Admittedly, driving around the quaint and rural roads of northeastern Oregon in December with a sea kayak atop one’s rig rack earns a few side-eye double takes. But what passers-by lack in supportive facial expressions, the welcoming water makes up for tenfold. I found this to be especially true winter paddling at Wallowa Lake. 

After a disorganized yard sale readying my winter kit on the south end boat ramp, it was a relief there wasn’t a person in sight. Still, as I prepped gear, even without the prying eyes of a crowd, I slipped into my usual self conscious boat ramp choreography and thought patterns. 

As a rapidly-greying, 41-year-old female, I have carefully honed my ability to “act like I know what I am doing” while internally having an imposter syndrome flare up. With no one around, the root of my performance anxiety seemed to be attributed to the respect I felt for the towering granite peaks that adorned the skyline. I couldn’t help but want them to approve of my presence. 

Still self-conscious, I crawled into my warm long-janes, then dry suit. I pulled on my paddle mittens, plus loaded all the usual equipment: paddle, PFD, water bottle, snacks. While I dressed and packed, I surveyed the outstanding scenery. I took note of the lenticular geometry of the sparkling emerald body of water before me. 

Another benefit of winter paddling—no crowds and clear, green water. This is especially true on rivers but also notable on lakes. No mucky algal blooms to poison you or your dog. Both of my Grand Canyon trips have been in the winter, which allows for way cleaner swims and the added bonus of campfires (with foraged wood).

Pushing off the rocky shoreline, crisp air circulated in my lungs. On either side of my Sitka ST, I drew rings with the blades of my paddle. Right blade dove under, then left blade, then back to right. Swish, swish, swish. Right side free, left side resistance. Left side free, right side resistance. Repeat. With every stroke, I drew in deeper breaths of cool air.

Once on the water, the mountainous skyline seemed to shift from intimidating and scrutinizing to benevolent.

Cradled in the heart of the Wallowa Mountains, straddled on the former epicenter of something grand, bilateral stimulation transported me beyond the confines of the lake. While rewiring imposter syndrome through alternating strokes, I contemplated the many changes time had brought to the landscape surrounding me. 

Like Alice in her wonderland, I dropped into a choose-your-own-adventure wormhole, kayak and all. Transported to 19,000 years ago, when a glacier and its terminal moraine replaced Wallowa Lake. Giant catchments of snow at high elevation formed a great ice body that flowed down to the valley below. Along the way, this massive ice river scoured and entrained debris, boulders, sand, mud and silt, reshaping everything in its wake. 

Fast forward to 10,000 years ago. Liquid remnants of the glacier, or the Wallowa River, flow from the hinterlands (as it does in present day) into Wallowa Lake’s north end. The runoff infills a finger-shaped depression. This glacially-scoured trough is known as a ribbon lake. 

Wallow Lake’s south end (the location of my earlier yard sale) is stopped up by the former glacier’s terminal moraine. The outlet is a terrestrial thoroughfare: a gateway to a winding maze of rivers. First, the Grand Ronde River, then the Snake River, eventually the Columbia River and ultimately, the Pacific Ocean. 

Once upon a time, in its heyday, this hydro expressway ferried sockeye salmon approximately 600 miles to the Pacific and back again for spawning. In fact, the nexus of fish and water were so critical to the Nez Perce, who inhabited 13 million acres of land in present day Oregon, Washington, Idaho and Montana, they named the lake, Wallowa, which references a specific type of fish trap.

Now, I rewind orders of magnitude to a parallel universe. To before anadromous fish, before the Nez Perce, before glaciers. 130 million years ago, to the genesis of the Wallowa Mountains. I peek over the edge of my kayak expecting to see water. Instead I peer deep into the layers of the Earth. I see parent rock intruded by wildly hot magma. The molten rock melted and morphs the parent rock it penetrates.

In an extraordinary timelapse, I watch the liquid rock cool and mature to form gorgeous salt and pepper crystals (not unlike my grey hair) and transform into granite. However, this is only part of the Wallowa Mountains origin story. 

The parent rock, or rock which pre-dates the granitic intrusion, is made of limestone, a deep marine calcium carbonate based body. Overprints of island arcs like the Aleutian Islands in Alaska or trailing seamounts of hot spots like Hawaii were drug over on the Juan de Fuca Plate and coalesced on the edge of Idaho (the former coastline and convergent subduction zone) to form all of Oregon. A mosaic of exotic terrains. 

Wrapping my head around that makes me feel even smaller than the present day visual of the Wallowa Mountains surrounding me. The regional and global geophysical mechanisms at play may as well be from an Ursula K. Le Guin novel. Only preserved fossil assemblages take this from sci-fi to living history. 

Winter paddling is contemplative and healing. It’s not like summer paddling, filled with friends, bathing suits, chatting, ease and maybe even party culture and all that comes with it. Don’t get me wrong, I love summer boating, too. But that is just what it is: A vacation, a dreamy excursion, a layover day, an indulgence. 

In contrast, winter paddling calls for introspection. It encourages diving deep into the coldest and darkest parts of my lizard brain and forces me to contemplate how discomfort and change can be embraced and harnessed for healing. 

By myself, on the water, winter paddling is peaceful. The bilateral stimulation of shifting paddle blades helps me see that I am welcome and worthy in outdoor sports and landscapes. I can relax into the doing rather than be consumed by insecurity.

Beyond this initial benefit, there is a deeper, unique meditation that comes from stretching the imagination. To imagine a landscape before us, after us, without us, is to realize that stability is an illusion. Homeostasis is always in flux. 

Right, left. Left, right.

Envisioning the changes Wallowa Lake has undergone brings humbling self-awareness. Losing myself to the rhythm of a solo winter boating adventure and facing my own discomfort—the cold, my insecurities—forces me to look at the discomfort landscapes, species and sovereign nations have faced and strategies they have used to adapt and renew. In the grey black peaks around me, I find acceptance, welcome and inspiration for resilience and restoration.