Canvas Backs on South Fowl Lake
From “Bright Beat the Water”, Chapter 36 Winding Down
John L. Peyton
“There is a certain point, which I remembered from the time Fay and I came through this chain of lakes on our honeymoon, where tall cliffs rise straight out of the water. I was painting a watercolor of these cliffs and dipping my brush in the lake when it slipped through my fingers. It was a fine big, chisel-edged Siberian sable, with a plastic handle. A wooden-handled brush floats, but this improved modern article was just a little heavier than water. It sank slowly until it came to rest on the top of a boulder that rose into dim light from the surrounding darkness.
I keep a piece of wire in my sketch box for cleaning out the fixative sprayer. I wrapped this around a pole, bent a hook in it, pushed it down there, and sneaked up on the brush with it.
Leaning far over, I could just reach the brush. It was lively now, in its Asiatic way, unwilling to be snared again. Each time that I got it started up, it would slip out of the hook and come to rest a little farther down the slope of the rock.
So I leaned a little farther.
I leaned too far. The lake came in.
In this kind of a situation there is a point of no return, and I was past it. If you try to regain your balance then, the canoe will capsize. To avoid this I dropped over the side, allowing the canoe to right itself.
The month of May is still early spring on these border lakes. The ice is not long gone and the water is cold.
I tried to climb into the half-flooded boat. I had once considered this an easy trick. Now I was unable to scramble up over the high stern. When I shifted the attempt to a lower point along the gunwale it dipped to the surface.
I frogged the canoe to shore. Not really very far, but it seemed to take a long time. I crawled up on the rocks and splashed carefully back to the boat, my teeth chattering. I emptied my sketch box, used it to bail the water out, repacked the box, and paddled back to the canoe again.
By the time I was dry and warm it was too dark to go out again. Next day the brush was gone, washed off the rock, I suppose, and out of sight in deep water. So old age doesn’t guarantee good judgement, and that’ not the only example.”
See Painting of "Canvas Backs on South Fowl Lake"...
Canvas Backs on South Fowl Lake
From “Bright Beat the Water”, Chapter 36 Winding Down
John L. Peyton
“There is a certain point, which I remembered from the time Fay and I came through this chain of lakes on our honeymoon, where tall cliffs rise straight out of the water. I was painting a watercolor of these cliffs and dipping my brush in the lake when it slipped through my fingers. It was a fine big, chisel-edged Siberian sable, with a plastic handle. A wooden-handled brush floats, but this improved modern article was just a little heavier than water. It sank slowly until it came to rest on the top of a boulder that rose into dim light from the surrounding darkness.
I keep a piece of wire in my sketch box for cleaning out the fixative sprayer. I wrapped this around a pole, bent a hook in it, pushed it down there, and sneaked up on the brush with it.
Leaning far over, I could just reach the brush. It was lively now, in its Asiatic way, unwilling to be snared again. Each time that I got it started up, it would slip out of the hook and come to rest a little farther down the slope of the rock.
So I leaned a little farther.
I leaned too far. The lake came in.
In this kind of a situation there is a point of no return, and I was past it. If you try to regain your balance then, the canoe will capsize. To avoid this I dropped over the side, allowing the canoe to right itself.
The month of May is still early spring on these border lakes. The ice is not long gone and the water is cold.
I tried to climb into the half-flooded boat. I had once considered this an easy trick. Now I was unable to scramble up over the high stern. When I shifted the attempt to a lower point along the gunwale it dipped to the surface.
I frogged the canoe to shore. Not really very far, but it seemed to take a long time. I crawled up on the rocks and splashed carefully back to the boat, my teeth chattering. I emptied my sketch box, used it to bail the water out, repacked the box, and paddled back to the canoe again.
By the time I was dry and warm it was too dark to go out again. Next day the brush was gone, washed off the rock, I suppose, and out of sight in deep water. So old age doesn’t guarantee good judgement, and that’ not the only example.”
See Painting of "Canvas Backs on South Fowl Lake"...