Twenty minutes ago I shaved off my beard, made a pot of coffee and settled in on a chair on my front porch. It is quite a pleasant morning. It isn't hot yet, there is a breeze, the soil is moist from rain or dew or something, and I feel fantastic. I often worry that I require too much "down time" to fuel a pleasant disposition. Those who manage to balance their lives on a knife's edge, teetering from one activity to the next, the seeming chaos of their schedules, a dance where they dare not miss a step, they confound me. Or, rather, their lifestyle does. Most that I've met are pleasant and relatable on a personal level. I just cannot imagine happily existing like that. I dare not try.
I need some time (ranging from every now and again to frequently) to pull my head out of the fog of routine and schedule in order to align myself. These are the moments that I remember. They serve as memory hubs, through which I recall time periods and spaces of life. Moments where the plan gets tossed aside, and it is better that way.
We're in a shuttle van, on highway 63 between Trego and Hayward, in northern Wisconsin. Erin is sitting up front with the shuttle driver and I am sitting in the first row of passenger seats. This is nice because Erin probably likes to talk to strangers more than I do. I can't remember the driver's name, although he certainly gave to to me when he introduced himself. He is tall with strong features and a bit of a sunburn, clearly spends a good deal of time outdoors. He attends Bethel University for business entrepreneurship. He runs track and plays football. He's heard of Macalester, been there for a track meet and a football scrimmage. Yes, the new indoor track is nice. Yes, they walloped the Mac football team. About an hour ago he put in a group of six canoes upriver from us. It shown't be a problem, they are far enough upriver that we wont run into them. I think he underestimates our capacity for dawdling.
After thanking the driver, we put in at Stinnett landing, and immediately overtake a badelynge of tubers. One gentleman has managed to fit both a stereo system and a cooler of beer on his tube. They are clearly having a good time. The river is narrow, maybe fifty feet across, bounded by tall grass, occasionally turbulent. We manage to avoid most rocks and keep a true and steady course. Erin's skill and attentiveness balance out my distracted nature coupled with my lackluster paddling and spotting. Once clear of other boats and tubes, we set about fishing. The idea of fishing is something that Erin has been excited about all summer. Unfortunately this enthusiasm, even when combined with a shiny new pole and tackle box borrowed from the NPS, does not fishermen make. We set up on a jeep sized rock and make some feeble attempts at this sport. Throughout the trip we are plagued with problems with casting (couldn't do it), keeping the line on the reel (occasionally large loops of line simply spring off), and generally catching fish (if you ask Erin, he caught two while I was on an expedition of some importance).
Sometime before Springbrook landing, we decide that we should probably get some beer. I volunteer to make the trek to Springbrook proper, while Erin claims to catch and release two fish (the only catches of the trip). I walk to the business district of the town about a three quarters of a mile from the landing. It consists of a post office, taxidermy shop, church and VFW post. There is also a general store with a sign advertising bait, beer, and food. It is unclear to me whether the store is in the process of renovation, is just being built or has been shut down. In any case, I'm not getting any beer. Ah, Springbrook.
When we set out, we had some intention of stoping at some point after Springbrook to camp. The river is now crowded with other canoers. This could be the group that put in ahead of us, or, more likely, some kind of aquatic flash mob, intent on ruining the stillness and beauty of nature. We pass camp after camp of these hooligans. Talking and laughing, eating and drinking by their fires. One group mocks our boat bound status and revels in their self declared superiority. They are not correct. We are cut from a better stock.
We pull in at Big Bend landing. Start a fire. Cook a delicious meal. Burn our map. Strap a flashlight to our canoe. Push off and say: Fuck camping.
As the sun sets, the river takes on a new, less defined, nature. The wind dies down and the grass becomes still, then no longer grass. The edges of objects are all that remain. Our surroundings are an abstract painting, pieced together by the mind. We wind through the river, keeping to the channel and avoiding rocks. We learn to look for ripples and hear the rapids before we are on top of them. The water is now opaque. It isn't long before the stars come out.
With the stars out the landscape becomes even more stark. The trees and grass are construction paper cut-outs framing the exceptional detail of the night sky. We take turns laying on our backs while the other paddles. Looking up the sky is mesmerizing and disorienting. There are stars between stars between stars The longer I look the more the sky seems separate from the earth, moving, possibly rotating on its own. There are occasional man-made lights off in the distance, they are only briefly visible and flicker through the trees. Moonrise is another thing.
The moon is a spotlight, shining down on the river wherever the trees let it through. Eventually we will have to shad our eyes from the glare. Erin sees a well resolved shadow of himself on my shirt. Trees are lit up and shadows between the trees are voids that the mind cannot decide how to fill. Crazy. The moon is rising up in the east, these effects are only prominent when the course of the river is aligned. Otherwise, we return to a twilight like state of construction paper and stars.
On one such stretch, we hear a clamour of voices, almost like chanting, the words are indistinguishable and eery. As we draw closer, we see lights flashing through trees, seemingly at random. When passing campsites we have been stealth canoeing, turing the lights off and paddling softly or not at all, approaching this site is no exception. I could not understand the words, because they literally are in a different language. The camp still makes little sense to me: thirty or so people gathered around the smoldering remains of a campfire, yelling in a foreign language, waving flashlights.
Unlike the group of ducks that we keep scaring from bank to bank downriver, I feel somewhat more at ease. Back to the moonlight and trees and shadows. This is short-lived. Within the span of fifteen minutes, two things happen: the trees give way to a marshy estuary-esque grassland and the moon and sky are rapidly encased in rolling clouds. The decreased visibility blurs the edges of the shore, fuzzy bends and islands appears and disappear around us. It is hard to tell if an object is real or manufactured until we are within fifteen feet. This is when the river decides to fork in four directions.
We make the correct choice, or nearly so. We backtrack once to get to a channel that is faster and deeper. There are more forks and and bends (we never really know which), but somehow we make it through.
We get hung up on a rock under a bridge, gnats enveloping my face, attracted to my suddenly stationary headlamp.
Pass by riverside cottages and lonely docks.
We know our car is parked after a red railroad bridge, very close to the surface of the water. We pass under low bridges, railroad bridges and red bridges.
If we find ourself in a lake, that means we've passed Trego and we've gone too far. Says Erin.
And there it is, a bridge so low we lay down in the canoe to pass under it. Another quarter mile and we are out of the river. The gear goes in the trunk, the boat goes on the roof. Abruptly we are driving home. It kind of feels wrong.
Your car handles like a canoe.
