DANCES WITH WATER – How to Paddle a Canoe

I feel sorry for those who want or need a motor to propel their boats. Sure, it’s fast and easy, but it’s so remote, so…well…soulless. Not to mention loud, smelly and rushed.

PHOTO: boattest.com

I don’t remember who taught me how to paddle a canoe—very likely it was my dad. During his late teens and early twenties, he’d spent months canoeing in the magical lakeland wilderness now comprising northeastern Minnesota’s Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness (BWCAW) and southwestern Ontario’s Quetico Provincial Park.

I’m sure my counselor at YMCA Camp St. Croix must have helped. At age ten I was part of an ambitious canoe trip that was—and likely still is—the longest ever launched from the camp: 360 miles down the St. Croix and Mississippi to East Dubuque, Illinois.

       I want my five- and nine-year-old grand-
       children to know and love canoeing—
       Minnesota style—too.

After that, I canoed for many years in the BWCAW and Quetico myself, first at YMCA Camp Widjiwagan, and then on expeditions I and my friends organized and outfitted ourselves. I still paddle—in my precious little 13-foot wood-and-fiberglass Mansfield Osprey—as often as I can.

Now this is by no means competitive—nor even especially athletic—canoeing; it’s just basic mobility for traveling, exploring and getting to my favorite fishing and photography locales. At least for now I’ll leave the racing, the tricks, to others more fit and able than I.

I’ve written about canoeing here before—how quiet, beautiful and spiritual it is; how efficient it is; how I feel more comfortable paddling my little Osprey than I do walking on dry land. But recently I’ve been thinking about another aspect of this elegant, ancient mode of travel: how paddling a canoe actually works, and how to teach that.

My motivation? My nine-year-old granddaughter is getting immersed by her closer-by fraternal grandparents in all the fun New-Englandy conveyances they grew up with—sailing, skiing…even surfing, for God’s sake. While I celebrate those opportunities, I also want her and my five-year-old grandson to know and love canoeing—Minnesota style—too.

PHOTO: Rockbrook Camp

THE PIVOT POINT
So how does one begin? I’m sure there are many wonderful, effective approaches, but here’s a teaching idea I’ve been thinking of for years—and have yet to actually use. I can’t wait to put it to the test with my grandchildren next time they come to Minnesota.

Think of the student sitting in the canoe’s stern seat with a paddle. (Typically, the bow paddler provides power while the one in the stern provides both power and steering.) Now imagine the very tip of that curve in the canoe’s bow attached to a dock (or simply held in place by someone), allowing just the stern to swing freely back and forth.

The essential trick in steering a canoe is to think of the stern paddler’s moving the stern back and forth, not the bow. Kind of like driving a car whose steering wheel turns the rear wheels, not the front ones. All the basic canoe steering strokes operate on that principle; when you move the stern to your left, the canoe turns to the right—and vice versa.

With this pivot point setup, I’d have the student practice moving the stern left and right—first simply experimenting on their own, and then using proper strokes. Then I'd untether them and let them practice integrating those strokes with forward motion, perhaps even following a simple slalom course.

    An expert can rotate a canoe on a dime and 
    even make it sidle to one side or the other 
    while moving neither forward nor back.

DIFF’RENT STROKES
Given that background, the kid’s ready to learn the actual strokes. There are dozens of them—for basic leisure canoeing, cruising, racing, whitewater, freestyle exhibition and more. You can learn about them here: Wikipedia   /   Knights of Dionysis    /   YouTube

ILLUSTRATION: Knights of Dionysis

Many folks think a canoe has to be moving in order to steer it. While movement does facilitate the stern paddler’s basic steering strokes, an expert can rotate a canoe on a dime and even make it sidle to one side or the other while moving neither forward nor back. (The latter involves either the draw stroke, the push stroke or, more elegantly, sculling—what I like to call the figure-eight stroke.)

A word about rhythm or stroke rate. This is generally up to the bow paddler, as is when to switch sides. But even if the stern paddler is an expert, steering takes a bit of extra time out of each stroke. And since a proper balance of both power and weight depends on the two paddlers paddling continually, in unison, a good bowman will allow a second or two of rest between strokes for the stern man to execute the steering strokes.

