Canoe-Palooza Part Eight

I realize that the number of posts have now exceeded the days in which I actually spent canoeing. It is day six, the last evening, and I still feel there is so much left unsaid. The portages—I have not even begun to talk about them. The water—which I promised posts ago I would elaborate on. The bugs, the campsites, the wind, the rain (minimal but not non-existent)… They all seem vital and I want to flesh them out the best I can now. Time is fleeting and what I have to say, catches at my throat. “Quickly!” I say to my brain, “before I leave and forget it all.” But my brain says, “Hush, slow down or you will deprive yourself of valuable processing time. You want insight, not observation.” In the presence of all this I find endless inspiration.

On water: The water is black here. It would be a mistake to call this blue water. If a plane flew by from above (which is not often) it would not be cool blue pools of water they looked down upon. Big, black and with the potential to be ominous. From afar they might look more akin to gigantic tar pits than lakes. So many lakes, for so many miles, so sprawling and with such uneven shores you almost wouldn’t be surprised if it all ended up to be one big lake and lots of islands, instead of the other way around. The water is not dirty, not polluted or anything like that. Just..black. Just black with no bottom. Deep until infinity. My dad tells me it is because of the peat in the lake but my imagination has not processed that. Black like infinite space. Even five feet below the surface things are swallowed by the darkness. The darkness. Full of mystery. Full of despair. These lakes have the shining black surfaces of crow’s eyes. Like hot black lava, like molten black glass. Solid-looking until the paddle breaks the surface. Not impermeable but seemingly so. Not infallible but with that unmistakable façade.

On portages: Now that I have broached the subject I find myself with not much to say. Simply put, they are what you do when you reach the end of a lake and have a bit of land between you and the next lake. You must then take yourself, your backpack, your food, AND your canoe on land and plop it back into the water on the other side. Sometimes there can be one or two portages in a day and sometimes as many as seven or eight. And some are as short as a few feet and some are as long as a quarter of a mile. And always it takes a coupla trips to get everything on the other side. It can be a nice break from the monotony of paddling but it can also be fairly strenuous.

On bugs: None exceptionally bitey although the first night they took some chunks outta me. Mostly, they provide a harmonic hum to the already melodic environs of the Minnesota back country.

On campsites: This is what I have learned about campsites. They are just like houses—they come in all different styles and sizes and inevitably you find one that suits you. I also know that you are not particularly picky after a long day of paddling.

On wind: While canoeing it is always consistently in your face, providing a nice cool breeze but still making the task of paddling more difficult nonetheless. “Feather your canoe” my grandfather shouts at me from the other canoe (even when, on the odd chance, it isn’t windy). The wind. A curious thing, the wind. A meteorologically explainable but psychologically mysterious phenomena. Weather patterns have always intrigued me. I think they intrigue human beings in general. Myths about certain seasonal changes or what have you, by now all explained away by science still hold influence in certain societies. Phrases as well. “Whichever way the wind blows”—a phrase too often thrown about by people who have not had to fight against it for hours in a canoe, wet and tired and cold and yet still sweating from the effort. Whichever way the wind blows could treacherously be into a rock; causing a hole in our fragile Kevlar canoe; into a fallen log, causing us to capsize, our belongings tossed into the black depths of the lake; away from our destination. Following whichever way the wind blows can be a dangerous game while canoeing. It could be that is the case with living as well.

On rain: Oh Seattle, you are a wet and rainy gem. The Emerald city, you lovely, rainy wonderland. Nowhere, in no situation, at anytime, anywhere but with you will I ever again complain about the rain. I know, you glorious, rain-soaked metropolis—seemingly small praise. But oh how it is so, undoubtedly, undeniably true. Day one and day four were wet and I did not even flinch. A tad cold perhaps (it is Minnesota) but the rain was anything but unbearable. As we departed on day one, someone said this is our impression of Seattle. Oh, if only they could measure up to your spectacular wetness. If you were a vagina, oh how I would fuck you. But alas, you are not. You are a city and I must endure you as a place of residence. You are not a wet slut, you are a slippery sidewalk, a drippy awning, a never quite dry pair of socks. All weather is good weather when compared to you.

In conclusion: Well folks, as I have timed it this last canoe post comes just in time. Try as I might, I cannot in fact write it all down. Every minute, every experience. So much is left to say and maybe in the future I will write more, but now is not the time. Tomorrow I leave for Seattle again. Time for a new page in my ever filling book of life. To dwell on something past will not make time slow. It ticks on and I must step in time or be left in the dust by my own quickly-paced life. Tomorrow’s post will be a goodbye to canoe-palooza along with some other things.