Before my words run
rogue as I attempt to present the magic of river therapy, I need to place the
family I met at CCC bridge in the spotlight. Prior to our run-in, I’d
sacrificed my only pen to the river gods while attempting to simultaneously jot
thoughts, eat an apple, and
steer my
canoe. You counteracted this tragedy by giving me various writing implements.
I can confidently say this piece would have been impossible without your
generosity. It was fun meeting you; may you continue to foster your boys’
exuberant enjoyment of nature!
Sunday morning, I woke up victim to a relentless urge to go
canoeing. This summer has been epitomized by my tendency to cave to impulse. I’m
learning that, to keep my regrets at a minimum, I need to follow – not curb –
such whims. Craving liberation from routine and society’s demands, I fled to
the river. I needed to eat when I was hungry, sleep when I was tired, jump in
the river when I was hot. I needed to be unbridled from my phone, time, from structure. I longed only to read the
river by day and Sig Olson by night.
The potential for challenge coupled with pain to fuel this impulse. Entwined in Jack Pine
country lies a long string of memories, and many of the beads – too many – were
molded with my iba. Not long ago, we were two kids on a perpetual adventure.
Then, one of us grew up too fast, the adventure terminated, and now there's one kid on an adventure -- an adventure haunted by old rememberings. Each memory bead
hurts, and frankly, I’m tired of reliving them. This summer, I’ve been revisiting our
old spots to rewrite those memories. The Manistee – the river where we floated
four days without a fight – represented my last place to hold a memory exorcism.
So, mere hours after the temptation's arrival, I determined to live out this whim. I packed his letters –
figured that I’d burn them to keep me warm, since he’s not here to do that
anymore. Therefore, snubbing rationality, I muscled Lena, my trusty solo canoe,
through the stump prairies of Deward. I shook off the deer flies – and the
misgivings – and slipped her into the clear, cedar-bound Manistee headwaters.
Shit, I’d just committed to this adventure.
I jolted a couple hours (and Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups) downstream
from my put-in. It wasn’t a log, but a realization: I’d inadvertently embarked
on my first solo expedition. Sigi lang. Ordinarily,
I would’ve welcomed a companion, but this time, I wanted to be alone with my
reminiscings. Besides – this adventure was so ill-planned that I doubt anyone
would’ve been crazy enough to join me. Every thrust of the paddle propelled me
further into my quest, and I dug the familiar sights and sounds. Squadrons of
Ebony Jewelwings hovered over the water; kingfishers rattled at my approach.
The
bends unfolded behind me as I kept stroking downstream. Flute melodies wrought
by White-throated Sparrows emerged from the bog. I knew as the light faded, the
river would become less familiar, but as the shadows grew, my excitement was
infused again: since the first time I knelt in Lena, I’ve lusted to paddle her under the full
moon. Tonight, that dream would be fulfilled.
As the sun sank even lower, my soft hands began their
protest; it’d been far too long since they’d gripped a rough paddle. My heart soared with wild Winter Wren bubbling from the darkening thickets. I love Winter Wrens; I’ve long held that if I hear one and fail
to smile, it’s time to seek professional help. Tonight, I was definitely
smiling – and not just because the deer fly wars were finally reaching
ceasefire for the day.
It’s hard not to
smile when I’m in the canoe – having a paddle in hand is such a primal feeling,
and I’ve always felt at home in Lena. She's such a responsive craft -- all it takes is a slight lean or shifting of my weight, and she’ll follow my lead. I needed to
devour some distance before I lost the sun, so I stretched forward, coaxing
Lena towards my paddle as we flew through the maze of cedar sweepers. Lena
leaped forward in response to my strain, and so did my heart as the river
dropped towards Lake Michigan.
Evening was well underway, but the hatch was just starting. The
river seemed to take flight as mayflies of all shapes,
sizes, and colors materialized from the surface. The mayflies are celebrating their simple
lives that consist of fluttering, fucking, and feeding the hungry trout that
explode from the river in their pursuit. The trout celebrate the abundance of food, and the fly fishermen are celebrating the trout. As I approach many a bend, the sigh of a line and the aroma of cherry
tobacco alert me to the anglers’ presence. These men love the river like I do;
they stand in the cold current swooping past their knees, plying the fly as they flirt with their quarry. Like me, they fish not only for the
electrifying feeling of their line attaching to something live, but for a setting
conducive to long, uninterrupted thinking.
Inspired by the mayflies, I celebrate my simple life too. Right
now, I can’t think – I’m just absorbing and feeling the night, for to think
would ruin this moment. As the light wanes, delicious trepidation greets me at
each dark bend where I strain to see renegade ripples. I get high on the rush
of pinpointing the obstacles before they can reach out to take a toll of canoe
paint – or, worse, flip me. Like the bats sweeping the surface, I use
echolocation to dodge danger in my path as my eyes become useless in the dusk. Funny
– I never noticed how the river gurgles as it circumvents the hurdles. I feel
the rush of nighthawk wings, hear the Whip-poor-will chant in the distance. The
aroma of swamp, cedar, and basswood intensify as the fog cloaks the evening.
Finally, the moon quivers above the horizon. I feel wild and
uninhibited, like every other creature reveling in its gleam. The night chorus
swells and my heart joins it – Ovenbirds sing under the light, coyotes carouse to
my north. The water shimmers; a headlamp is extraneous and the woods are
illuminated. It seems sacrilegious to paddle, so I just float under – and through
– the stars, suspended in the reflection of the night sky. Under the full moon
life is all adventure. Sure, I don’t understand why the moon makes everything
crazy, but I don’t need to.
I play hide-and-seek with the moon in the river bends all
the way to CCC camp (which divulged its presence with the lingering smell of S’mores
and bonfires). I was so exhausted that I dragged my canoe up the bank,
overturned it, crawled under, and crashed. My muscles were shaking and it felt
glorious, like my body was finally meeting its potential. The night could not
have been more perfect.
I write this 36 paddling hours and 110 river miles later. My
hands are sore and chafed, I have a pretty gnarly sunburn, and I’m in desperate
need of a masseuse. But, my heart is rejuvenated. Remembering the moon brings
chills. All the animals were playing and the birds were singing in
the night and I was a part of it. Like
the animals, I forgot the seriousness of living. The wonder of that moves me
almost to tears.
My memory eradication mission seems almost an afterthought now; the healing abandon elicited by the full moon outshines the journey's resentful beginnings. I put the empty promises and flattery to good use cooking a trout, but I didn't need them -- or him -- to keep me warm. My last night out, I had the good fortune of passing a flask with some new angler friends and that good cinnamon whiskey sufficed quite well.