This is also a very efficient way to paddle, taking advantage of a certain amount of coasting after each stroke and enabling experienced paddlers to cover great distances over the course of days or weeks with a minimum of fatigue.

Speaking of efficiency, one of many fine points few leisure paddlers seem to understand is feathering the paddle between strokes. This means, after each stroke, rotating the paddle so the blade is horizontal while swinging it forward for the next stroke. This minimizes the amount of air resistance, which, especially on long trips and/or windy days, is no small consideration.

AROUND THE BEND...
Of course, there are other important chapters to any canoeing primer, like getting in and out and moving around the craft safely, loading, etiquette, bow paddling—including steering from the bow, flipping and portaging, maintenance, paddle selection, safety and others. While too involved to undertake in one post, perhaps I’ll dip my paddle into those waters in a future post or two…or when I write the book.

PARTING SHOTS – Images of Late Summer

It's been a spectacular summer here in Minnesota. Blessed with warm days, yet very few 95-degree steam-bath stinkers we usually sweat our way through. Blessed with both ample sunshine and sufficient rain to keep most everything lush long after it usually wilts and turns brown—and to keep river levels high enough so I could navigate my favorite backwaters without my having to drag my canoe over mud flats and sand bars.

PHOTO: Phil Champion - http://www.philchampion.co.uk/ 

LAST LEGS
Hard to believe, isn't it, that just four months ago we were watching anxiously for the arrival of some sign, any sign, that another long, cold, grey winter was releasing its grip on the ground—and our spirits.

Eventually, though, summer did manage to take hold as it always does, and the profusion of rich, saturated color sprouted and spread over the grateful landscape. How I love all those shades of breathing green, the blankets of true, dense blue from early-blooming Siberian squill, the piercing reds of geranium and canna, the ravishing yellow-orange of goldenrod!

  I made up my mind...to see all these wonders 
  as if I'd never seen anything like them before.

But no sooner had this glorious season started than I could hear it ticking away. I made up my mind—as my posts here on One Man's Wonder and in the social media implore—to soak it all in, to see all these wonders of color, texture and pattern as if I'd never seen anything like them before. And I think I've done a pretty good job of it; I must have stopped a thousand times, as it were, to smell the roses.

But suddenly here we are; another Labor Day. The State Fair ends today, and ragweed's got me stuffing my pockets with Kleenex. At least symbolically, summer is over. Our window box plantings sense the cooler, drier air and, seeing right through our best efforts to fool them into thinking it's still June, have started to thin and shrivel. Everything else too—with the exception of those good old late-season standbys, like zinnia and chrysanthemum—seems on its last legs.

LETTING GO...NOT!
So, as I set out on my walk along the Mississippi yesterday, I was feeling kind of melancholy, almost anticipating an experience of loss. I was already mourning all the shrinking, browning plants and spent flowers I knew I'd come across. What made me even more blue was the looming prospect of five or six months devoid of all that fresh, living, breathing color.

      At least I'd have these poor excuses for the 
      real thing to comfort my color-starved soul 
      till tiny buds pop once again.

Of course, this wasn't at all what I found. Summer is indeed still alive here in growing zone four. But, as if to convince myself of this, I brought my camera. At the very least, I figured, that would help me notice and appreciate even more these resolute colors of late summer.

What's more, even if the dead of winter were somehow to slam down on us tomorrow, at least I'd have these poor excuses for the real thing to document the fleeting summer of 2015 and comfort my color-starved soul till tiny buds pop once again.

I hope you'll forgive the indulgence.

PHOTOS THIS GROUP: Jeffrey D. Willius

NOT A CHANCE – The Inevitable Reward of Expecting Wonder

This afternoon I had a clarity rush, one of those rare flashes of awareness and understanding you experience when you suddenly see—and just totally get—everything.

This time I was driving, sitting at a stop light. I glanced around at the far-from-remarkable surroundings: the Quarry shopping center with its Target and Home Depot; the McDonald’s and Taco Bell across the street; the other cars and drivers.

Somehow, on the median next to me, a narrow strip of waist-high weeds caught my eye. Again, quite unremarkable, right? But as I watched them sway gently in the breeze, a flood of wonder and joy washed over me. And gratitude, that such a fine little community of herbal drifters had managed to put down roots here—even those pariahs, goldenrod and ragweed—and that I was here to behold it.

