We rose about a half hour before first light. As we put on our warm layers and lifejackets, the first light creeps over the hills. We push off one by one in our blue kayaks, there are only three of us on this excursion to the lily pad pond. We paddle across the calm bay to a little inlet.  As we creep along in the clear channel, a flock of Merganser ducks squawks by us. Very slowly and quietly we enter into the lily pad pond.  

The pond is misty and full of huge green pads loaded with yellow flowers. The center of which contains swirls of orange and black. We hear an eagle over head. Ever so gently, we glide across the pond scanning the water’s edge and look into the woods for wildlife.

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Written by Ali McNabb

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by Ali McNabb

The first light of the rising sun creeps over the Eastern mountain range.  A silhouette of a moose swimming across the lake can be seen.  The water is so calm that it barely leaves a ripple.  A mating pair of Sandhill Cranes flies low on the horizon. Dawn is stirring.  

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By Ali McNabb

Our paddle across Jackson Lake on the first day of an early season trip this year was one to remember, an epic tale of man verses the forces of nature. The morning kicked off with classic blue skies, sunshine and a calm lake.  However, while we were beached on a little island for a picnic, the clouds grew and billowed over the peak of Mt. Moran.  Zac and I gave each other a look as if to indicate, “Look at that weather, we’d better start rolling,” so we did.  The sky above continued to shine, but the clouds were darkening as they grew closer.  We had half a mile before reaching camp on Grassy Island at the southern tip of Jackson Lake.  I thought we could make it, but the weather had other plans.  The wind picked up and within seconds it started to hail; it took all the energy we had to remain accurately pointed in our kayaks.  We were all flailing about, and now the storm was nearly on top of us.  We still had to get to camp, which I then noticed was conveniently located in the eye of the storm.  Zac came rushing over and started helping each guest as we hauled the boats out of the water and on to our JRig (also known as, “Fatty,” the support boat for our operational equipment here in Wyoming).  I remember struggling to communicate with folks in the water, paddling and talking while keeping an eye out behind me.  All I saw was the silhouette of Zac lifting gear out of someone’s kayak and onto the rig.  It was bright and shiny a half mile behind us, yet furious ahead and the lighting was remarkable.  Once we were all safe on the JRig, we were able to motor to camp. 

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