Arriving at the lakeshore shortly after sunrise, I launch from the west end of Elk Rock State Park and paddle northwest toward the head of Red Rock Reservoir. Pushed by a southeast wind, I paddle under the Mile-Long Bridge and then along the north shore, occasionally surfing on small waves. The morning sun is behind me, brilliantly lighting the red-and-tan sandstone of the Painted Rock Cliffs in front. The Point of Rocks - physically bounding the northwest end of the cliffline and psychologically marking the outer edge of my most frequently visited part of the lake- drops behind me as I cross Prairie Creek Bay. The seldom-visited shoreline beyond this bay is geologically surreal. Stark exposures of sandstone, shale, coal, glacial till, and loess crowd each other in a Daliesque display of incongruous shapes, patterns, and colors. Amid the crumbling brown ledges, gray horizontal beds, slanting black seams, and cannonball concretions, I half-expect to spot melting clocks and deflating faces.
Reaching the head of the lake at a marshy delta, I come to a small boat ramp at the remote end of a long gravel road reaching tenuously from the outside world. Consistent with the surreal imagery I have encountered along this shore, the “Boxcars Access” features a pair of rusting boxcars resting at a crazy angle along the swamped course of an abandoned railroad bed; nearly overtopped with high water, only a single corner of one rooftop juts above the surface today. The solitude of my morning journey is suspended as a fleet of four motorized, duck-hunting johnboats, heavily bedecked with cattail camouflage, arrives at the access as I come ashore. One of them has broken a propeller out in the marsh and is being towed. As each boat grinds heavily onto the gravelly shoreline, a hidden trapdoor flings open and two, three, or four hunters, all dressed in camo jumpsuits, emerge into the bright sunshine. Suddenly surrounded by hulking, drifting, metal johnboats, my kayak feels like an eggshell at a boulder convention. I wolf down a snack and paddle away into the open lake.
Having reached the northwest end of the lake, I now want to paddle to the dam, 15 miles to the southeast. An unmitigated headwind is building along the north shore, so I strike toward the south shore where a long line of bluffs will shelter me. Skirting a barren, outlying sandbar, I leave the delta and set out on a long diagonal crossing beset with small, choppy, oncoming waves. Reaching a rocky shore, I follow a band of unruffled water beneath a protective bluffline. In the distance, I spot the familiar territory of West Beach, a big sloping sand dune where I often come exploring with friends. It draws steadily closer and after one last crossing of a skywashed bay, my bow brushes gently ashore on golden, sun-drenched sand. Climbing out of the cockpit, I know my visit must be brief, but I cannot resist wandering across the spacious, driftwood-lined beach up to the highest terrace. The blue expanse of the lake, gently bordered with tan cliffs topped by black, leafless forest, stretches to the northwest horizon. I am simultaneously exhilarated and humbled by the view, so beautiful. Thoreau’s advice resounds in my mind: Rise free from care before the dawn, and seek adventures. Let the noon find thee by other lakes, and the night overtake thee everywhere at home. There are no larger fields than these, no worthier games than may here be played.
Relaunching, I paddle along more bluffs and pass under the Mile-Long Bridge as a giant combine lumbers across the span; hearing a horn, I glance up and spot the silhouette of the driver waving to me from his high glass cockpit. After crossing the big open bay at Teter Creek, I pass along the Elk Rock Cliffs (detouring slightly to slip through the sea cave) and push all the way to Ranger Point before resting. Whitebreast Bay - a mile-wide expanse of notoriously wave-prone, open water - is anticlimactically easy. As I approach the tip of the Whitebreast Peninsula on the far shore of the bay, the Red Rock Dam – still over three miles away - slides into view, dominating the southeast horizon with a long gray line of riprap split by the shadowed clefts of the control gates. At the sight of this last major turning point in my journey, I dismiss the fatigue that has begun to slow my paddling pace and renew my sagging cadence. My renewal is short-lived, however, when I encounter a stiff headwind on the open lake beyond the peninsula. With the axis of the reservoir now aligned to the southeast, my protection from the wind by the south shore bluffs has vanished. I have been hoping that the wind would have eased by the time I arrived here, but it is clearly indifferent to my desires.
I start the long slog along this windblown shore. I labor slowly ahead, but the slow creep of the shoreline past my boat is discouraging. After a long bout of hard paddling, the dam still looks as distant as when I started from the tip of the peninsula. The lake has become a treadmill, sliding endlessly beneath my hull without a gratifying sense of forward motion. To shave distance, I aim directly for the southern end of the dam instead of following the diverging shoreline. Increasingly encompassed by the open lake, my perspective of progress is further diminished by the featurelessness of vast flat water. It is only within the last half-mile that the dam appears to grow incrementally larger. My sense of motion is further restored when the shoreline swings near and I once again perceive its shifting orientation of cliffs, rocks, and trees. My kayak finally rasps ashore on the gravelly foot of the dam. I climb tiredly out of the cockpit and step onto the riprapped slope, but stay only long enough to snap a photograph and to capture a waypoint on my GPS. Afternoon is quickly slipping into evening and I still have a long way to go.
Turning my boat toward Elk Rock, I begin the final stretch, seven-and-a-half more miles. With the wind at last at my back, I set course for the center of the lake to take full advantage of its favorable push. I now glide effortlessly at nearly 5 MPH where I struggled to attain 3 MPH against the contrary wind. I pass quickly along the shoreline, whose shadows grow longer and darker as the sun arcs downward. Around the point, the wind subsides and the lake merges seamlessly with Whitebreast Bay. The sun sets in a miasma of wispy, orange clouds as I finish the crossing. It is dark when I reach Ranger Point, where I stop to affix a slender white lantern to my stern and don my headlamp. Paddling along the blackened bluffs of the Elk Rock Cliffs, I become a chimerical star beneath an emerging galaxy of genuine stars in the deepening night sky.
Reaching the take-out, I pull the kayak ashore for the last time and gaze out onto the dark lake once more. The night has overtaken me and I do feel at home.
John Pearson
Indianola, Iowa
