Quest for Water

We were driving through towns only heard about during severe weather coverage on television (okay, I mean the radio, since I haven't owned a TV in many years).  The kayaks were strapped firmly to the roof and were buckling as the heat made their plastic frames pliable.  Folks in towns like Custer City and Thomas stared and shook their heads, as if they had just seen a car with surfboards driving through Oklahoma.  Our likelihood of finding water to wet the boats was looking as grim as surfers seeking to catch their next wave on the inland seas. 

The current drought is going on two years.

Today's plan was just to paddle around at American Horse Lake.  On the way there, I mentioned that the last time I had visited, the water had dropped a good three feet in a matter of two weeks.  That was probably two or three months ago - before the mercury hit the hundred-teens. 

An hour's drive later, I make the last slight left to the lake and meet a new gate with a bright orange sign announcing "DANGER - RESTRICTED ACCESS" and forbidding entrance.  We got out and walked the last few hundred yards to what used to be the water's edge.  There was no lake.  There were hills of red dirt and shale.  Beer bottles from years past and entombed plastic tubs that held bait in a past life.  When we finally found water, it was a stagnant, green puddle.  There was no sign of the clear waters that had stolen my heart the first time I discovered this lake.  We would later learn that the lake was being drained for more work on the dam that was damaged during flooding several years earlier.  For now, we were rejected.  All we could do is return to the car and vow to come back without boats and armed with trash bags, so we could clean up my playground in anticipation of rains that will revive her and make her beautiful once again.

American Horse...Lake?

GPS, maps, and the Oklahoma Water Atlas are consulted and we redirect to Canton Lake.  All that I knew of Canton, was that this was the source that fills Overholser, Stinchcomb, the North Canadian River (oh, I mean the Oklahoma River), Lake Hefner, and my water bottle.  The backroads take us through dry farmland and past many unmarked dirt and gravel roads.  I'm always excited to drive on an Oklahoma road that I haven't ever seen before.  As my traveling companion says, "when plans fail, the journey begins".  Little did he know at the time that the plans would fail more than once on this day.

"ROAD CLOSED TO THRU TRAFFIC" the sign read, just past the sign that pointed the way to Canton Lake.  Well, we had been debating whether to go to Canton Lake or Foss Reservoir, so the next choice was obvious. Besides, the map shows that we would be crossing the South Canadian River, so we could always just stop there and slide the boats down the side of the bridge and launch into the sandy riverbed. We recalculated our route.

The wide bridge announced the South Canadian River crossing, but we peered over the sides and couldn't see any water in either direction.  Not a puddle, not a ribbon of stream, not a drop.  I was beginning to think that the townfolk in their pick-up trucks were right about our deteriorated mental condition.  What were we thinking when we loaded boats and set out to go kayaking today?

South Canadian "River" to the East

South Canadian "River" to the West

I crossed my fingers and questioned my loyalty to the sun gods.  We need clouds and rain, too.  Why hadn't I realized this before today?  Oh, what have I done?!?  I search for upbeat tunes and continue speeding across dusty towns with more people in the cemetery than the last census.  One town boasts that it is storm-ready and I wonder what that means.  Union Pacific trains stretch for miles in their stillness, with just enough gaps to keep from blocking the numbered county roads.  I wonder if there will be another gate, another roadblock, or another dry patch of land awaiting.  There was no Plan E.

Blinding sun reflected off whitecaps and sparkling white boats bouncing skiers.  The three-mile earthen dam (one of the largest earthen dams in the world) wasn't doing a "dam" bit of good, since the water had receded several feet from the foundation.  But, there was water, and lots of it.  Probably not 63 miles of shoreline, as the Oklahoma Water Atlas boasted, but there was still plenty to share. 

No big boats launching here!

I already had the launch site picked out on the map - the furthest boat ramp from the dam, and the one bordering the Washita National Wildlife Refuge.  There was only one other boater in this part of the lake, and they were anchoring for a walk on the sand and a dip in the inviting water.  Our kayaks splashed their way across the lake against the wind.  The drips of water blown from the paddle blades were welcomed on hot skin.  This was nothing like the quiet little pond that we were originally trying to reach.  Good thing that we are Oklahomans and are resilient, stubborn, and still able to evolve.  We will make it work, and we are going to enjoy this journey, wherever it takes us. 

These people are Oklahoma-ready!

 

Private Paradise

Ten miles from the main drag in Geary is a treasure that few have discovered.  It is only about an hour by car from Oklahoma City, but yet as remote as you can imagine.  It is a small spot of water - clear and alive.  Human traffic is sparse, quiet, and respectful.  You might have seen the plain wooden signs pointing out the direction of the lake, but without willful planning to visit those waters, you would never catch a glimpse.  It is American Horse Lake, and one of the best kept secrets in this state.

My first visit to the lake was a camping and kayaking adventure.  Camping is primitive - no facilities whatsoever.  Every campsite has an indecent offering of prickly sandburs to make flip-flops unbearable.  It is also rough on puppy feet, so consider this fair warning.  The kayaking though...the kayaking was spectacular.  The water was rivaled only by the starlit sky of a new moon that made flashlights unnecessary.

Since that weekend, I have been addicted.  I have cravings for that water that can only be satisfied by loading the boats and making the short journey.  A few years ago, there were three spots in the road to the lake that were washed out by flash floods.  Our caravan loaded with kayaks tried desperately to go off-road and find a passable route to reach our destination.  Twice we were successful.  When just a mile and a half separated us from the clear waters, our vehicles were defeated by the deep gully that divided the road.  It might not have been too far to portage the boats, but we knew that the return trip would be torture on our weary arms.  There was nothing left to do but turn around and drive back to the city, dejected and disappointed.

Today, the roads have finally all been repaired.  Every couple of months, when the craving dominates my thoughts, I load up the boats and head to my private paradise.  I roll the windows down and fill my lungs with the non-city air.  Every meadowlark I pass widens the smile that stretches to my eyes.  Anticipation replaces daily stresses.  By the time I park the car by the small boat ramp, I am already deep in my therapy. 

What is it about the lake that entices me?  It's the complete lack of man-made sounds, with the exception of an occasional trolling motor.  It's the smooth travel of fish and turtles, many feet below the surface - yet, still visible from above the waterline.  Maybe, it is the canyon below the dam that I have yet to fully explore.  Or, it is the quicksand area on the northeast side where herons and egrets rest and bullfrogs make their families.  At night, it is the call of the Chuck-will's widows, coyotes, screech owls, and wild boar that empowers my senses to overtake my mind.

There are sun-bleached skeletons of trees rising from the water and telling of lives before the area was dammed.  Turkey vultures adorn the white branches like a candelabra.  Kingfishers launch their dives from these same platforms.  Yellow-billed cuckoos and painted buntings flit through the cedars above red foxes and armadillos.  Red-eared sliders sun below the singing cardinals.  Whole flocks of wild turkeys fly clumsily overhead and common water snakes catch small catfish in the shallows.  If I'm lucky, I will catch a glimpse of the roadrunner that I can identify by his sound alone.

American Horse Lake is a wonderland that gives my soul new energy.  If you get the chance, come experience the enchantment that this spot beholds.  Just do me one favor - let's keep this place our little secret.