Lake Crescent, a poem
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Deeper than the sky is vast
Clear and sweet like rain
A swim to the edge of bottomless blue
Void of salt, void of murk, with mountain water cold like fresh snow
And visibility to 100 feet. 200. 500.
Silvery flashes dot the water. Fish reflecting light, reminding us that life lives here too.
We dive down towards them, frozen water pushes back reminding us that we are but visitors, our thin skin scaleless. The chill is loud, bold but kind.
Only the sky holds this much blue, and endless views.
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One week ago today I swam in Lake Crescent.
Today I am hunkered down inside my little house, fans running, curtains drawn, bracing for the hottest day on record ever—it’s 10:34am, and already 90 degrees. By 5pm the forecast is set at 100. It’s a good morning to recount my trip to the lake. The heat wave here has turned the Salish Sea to soup, the top inches undisturbed by days of windless skies have literally made the water hot to the touch.
We are all in shock. Here we are in another unreal and unbelievably strange summer. Last year’s natural disasters, included COVID, wildfires and suffocating smoke. This year we are experiencing some respite from COVID with vaccinations onboard, but heaped on top is the fearful realization that global warming is not just a remote idea someplace else. We quietly wonder what fires will spark this summer, and where. What forests will burn?
This week I feel like we are living at ground zero of the heating of our planet.
Time to think about cold water. Never more than this past week have I come to appreciate and treasure the grace of water. The countless ways it heals us, holds us, cools us, warms us—the source of all life.
One week ago today we traded five hours of driving for an hour-long swim.
Yes, crazy.
Worth it? Absolutely.
The first time I gazed into the waters of Lake Crescent years ago I was certain that blue tarps were hovering just below the surface. My mind struggled to wrap around what my eyes were seeing—a bottomless blue, so clear and deep it startled me. The alkaline water is mostly inhospitable to plants, fish and even insects are scarce. One could sink down and down and never touch the bottom, or so it seems.
This Monday lake adventure was born out of my unfolding love affair with this magical place, and remains the only lake that I have ever swam in and not felt ill at ease, unsettled by milfoil or otherwise grossed out by duck poop or the dreaded “swimmers itch” that is often mentioned in stories of lake swimming. Steep mountains rise up around the lake, reminding me of the fjords of Norway, folds of deep green trees reaching up to the sky.
Although I am a saltwater girl through and through— Lake Crescent has won my heart. The only downside to this mountain wrapped paradise is the time it takes to drive there. And the burning of fossil fuel it requires.
I remain spoiled by our close proximity to the endless saltwater of the Salish Sea, living on an island with a protected bay mere steps from my home. The jellyfish remain the only real problem, or to be more precise, the fear of getting stung by a lions mane is the only problem. Stings are rare, despite my warnings.
After my recent highly unpleasant encounter with said jellyfish, the promise of a lake swim sounded grand.
On Monday I invited my friend, Liz, to travel to the lake with me. This marked my last day prior to teaching art all summer, just as Liz wrapped up another year-like-no-other teaching middle schoolers—including my son—after what I will always refer to as “the lost year.”
I picked her up at 9:30, both of us giddy with the excitement of an adventure, a swim in a new place and a break from what has been a monotonous time—for swimmers and non-swimmers alike.
As we drove the winding roads to the lake, I recalled that we didn’t go anywhere last year. Save for one day hike with my sister and her husband, we stayed home. Covid fear knocked loudly on our door, seeping into every conversation, with casual encounters with other masked people making anxiety bloom like overactive yeast in warm water, and daily news reports casting a somber tone to the summer—even before the wildfires choked us out and heightened our sense of vulnerability.
Thankfully, life is changing again. Finally. For the better— little things like the fact that Liz and I rode to the lake together, whereas last summer we took two cars to go for a day hike with my dear sister, afraid of exposing each other to the dreaded Covid-19.
Our idea was also a lot of other people’s good idea, and after the long drive we arrived to a very full lot at the Lake Crescent lodge.
Young people and families lined the beach by the lodge, a rainbow of people and floaties and dogs, and in the distance the clear water was dotted with bright yellow and orange paddle-powered craft. The only sounds over happy children and teens giggling and splashing was the hum of an occasional speed boat zipping past.
We surveyed the beach, deliberating on which direction to take for our watery journey.
The icy river to west of the lodge doubled in size since my last visit two years ago, promising frigid waters. I was decidedly hesitant to take this entry, and although Liz had wisely brought her wetsuit, I had not. I was glad I had brought my thermal cap, as the first five minutes in reminded me of my winter ice swim last January.
We swam East, around the bend to the boat launch and back, feeling fearless and free, the clear water shimmering with light, and below us nothing but smooth mud and sand, and an occasional sunken log sitting still as stone upon the lake floor. The logs reminded me of sunken ships, forgotten and absorbed by the world around them, preserved by the alkaline waters.
Liz aptly spotted a handful of fish below the surface, and helped me spot one after much pointing and directing. Surprised I didn’t see them, I commented that my saltwater swimming had my eyes trained to watch for debris, jellyfish and crabs. More surprising to me than the clarity of the water was the complete absence of debris.
Below the surface, the land fell steeply away to our left as we rounded the bend towards the dock.
A wall of deep cerulean blue met our eyes. We paused to rest, struggling for words to describe the view below the surface—an abyss, a starless sky at twilight, watery nothingness. It was equally beautiful and frightening to see, and swimming over the bottomless expanse thrilled and terrified me. I reached back to tug my float, my one tether to safety.
And Liz, my steadfast swim friend, smiling ear to ear, making sure I was okay.
We returned to the lodge, tired and pleased with our mile-long swim, and after a snack we drove the long road home, agreeing that our future swim goals were the same—to simply swim for the sake of swimming.
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It’s now 4pm. Temperature outside 100 Fahrenheit (37.778 Celsius). Expected high is 103 at 6pm.
My house is full of teenagers, sunbaked, heat baked, water logged. And hungry. I sit outside in the shade, a few birds sing while our heat pump works overtime keeping the indoor temperature at a balmy 75 degrees.
If I was a cookie right now my chocolate chips would likely be melted by now. My skin is browned after several swims the past few days, in clothes or suit, as I return over and over again to the water I love most. Two days ago I swam mid day in the bay with my youngest son, the surface water was almost hot to the touch. Mid sized yellow and white jellyfish appeared occasionally in the tepid soup, hovering like giant eggs on their way to a good poaching. Yesterday we tried frying an egg on our cast iron skillet in the blistering sun.
I will be patient like the sea, and wait til sunset tonight to go for a swim.
I like poached eggs, I just don’t want to become one. Today it feels so hot I am convinced I’m turning browner like toast just sitting here writing in the cover of full shade.
And to think just a few months ago I was bracing for the deep body chill after a dip in the Salish Sea.
I think about the clam beds roasting in the sweltering sun, and wonder how they are managing this record breaking heat. I imagine that they crave the return of cooler days and waters to match as much as us humans do.
Mary Swims 