I’m kayaking down the Price river, running the section between the Scofield Reservoir and the UT 6. I’m cold–a logjam a few miles upriver dumped me. The sun’s out, but the day is cool–especially when wet. The sun reflects off the rippling water, the tall marsh grasses on either side, the small, whitish sandstone outcrop ahead at the bend.
Approaching the bend, I flush a duck and ducklings (Northern Pintail, I believe). Three, four, five–everything’s moving quickly. I can’t count them all. I’ve never seen so many.
They take off down-river, the ducklings stringing out behind their mom. The ducklings form a chain–ten feet long–anchored to their mother. They’re swimming as fast as they’re able–yet with sufficient presence of mind to form a line. Schoolchildren could learn from ducks.
They’re beautiful, swimming quickly downstream. I feel a pang of regret that my presence, in my big, yellow, rented inflatable kayak, is causing such wonderful creatures such distress. If only they knew that I mean no harm.
Rounding the bend, with the ducks all in a row, I’m able to count nine ducklings. But wait–wasn’t there one more?
Then I seem him, the tenth duckling. He’s swimming twenty feet behind the chain of siblings. He’s smaller, and is swimming with a sort of spastic, frenzied gait. His siblings are smooth and composed. I wonder if it’s simply on account of his size (working harder to try to keep up), or if he has some deformity.
He can’t keep up. The other ducks easily outpace me in my little rubber kayak. He can’t escape. He stays barely ahead of my bow. )
The duckling’s mom and siblings continue quickly, smoothly, easily down the river. The distance between them grows. It becomes apparent that he’s being left behind.
The bunch soon disappears around another bend ahead. Their straggler sibling stays just ahead of my bow, growing visible exhausted. I cross to the far bank to give him (her?) some space. He stops, then starts, then finally stops. I float past. His family has long since passed out of sight.
And I’m heartbroken. I’ve just witnessed duckling–smaller and slower than his (her?) siblings–abandoned. They never hesitated. The hen never slowed or turned her head. She’ll count her ducklings when the danger’s passed.
Three or four times more I encounter the bunch. Rounding a corner, I see them. They startle, and resume their quick course downriver.
I doubt that ducks share our notion of the atomic family. I’m sure, on the river, the hen that slows to wait for the slowest duckling looses the whole brood. But I couldn’t help but to feel some measure of guilt for how I had just broken a family–had thrust the youngest and smallest into premature independence.