           In that one extraordinary moment, 
           I knew everything there was to know 
           about those weeds.

I understood completely what a gift from God those living wonders are—and how much I would miss, if no longer able to receive such simple gifts in my daily comings and goings, merely setting eyes on them once again.

In that one extraordinary moment, I knew everything there was to know about those weeds. I mouthed words of thanks for their colors and textures and smells and movement. For the sweet, life-giving oxygen they produce. For the tiny biosphere they form, and all the bugs that dwell in, on and under them. And even the family of bunnies I knew, somehow, must live in there.

At the very instant my lips pursed for the “b” in “bunnies,” a young cottontail hopped out of the underbrush onto the adjacent patch of grass, turned and looked up at me.

Coincidence? Not a chance! Not today!

And then the light turned green.

PHOTO: Pixabay

THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY – The Distance of a Grandfather’s Love

The 9:10 commuter train heading back to Boston squealed to a stop. I bent down to hug her, her wiry wisps of arms reaching up ‘round my waist, that perfect pixie face pressed against my side. I told her I loved her, turned and dared not look back.

I stepped aboard and took a seat. Clambering over my carry-on, I put a hand on the window and looked out.

There she was on the platform, scanning the dark-tinted windows—all but opaque to her—like a sailor craning to make out a speck on the distant horizon. For an instant, I thought our eyes might have met, but she looked right through me.

A deep desolation pulled me down, the kind a dear, departed spirit must feel when fully present with, yet unnoticed by, a loved one revisited.

The train jerked into motion. Still delving the dark, blank windows, she walked along just beside me, barely keeping up. Now I pressed both hands and my whole face against the glass, grinning, waving, weeping.

And then she saw me. Our eyes locked, the gulf between us suddenly narrowed nearly to arms’ length. Beside me she ran, faster and faster, her limbs a spritely fusion of flailing and grace…and she beamed.

I turned, looked back, and those few seconds swept her from my view. But that image, that sense of being at once so far and so close to that sweet girl, will stay with me until I am once again on that magic train…and I am the one looking through that dark window for a glimpse of her.

HYPOCRITIC OATH – Choosing Real Reality

I write about Nature all the time—about its countless wonders, small and large; its wise counsel in ways of patience and knowing; and its constant coincidence with my brand of spirituality. I promote closer connections with Nature for everyone, especially children.

But I’m a hypocrite.

I actually don’t spend nearly enough time outdoors. And when I do, I sometimes forget to turn off my cell phone. Too often, I fall victim to the very temptation I urge others to resist: the lazy cosmopolitanism, the false presence, afforded by digital technology’s instant “connections” with people, places and information.

It started, I’m afraid, with the publication of my first book, Under the Wild Ginger; my publisher told me I had to put myself out there and promote, if not actual sales, at least a point of view that would attract like-minded readers. To that extent, the venture has borne fruit. I’ve also made some wonderful friends, folks I’ve come to feel close to even though we’ve never met.

            Blaming the medium for its abuse 
            is a pretty poor excuse.

But cyberspace is a wily seductress. At first, the allure was like the one I felt as a boy when, no longer fooled by that old tin-cans-and-string ruse, I dreamed of having a real walkie-talkie. Or later when I’d spend hours with my ear pressed against the speaker of our tabletop Emerson radio, fine-tuning among the stronger signals and static for distant stations. This communicating beyond the range of my own, unelaborated ear and voice struck me as nothing short of mystical.

There’s a certain boundless freedom in sending and receiving messages over untold expanses, across geographic, political and cultural boundaries. And doing so practically instantaneously only adds to the allure. I experience something like that kind of freedom during my favorite, recurring dream: flying (on my own power, without any device). It feels like the very essence of spiritual connection, a magical oneness with time and space and all of creation—not to mention that it strikes awe and envy into every onlooker.

VIRTUAL WALLS
Well, blaming the medium for its abuse is a pretty poor excuse. What brought this line of reflection to the fore was our last month-long stay last spring in a lovely seaside town in Guerrero Mexico. There, the nice little TV in our villa never once blinked on. Sure, we spent time on our devices most days, keeping in touch with loved ones, sharing a few photos. But those times were quite limited. And, though our minds may have been in cyberspace now and then, physically we were still in direct contact with Nature during all our waking hours.

