When you look at today’s photograph, with its painterly effect applied, an effect that has created a soft, wavy, almost mystical mixture of browns and greens, it is probably easy to imagine that a story might go along with that inviting ambiance. And one does. You will need to use your imagination to follow this tale. The story and the photo are years apart. Same place; different time. My old, creative brain has fused story and photo together, for reasons that may become clear as you read further.
To the left of this little wooden footbridge is the creek that feeds Lake Placid at Paris Mountain State Park in South Carolina. And to the right is the main body of the lake. In the early years after I left my job because of issues with Vietnam-related post-traumatic stress disorder, I spent many hours at this park. I began most of those days with a hike around the lake.
Quite often, I would stop at a local fast-food joint for a biscuit and some coffee. That would be my breakfast. And I would eat it sitting on a bench looking out onto this lake. Invariably, there would be ducks somewhere on the lake, usually mallards. These ducks were used to being fed by human beings. So when they saw me, they naturally assumed that I would feed them. They paddled over to me, never flying, even when they were on the other side of the lake. Once they arrived, they would circle around in the water in front of me waiting for me to give them some food.
Back then, I had not thought much about the fact that a bit of biscuit was like candy to a duck. I eventually stopped sharing little bits from my breakfast, but for a few years, if I had a biscuit, I would break off a piece of it, tear it into smaller pieces, and feed them to the ducks.
Many years ago, after I left my career, and during a time when I was spending a great many hours on the trails, trying to exhaust myself so that I might sleep at night, a beautiful young female mallard I had been feeding brought me a present. I had not seen her for a while, but I recognized her. Now, she had a brood of six ducklings. And she led them all right to the bench where I was sipping my coffee and eating a sausage biscuit from Jack-in-the-Box. She had brought her children to see me. I gave each one of the babies a tiny piece of biscuit as they paddled around in front of me, mama off to the side watching intently. Of course, I saved a piece for her.
Over the next few weeks that scene repeated itself quite often. The ducklings were getting bigger. And as I walked around the edge of the lake, after finishing my coffee and sharing my biscuit, the whole family would swim around the lake, following me. Then I would head off into the woods for that long hike into the summer morning, where I hoped I might find some peace.
As on most Mondays, today I had stopped at a local restaurant for a full breakfast and did not bring any food with me to the park. I climbed out of my car and walked down to the lake. No ducks in sight. I turned right and headed down toward the dam, walked down the hill across the little bridge where the spill-off ran under it, then climbed back up the other side.
The whole walk around the lake is probably less than 20 minutes. On that particular day, the plan was to drive up to another location within the park where the most difficult trails were. I’d been having trouble sleeping, lots of anxiety. I really needed to push myself. So instead of heading out into the woods, I turned left and went across the bridge in the photograph so that I might head back to my car. I still had not seen the ducks, although I had just walked past them and did not notice.
I stood on the bridge for a moment, looking back into the woods and then out onto the lake, something I had done dozens of times before. A noise caught my attention in the water near the bank under the trees along the dirt path where I had just walked. It was mama duck and her babies. They had been feeding in the shallow muddy water.
They saw me.
I didn’t have anything to feed them, but they headed my way. Although I’m not sure why I did it, I sat down in the dirt at the end of the bridge, facing across the bridge and in the direction of the ducklings. They climbed out of the water, up onto the bank, and out onto the little trail. When they saw me sitting there in the dirt, they started running toward me. Mama duck hung back. But the babies were waddling toward me as fast as they could go. Sitting there on the ground, watching them, I could not help but laugh out loud. They were not deterred by my laughter.
Their webbed feet flapped and slapped as they crossed the little wooden footbridge. I had no idea what was about to happen. But for some unexplained, instinctual reason, as they approached, I held up my hands and wiggled my fingers at them. The next thing I knew, six half-grown baby ducks were in my lap, jumping up and down, trying to grab at my fingers with their beaks. I was laughing so hard I couldn’t even sit up. Then they were all over me, on my belly, on my chest, making those cute little sounds, smacking their beaks together, biting at my waving fingers.
After a few moments, I finally managed to get up on my feet. Mama duck was close by now. If ducks can have facial expressions, then the look I saw on her face was one of disapproval. She made a few harsh quacking sounds and jumped off the bank into the water. Her babies followed quickly. It was over.
It took me a few moments, but I finally realized I was covered in mud, from head to toe. Those muddy little duck feet had walked all over me … and I didn’t care.
I decided to not take that long hike after all. I went straight home. I took a shower. I washed my muddy clothes. And I went to bed. I slept for almost 16 hours. It was an uninterrupted sleep, a sound sleep, a healing sleep. My encounter with baby ducks had eased me, calmed me.
For several weeks after that, anytime anxiety came upon me, I would sit down and try to relive those moments when muddy baby duck feet gave me a special gift. The full power of the gift did not last forever. But while it lasted, it was the best therapy an anxious mind could hope to experience. Even now, just thinking about it, or looking at this photo, makes me feel good … soothes me … makes me smile.