Kayaking at Wildcat

By Doc Arnett on July 22, 2024

It is the first day of July in Western Kentucky 
but it feels more like October:
Beautiful blue skies with a few high white clouds,
late afternoon temperature in the 70's,
and humidity remarkably low for this time of year. 

Two of my sons and I unload kayaks 
at Wildcat Landing on Kentucky Lake. 
We ease into the water and make our way out
toward the channel a quarter-mile away.
Broken rocks the size of fists
and the colors of the heart of the earth 
line the bank between the water 
and miles of hardwood hills. 

Beyond the break, 
the water is slightly choppy.
After brief discussion, 
we decide to head back into the small bay 
and paddle our way toward the far end 
a half-mile away, where we know
the creek disappears into the woods. 

Great herons perch in the tops of dead trees, 
while a white egret probes for food in the shallows,
spearing a small bass as we glide past. 

We pull under a cluster of cypress trees 
surrounded by emerging knees 
bunched around their bases
like chicks around a mother hen
and take our break. 

A while later, we head back even further,
noting defining lines of cypress trees 
that seem to mark the banks of the hidden creek. 
Thick vines with clusters of white-spiked blooms 
tangle the shallows and block our way 
into the tiny channel that disappears into the woods.

We see where a smaller creek comes in, 
but it's too narrow and too shallow even for kayaks. 
We drift for a while, 
Ben and Jeremiah talking in low voices.
I scan the banks and the sky as the lowering sun 
filters through branches of oak and hickory.

The clouds catch fire as the sun 
slides low in the sky
and we marvel at the way
dusk begins to settle into the bays and inlets.

We paddle a bit and drift, 
sifting through the shadows,
not yet ready to leave this small cove,
these trees, these hills, 
the way that life spills slowly into its forming basin.

On the way back to the ramp
as the last of light begins to fade from the sky, 
Ben and Jeremiah follow the line of the shore
but I take a more direct approach, 
saving several strokes for these sore shoulders 
and getting there enough ahead
that I can turn and wait, 
admiring their muscular silhouettes 
and the easy way they glide through the water.

I don't know how often a father
would have to do such as this 
with children he loves
for it to become old and tiring, 

but I am quite sure I will never find out.


H. Arnett
7/23/24