Even inside our villa, where there’s no wall separating us from the view over the bay, delicious warm breezes waft in day and night, carrying the sounds and smells of the neighborhood and the Pacific Ocean beyond. Critters—butterflies, geckos, bats and the occasional scorpion become our benign companions. Our relationships with our Mexican friends seldom abide the quick phone call, email, or—God forbid—the terse-but-tedious text. No, folks there take the time to come calling, to spend a few minutes exchanging pleasantries and just being…well...nice.

         It’s not really the physical walls that 
         hold me back. It’s the virtual ones.

How quickly we get inured to such wonders; by the end of our stay, we were already taking this sustained communion with Nature, including these unhurried relationships with people, for granted. But now, with the singular clarity of hindsight, I know why this month in the tropics was so restorative in so many ways. It was exactly what I’ve been losing, bit by bit, in my life here in the “real” world: the close presence of Nature in my life every day. Paying attention, not just to a little screen, but to the countless real small wonders playing out around me all the time.

No matter what one might see or learn, or even feel, on that little screen, when you get right down to it, does it ever really take you any further than arm’s length out of yourself? But with real wonders, Nature’s wonders, there are no limits. For me, they range from those little “floaters” that punctuate my vision from the inside, to whatever horizon the weather defines that day, to the stars on a clear night, to the still-further reach of my imagination.

Now, I realize it might prove impractical here in Minnesota to remove one side of our urban townhouse and let in the air, light (and mosquitoes). And winter…well, don’t get me started! But I’m thinking it’s not really the physical walls that hold me back. It’s the virtual ones. I’ve been allowing others—content developers, marketers, fellow addicts…whomever—to limit what I can experience, to steer the direction and extent of my vision.

This is not what I want. Is it what you want? Don’t we have our own vision, an outlook which belongs to no one but us? Shouldn’t we be the ones deciding what will surprise and delight us, who will become our next good friend?

         ...we stop imposing our will on Nature 
         and life, and vest in them the power to 
         have their way with us.

MAKING TIME FOR THE CURE
Now that summer’s starting to yield to fall, I aim to reclaim my birthright—the birthright of every human being—my connection, my belonging, to Nature. And the way to start is to, as I like to put it, get off the screen and into the scene. Like surmounting any bad habit, this will require being thoughtful and deliberate—disciplined—in how I spend my time.

What makes it hard is that I have to make time for the cure before I can recover the time spent on the disease. For example, if I’m to take a walk every morning, I’ll have to let go of the time I’m wasting on television or the Internet the night before. Or I may have to re-prioritize the short list of friends I correspond with most often, making room for Nature on that list.

And I most certainly will have to reclaim my point of view. I must remember to practice what I preach, using all my senses, not just taking in the wisdom and beauty of Nature, but giving something to the transaction too. I call it seeing generously.  It’s a mindset in which we stop imposing our will and way on Nature and life, and vest in them the power to have their way with us.

That is what we do in the relentless, blast-furnace Mexican sun when we stop every few minutes to rest in familiar pools of shade. It’s what we do when we think we’re going to the park for an hour and end up spending the day. And when we allow ourselves to be moved deeply by even the smallest droplet of beauty shed on us from Nature’s infinite sea of wonder.

These are real connections, ones we can touch and feel, ones that sustain us—physically, emotionally, spiritually. They are to be trusted completely, for they are not only for us; they are of us. It is one thing to recognize the difference between the real and the virtual; it is another entirely to choose the real.

I choose the real.

THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY – Hooked, Lined and Sinkered in Tortuguero

I suppose I should have known I was being had when Franklin, my taciturn Caribbean-Costa-Rican tarpon fishing guide, handed me that rusty, beat-up, medium-weight spinning rig. On the recommendation of our lodge in Tortuguero (in Costa Rica's northeast, Caribbean, corner), I’d paid him his $150 up front to put me on some of that magnificent, acrobatic game fish, revered by its aficionados as the Silver King.

