By John Newton
Back in the day canoe tripping was youthfully simple. Barry would call, I would grab a grocery bag with a blanket, fish line, sardines, matches, knife in pocket. Let’s go. Prep time- 3 minutes. The results were always a mash up and always inspiring. Without searching I was confronted by a group of random events. Water lapping, rinsing the sloping granite of my perch, moon lit arcs on the black water ripples, glistening stars, pine silhouettes… they entered my heart as a gentle tsunami. Unbeknownst, I started a relationship with the River. Peace waves, harmony, communion, hints of clarity. What is this? A seed planted in a not too bright teenager.
Warm under the tarp in the rain, dark, our kids finally sleeping. Wore them out quite well. My 10-year-old son Peter had his first chance to pack his own gear for this canoe trip. Brought a pack full of board games. His kids and his sister Val’s kids are now with us on a canoe trip, swimming with killer Jimmy, a large black water snake. Laughing with delight.
Sitting on the wanagan, with the fall lads. End of a wonderful day. Eagle perched on top of a dead pine tree, staring at us with piercing glare through the dense fog. This is his neighbourhood, we are visitors. Excuse us.
The act of searching implies a journey. To journey without prejudice can be done paddling a river. Blind corners allow no inference, no contrivance. The unfolding of the unknown. The exhilaration of discovery that the mind has no part of. The river needs no one. It is unto itself. It carries on with or without but is more than willing to share. That’s a good friend, a soulmate…. I get to share this all with dear Pamela. Fancy that! We are in a great rhythm, we are in sync. I hear music.
Focus in rapid running is all encompassing. Concentrating on the next rough patch I did not notice paddling between a cow and her baby moose that were crossing the river. Pam said she could have slapped momma on the butt. We got through the next rapid just fine. One does not defeat rapids. All the rapids, right now, at this moment are raging with noise, fury, with shapes and flow, molded movement, quite content with their own company. We look to create a relationship with the current. Ignore the fury, the chaos, the strewn canoe-busting boulders, the angled wave curls, the hydraulics, the dark deep centre of the whirlpool. Attend to the accomplice – the current – a teammate, a brother, a friend. Full focus on the safe route, working with the river in tandem.
Pamela leans way out of the bow on the Bloodvein, hauling water to steal our way around a nasty pillow, mid rapid. Each run has its own subtle personality. What we see is the river not as a separate entity. We are one, in motion. The water can crush you or run through your fingers like the caress of a sweetheart.
“The river is a constant amidst constant change”
The river is a constant amidst constant change. Or is it? By immersing in as opposed to just watching, I see each river has its own heartbeat. Lying on a rock prominence at Thunderhouse Falls, the river splits, running on either side of me – stereo. Listening to the underwater rocks rocking and rattling. An orchestra. Listening carefully the music had rhythm, the current changes alter the rock notes. What song is this, no matter. Standing in the shallows of a French River rapids the high water has a lot of turbulence. Water thrashes my legs with a great variety of push, pull, caress, pummeling. The river apparently constant but not – alive unto itself, its own nature, its own rhythms. The relief of the mini chute at a campsite on the Dumoine. With a rope to hold I can position lying down in the brook, head first, feet first, naked. Intense full body massage. Muscles pulled and wriggled, skin puckered and stretched. Brook current turned flesh into waves travelling along my bones. Pamela I am sure could find a way to enjoy this massage of nature’s champagne.
Being part of the portage pilgrimage. Sweat dropping on the worn, granite stepping ledges. Head bowed under the load. This is shared with all the travelers of days gone by. The family of patrons, labourers, seekers of the unknown, survivors in the wilderness, our indigenous brothers making their way as they have always done along this same path.
Such camaraderie. What is it out there? Simplicity amongst complexity? Purity of form? Clarity of function? An arm on the shoulder never felt so good. The smell of the water rinsing my face. The first whiff is the tell all. The conglomerate of tree shapes on yonder shore. A mosaic of greenish shapes, seeking light and propagation. As dusk creeps in, the shore loses its distinctive textures. It blends to uniform while tree tops, backlit by the fading light reveal their endless individuality.
“Horse flies, no see ums, mosquitoes, black flies,…”
Horse flies, no see ums, mosquitoes, black flies, bear scat, giardia, moose prints, otter slides, pitcher plants, snakes, bass, leeches, snails, ravens, whiskey jacks, loons, turtles, ants, balsam gum, pine needles, rock, rock and more rock. There are flags on trees, inukshuk, chipping stations, eskers, hypothermia, hummocks, pingos, caches, cairns, tent rings, tin cans, grills, deet, my old friend – head wind, tears, shivers, triumphs, failures. What a gathering this is!
On a lake above the Coulonge, heading to the river, we were on shore camped. A couple of native guys pulled up in a boat. They had a fish net on board with a few fish in it. Guns at hand. They wondered if we had seen any moose. We asked if it was not out of season. They had a family group camp nearby. One of the lads looked around and asked if we had seen a grocery store nearby. When I can appreciate that these lands have had 8,000 years of habitation, with all that life experience and ancient knowledge of nature maybe then I will belong to the land, our land Canada.
Chanced upon an ancient Indigenous burial site. Sapling burial platforms now fallen to the ground. Rings of rock laid out. Thick with spirit. Whisper only. That night a dream of a wolf charging in darkness, being interrupted on his trail by my tent.
I am tempted to join the wolf conversation across the river, in the dark, full moon being enhanced by passing clouds. My call makes no sense, speaking a language I don’t know or if I make sense – what am I saying/preaching/dictating to the speakers. “Wolves who don’t play by the rules” Willie Thrasher reminds me.
The few campsites on the Hayes have all been used by all the travelers. The ladies in their high collars and long skirts, York boats, settlers full of hope, Indigenous peoples hunting, travelling have all been here at this spot. Sitting at water’s edge I find a chunk of lead that would have been made into bullets. This same place, only difference is a slight time shift.
The animal trails wearing down the eskers, creating a web of migration. Repeating ancient journey routes from food to food to birthing to wintering. Pulsing motion over the still land. The trail makers pausing for a drink. The drip, drip, the drops gather. Little puddles overflow into rivulets and downhill to babbling brooks, to meandering creeks, gathering brethren along the way. Suspending nutrients and bubbles as they gather into the arteries of the land – rivers, descending to drop food onto fields before they cascade into the sea. Immersed, diluted and anonymous.
Late day, the north star lending its direction, we find an ancient fire pit. The rocks confining the heat and flame to warm, cook and provide fire dance to mesmerize. Up to mid-calf in sand on the inside of a river bend. Fire crackling. A bourbon mixed with river water in hand. Pam in tent with her favourite ambiance – the spirits singing through the pine boughs, and me – floating. One’s eyes can be overfilled. Thoughts of Siddhartha creep in. Nastawgan. Ahhh, nature’s bottomless fountain.
Not certain how to access the creator but I am sure I am looking in all the right places.
In the early morning, tiptoe time of the day, standing in ankle-deep water, hands on gunnels, about to push off to an uncharted day with great peace that wafts over during gentle reflection. A delicacy to absorb with heartfelt grin. No words can spill out. Other than – Darlin’ lets go!