
Ere the bonnie boat was won as we sailed into the mystic
Hark, now hear the sailors cry
Smell the sea and feel the sky
Let your soul and spirit fly into the mystic

And when that fog horn blows I will be coming home
And when that fog horn blows I want to hear it
I don't have to fear it
I want to rock your gypsy soul
Just like way back in the days of old
Then magnificently we will float into the mystic
And when that fog horn blows you know I will be coming home
And when thst fog horn whistle blows I got to hear it
I don't have to fear it
I want to rock your gypsy soul
Just like way back in the days of old
And together we will float into the mystic
Come on girl...

Crossing the finish line

I was raised by a marathon runner famous for running barefoot. I learned to be solitary, I learned to endure and I learned to cross the finish line from this runner.

Blood runs cold in Boston today.

Sunset serenade: saffron and salmon

 After the long monochrome of winter, I canʻt get enough of saffron and salmon in the sky