Once he’d skillfully tiptoed his tiny, open boat through the swirling currents and standing waves at the river’s mouth, it appeared Franklin might just meet my expectations after all; there were tarpon everywhere. The mirror-bright flanks of their sleek, 50- to 150-pound bodies caught the sun, flashing in the murky, blue-green water as they “daisy chained” ‘round schools of six- to eight-inch sardines. The bait fish, hundreds of them, turned and darted in unison as if one fluid silver-blue organism.

I was ready.

PHOTO: Tony Cappechi

           There I was...shooting fish, as it were,
           entirely outside the barrel.

FISHIN' WHERE THEY AIN'T
As quickly as my hopes had risen, that's how fast they fell again when Franklin reached under his seat and pulled out his "professional” fishing-guide tackle box. (It was really the small, cheap plastic kind a ten-year-old American kid would buy at WalMart for $9.95.) Inside, strewn atop the one swing-up tray, was a motley selection of well-used lures. He picked up a big, lead-headed jig with half of its red and white feather streamers still intact, and handed it to me.

“Poot deese own deah,” he mumbled indifferently, pointing to the swivel clip on the end of my line. Figuring he must know something I didn’t (After all, he is a professional guide, right?), I complied. Then he said, “Now drope eet ovah and let eet foal to dee boatum…dat weah dee feesh ah.”

I was nearly too dumbfounded to speak. “Ah-h-h, but I can see the tarpon! They’re feeding up here right next to us,” I protested. Franklin was unmoved. “No, dey own dee boatum!” So there I sat, jigging that red-and-white lure up and down off the sea bed twenty feet below as I watched the awesome monsters I was fishing for circle near the surface, feeding on those silver-blue herring.

Just in case, I grabbed my line just forward of the reel and pulled, checking the drag setting. It was set way too tight for these quick-striking, powerful fish, but when I tried turning the setting knob, it wouldn’t budge. Great! Even if I accidentally snagged one of these brutes, I’d have to pray it went easy on me.

My frustration simmered. I looked around and noticed another boat, even smaller than ours, drifting about 100 yards away. Standing in it was a man fly-fishing. I admired his effortless style as he flew his streamer back and forth over his head, feeding it another couple of feet of line with each false cast. Then, about 60 feet out, he let it drop. He watched it sink a couple of feet and then retrieved it with deft tugs of his free hand.

Suddenly, the man reared back, lifted the rod high with both arms and laid into whatever had taken his bait. Before he knew what hit him, a six-foot tarpon exploded from the water, thrashing wildly back and forth. It seemed like one of those sport fishing highlights films, where the action is captured in slow motion. Wow! I thought, this guy’s just caught about a hundred-pound Silver King...on a
fly rod!

And there I was, fishing the wrong lure in the wrong place at the right time—shooting fish, as it were, entirely outside the barrel. Maybe it’s because I’m from Minnesota, but it dawned on me that I’d been sucking it up to spare the feelings of the man who was robbing me.

       I hadn’t turned the crank more than five 
       times when it hit, the kind of strike you get 
       when you’ve suddenly snagged a log—
       except this one was moving.

THE JIG IS UP
My admiration for the fly-fisherman turned to envy; the envy to resolve. Enough
of this!

“Oh, my God,” I blurted, pointing to a random spot in the water just behind Franklin. “That one must be close to 200 pounds!” As he turned to look, I seized the moment, reaching down and opening the main compartment of his tackle box. And there it was: a six-inch long, silver-blue, Rapala type lure. Not only did it look exactly like what the tarpon were feeding on, it was practically brand new.

“How about this one?” I asked, my tone carefully measured somewhere between question and demand. As he turned back to face me, our eyes locked in gritty stares. He blinked first, and I picked up the lure. He started to reach for it, but I’d already unclipped my snap swivel. He scowled, mumbling something under his breath.

With the right bait on, I flipped open my bale, cocked my arms and wrists, and let fly a modest cast in the direction of the other fisherman. (I was so intent on my own hunt now that I didn’t even notice if he’d landed his fish.) The faux sardine landed with a splash and I started reeling. I hadn’t turned the crank more than five times when it hit, the kind of strike you get when you’ve suddenly snagged a log—except this one was moving.

I set the hook as hard as I dared with that pitiful equipment. From the moment
I’d casted, it couldn’t have been more than ten seconds till it happened: my drag nightmare came true. Before it had even jumped, the tarpon took off like a shot…and then that sickening sound fishermen dread, that of heavy monofilament line snapping. Just like that, it was over.

