Welcoming spring at Baker Lake

text and photos by John D’Onofrio
BAKER LAKE – Sometimes life gets a little bit…hectic.
Which is why I say, “Thank God for Baker Lake?” Baker Lake has become my winter/spring go-to place when sanctuary is needed.  Of course in summer, it’s a bustling, frenetic vacation spot filled with RVs and roaring power boats, in the off-season, Baker Lake is a paradigm of quiet and stillness.
It was the first day of spring and man, I needed a break.  So a plan formed:  My two erstwhile travelling pals Joe and Donn would paddle Donn’s canoe across the lake to Anderson Point and I would hike in and meet them there (in a canoe, three is definitely a crowd) for a relaxing interlude beside the placid waters. A good and simple plan.
And so it came to be that on this symbolic turning point, when we bid winter adieu I find myself setting off down the Baker Lake trail through the mossy-green forest. Birds are everywhere in the trees, twittering excitedly about the coming of spring. As a counterpoint to their melodious sing-song, the sounds of water music from countless little creeklets and the sighing of the breezes in the boughs of cedars provide a pleasing soundtrack to entertain me as I walk alone through the sun-dappled woods.
Aside from a group that passes me near the trailhead, I enjoy complete solitude. The tumult of Anderson Creek can be heard long before I reach its foaming tumult. I cross on a log bridge, pausing to admire its white plumage and to gather in the negative ions and then turn off the main trail towards Anderson Point. A brief steep descent takes me down to the shore of the lake where my friends have beached the canoe.
We recline on the beach above Anderson Creek, enjoying the silence and sunshine gleaming on the gun metal-grey mirror of the lake surface. Birds bicker in the trees. Snow crowds the surrounding ridges but down here on the lake the sun is warm and spring indeed seems to have arrived right on schedule. But the northwest being what it is, soon clouds are gathering in dramatic fashion, stacking up over the mountains to the west like a painted backdrop to a Cecil B. DeMille film. How relaxing it is to just sit and watch the clouds fingering the icy cone of Mt. Baker, eventually swallowing it whole.
At the head of the lake Shuksan’s summit is painted in pale pinks and oranges as the afternoon light wanes. Leafless alders mix like smoke with the hillsides of cedar and hemlock.There is no wind. Geese fly by, headed north, with much vociferous honking. A pair of eagles circles high above the lake, shopping for dinner.
We pitch the tent on a knoll and haul the canoe up to the edge of the trees, flip it over and tie it off to a gnarled cedar.
As the light fades a fire is lit and dinner is served. We eat our curry from a pouch and listen to the discourse of the geese. Donn passes around a pint of Crown Royal and we toast the geese. Rain begins to fall but beneath our tarp beside the fire, all is right with the world.
The conversation dies down and the fire burns low. The thrumming of the rain provides a relaxing cadence to the evening and I find myself breathing deeply in the flickering firelight. I slip into the tent and my waiting sleeping bag. Another winter past, dreaming of spring.