A perfect June afternoon and I’m perched on a bank on the north shore of Clear Lake—knees drawn up to my chest, eyes closed, nose pointed into the wind—remembering.
As a kid, on a summer’s day like this, I’d hop on my blue Schwinn and head out the driveway and down 19th Street. At North Shore Drive I’d turn right and pedal hard past Beck’s Gardens and the All Vet’s; harder still past the row of houses packed tight along the shoreline. I’d slow down just as I approached the last house in the row—the same place that the towering cottonwoods offered up their deep shade and rattling leaf-song and the glittering lake came into full view. Here, I’d hop off my bike, lean it against one of those welcoming cottonwoods, and plop myself down—on this very bank. I’d draw my knees up to my chest, close my eyes, point my nose into the wind—and just be.
After a while I’d mount up again and pedal on toward MacIntosh State Park. More often than not, I’d be dive-bombed along the way by Red-winged Blackbirds onto whose territory, which they graciously shared with the Baptist Camp, I’d trespassed. If it was morning when I pedaled by the reeds west of MacIntosh, I might be lucky enough to glimpse Yellow-headed Blackbirds or at least catch a bit of their raspy piping.
On to Ventura and left at the four-way stop, I’d coast down the county road and make a final stop at the Grade before turning around. On a weekend, I might find my dad fishing on the jetty.
Because there was no good place to park my bike, I’d simply stand astride it—resting my arms on the handle bars and my chin on my hands—and in a flash be swept away by the sights, sounds and smells of the place—the unbroken wall of green leaves along the south shore; water slapping the edge of the rock jetty; cries of seagulls overhead; bodies of bullheads and reeds strewn along the shores of the lake and marsh, stewing in the summer sun.
My days as a child growing up in Clear Lake were variations on this theme. Everyday I was immersed in this wonderland of earth, wind, water, trees, marsh, reeds, birds and more.
Today I work for the Iowa Natural Heritage Foundation, a private, nonprofit organization whose business it is to protect the wonderful, natural lands that remain to us across the state.
One of the places we’re now working to conserve is right here on the west end of Clear Lake: the green-leaved wall still exists along the south shore; droves of people still fish off the jetty; and the marsh is still home to gulls and myriad other forms of wildlife. This is a place that has been long enjoyed by the public—Clear Lake area residents and visitors alike. The Iowa Natural Heritage Foundation, with the help of people like you, private foundations and other like-minded organizations, is working to keep this special place special—“for those who follow.”
The kind of enjoyment—and joy—we experience on the west end of Clear Lake is rooted in the sense of openness, of wildness, of quiet, of a rhythm different from the rhythm of the human-made world, of participation in the world of nature that this place provides. Think how rich our imaginations and lives are as a result of our having stood—of our standing right now—in the hum of all this life.
As I sit on this bank on north shore—looking back and looking ahead—I’m filled with gratitude—gratitude for my great, good fortune in having grown up in this wonderland; gratitude for those who first had the vision to conserve much of the west end of Clear Lake so that all of us could experience and enjoy it; gratitude for one more opportunity to help protect this part of the lake, ensuring that this particular wonderland remains to work its magic on us—today and tomorrow.
Visit the Ventura Cove home page to learn more about this projcet and how you can help.
For more information, e-mail Cathy Engstrom, director of communications, or call (515) 288-1846.
