I’ve walked a ridgeline in the cool of morning. The valley below was bathed in a soft, blue fog, with rounded hills rising like the backs of whales across the valley. Stopping to rest, I cooled my feet in a pool of clear, crisp water that bubbled from a pile of limestone. After some granola and a fresh drink, I walked on, the only evidence of my passing a few dry leaves overturned in my wake.
I’ve camped with a farmer. After a day of digging potatoes and shucking corn, I pitched a tent in the oak grove that stood between his house and barn. The air was thick with the smell of freshly cut hay and the deep, dark scent of black, loamy soil. As I lay in front of my tent in the dew-fresh grass, staring at the stars, I was lulled by the muted clucks of chickens and the harmonious lowing of cows – a subliminal gospel hymn to the goodness of the earth. In the morning, I bade my thanks, packed my gear, and moved on, the only evidence of my sojourn a square of matted grass.
I’ve been on the beach at dawn. A freshly picked peach and a mason jar of Graves Mountain cider would steel me for a day of surf. The sun was a paper-thin sliver on the horizon as I sat in the sand. I dug my feet into the cool shore, and feeling the pulse of the ocean, the sun rose, filling my face with warmth. Crystalline reflections danced across the water as dolphins made their daily commute in search of baitfish. I rose and went for my board, the only evidence of my meditation some footprints in the sand, soon to be washed away by the coming tide.
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Like many, Fourth of July found me seeking out the water. I joined my family at Smith Mountain Lake for a week of swimming, campfires, laughter, argument, fishing, and boating.
At dusk, from the end of our dock, we could see out of the mouth of the cove, into the deep waters of the main channel. Across the lake blue-green mountains dropped steeply into the lake. Beneath our feet, fish lazily swam circles around the pylons of the dock; perch, spot, catfish the size of dogs, and the occasional bass.
Floating into the cove we saw a gelatin blob bobbing at the surface. What the heck? A turtle? A dead fish? A jellyfish? At Smith Mountain Lake?
A plastic grocery bag.
We would see more of these, along with all of the other expected detritus of a week of boating – plastic stoppers, broken styrofoam from a cooler, fishing line, long-discarded balls and floats and toys. While out on a kayak, we encountered watermelon rinds, bottle koozies, apple cores, and more plastic.
One evening a storm blew through. Anything not lashed to our dock was blown into the water, and we spent the next morning fishing our gear from the end of the cove. It’s understandable that things would be lost in the water. While we were gathering our things, we filled a bag with trash that had joined our floats and tubes in our little corner of the lake. While out boating, we had a cooler for beers and cold drinks, and a separate container for our trash. While sunning on our dock, we kept a close eye on our bottles and cans, and the refuse from lunch was accounted for and carried back up the hillside to our house.
There is a common adage when hiking: “Take nothing but pictures and leave nothing but footprints.”
The next time that you find yourself enjoying the water, repeat this to yourself over and over:
“Take nothing but memories and leave nothing but wake.”