TURNING THE TABLES
I’ve had many sport-fishing captains console me on the loss of a big fish. Sometimes they counsel me on what I might do differently next time. Most are eager to get another bait out there. Franklin? He was just pissed. Here this pushy white guy, obviously a man of wealth and privilege, had just lost his prize lure on, of all reckless things, a fish.

Red and white jig? Bounce it on the bottom? Proper drag? Trust me, I’m a professional? These and other snarky comments clawed at the thin fabric of my restraint. I realized, though, that shaming Franklin would accomplish nothing. Besides, I still had to rely on him to get me back, through those treacherous waters, to the lodge.

Still, though I was more than ready to end our laughable outing, I wasn’t about to let the man off the hook. So, with no more lures in his little Plano box that even remotely resembled a herring, I tied the red-and-white jig back on, dropped it in the water and kept jigging—for nothing more than jigging’s sake...and perhaps to drive Franklin's hourly rate as low as possible—for the rest of our contracted time.

Franklin just sat there brooding—calculating, I suppose, how to lure his next sucker.

SOUND ACROSS WATER – In Touch with Eternity

             Lovers row aimlessly, never beyond 
            sight of the dock—but lost anyway.

I have this romantic notion in my head about the way sound carries over an expanse of water. The image that keeps coming to mind is that of a small east- central Minnesota lake around the end of the 19th century. It could be any lake or placid river, though—perhaps one you remember fondly.

I am at my dream lake. I see families who've come out here from Minneapolis or St. Paul by horse and wagon to spend the long summer afternoon swimming, boating and reveling in the crystal clear waters. Laughter shimmers across the water in gentle, agreeable waves, eventually washing up on every shore.

As evening draws in around the lake, lovers row aimlessly, never beyond sight of the dock—but lost anyway. By nightfall, most have gone home, but a few campfires wink from surrounding woods. The snap…snap of the burning wood sounds like it’s yards away, not half a mile. You can practically hear a whisper across the lake.

SOUND AND SPACE
You’ve been here before, haven't you? In your childhood, or maybe just in your imagination? What is it about a scene like this that so captures our hearts?

Is it the purity, the utter care-free simplicity of a more innocent time? I guess that goes without saying for us slow-it-down, soak-it-in romantics. But there's more to it than that, something about how the mood gets carried in those sounds.

I know there are scientific reasons for how sound waves carry across water—something about the water surface and the cooler air just above it combining to contain and channel them. But that doesn't interest me as much as the symbolic meaning.

     These sounds—if we let them—draw us in.
     Whether we like what we hear or not, they
     connect us, define us, define our community.

For me, sound is spatial. I think of the way great, spreading American elm trees define the space under and around their huge, fountain-shaped canopy—and how they used to form cathedral-like arches over St. Paul’s residential streets. Like those magnificent arbors, sound encompasses everything it can reach.

If you're a city dweller, it might be the muddled shouts and laughter stirring the thick summer evening air from the baseball diamond a block or two away.  If your neighborhood's a little rougher, maybe it’s the sounds of more boisterous goings-on.

Whatever the source, these sounds—if we let them—draw us in. Whether we like what we hear or not, they connect us, define us, define our community.

LONGING TO BELONG
Imagining once more that idyllic summer evening at the lake, that timeless sense of community is somehow intensified. With no competing noise, the clarity and reach of that laughter, those campfire conversations and lovers' whispers, seems funneled through our ears and right to our souls. It wraps around us. And the fact of its having to reach across such a chilling, empty space makes the connection feel all the more intimate.

I'm sure that's part of it for me—a longing for community. Don't you feel, sometimes, that we're losing that sense of sharing beloved places or spaces, of wanting to protect them, of knowing, deep inside, that we belong to them and to one another? Do you share my disappointment that, more and more these days, everyone seems concerned with nothing more than the time- and-space immediacy of their own consumption? 

Alas. But why curse the silence when we can make music? Listening for those vital signs and sounds of community doesn't mean we have to live other people's lives nor fix all the world's problems, because, while a quiet lake at night may serve as the instrument, the notes originate in the soul. All we have to do is pay attention, listen with our hopes and our hearts, and care what we hear.