Paddling for hours on end brings a
number of various feelings and emotions. The first couple hours you enjoy it,
floating over the river, cutting through the early morning fog, as we did
leaving Aiktin. The next few hours you begin to shift in your seat, trying to
get comfortable, feeling slightly annoyed at the kinks developing in your arms,
you’re thinking more about each stroke and that itself is tiring. Lunch is eaten
and either it will give you energy boost, or rather, make you crave a mid-day
nap. For me it is usually the latter. Ironically, the longer you go on, you
eventually come back to enjoying it again. The sun is not beating down directly
and the air is cooling. Your muscles are well broken in and have stopped
complaining, you feel as if you can go on forever. However, as evening sets in,
and the prospect of meal and sleep draws near, the idea or reality of doing 10
more miles suddenly becomes much less attractive. This was essentially our day yesterday, paddling
after more paddling, one small portage around a very active dam, and then, the
last 10 miles to the campsite.
We have been on the river for two
weeks now and have still yet to meet another person canoeing. On my cross country cycle ride I met up with
so many touring cyclists I would lose track of them. Pulling up to the designated campsite after
65 miles of paddling, meeting other people was the last thing I had on my mind,
the first being food, sleep, and finding a nice tree to water. However, what
greeted us at the campsite was a fellow canoe. He was leaning up against a
tree, looking puzzled as I walked up to him, having the same look as anyone who
is receiving unexpected guests. He wore
a grey “wife-beater” ( why are they even called that?), had a cigarette in one
hand, and smelled of liquor. The curly
hair on the top of his head barely covered his middle aged receding hair line,
the beard and silver tooth only being too fitting for the rest of his persona.
“Where ya’ll goin’ to”, he said
quite enthusiastically, one finger pointed toward our loaded canoe. Before I could answer, “Whoa, you’s only have
a 14 footer and mine is 18’!” “Well Shit! yous even have less stuff than me!”
again pointing with cigarette in hand to his camp, a camp so well equipped you
thought he was a British royal on a safari.
“ I know, it’s a lot, but I like to be comfortable out here.” “ I don’t blame you” I said, feeling a little
self-righteous about our relative frugality. I finally got the chance to answer where we
were going. “New Orleans!” I said loudly, a name I’m getting quite used to
saying and expecting a variety of shocked responses.
Instead of shock, Dan the canoe
man stared silently and blankly back, it felt awkward. Soon enough though, the
bewildered stare morphed into a one sided smirk and burst of disbelieving laughter.
“HAHAhha, You’re shitting me! No way! Why?”, I told him about my bike ride the
year earlier, “ You’re a crazy f**ker! You know that?” I nodded agreeing in
part that what we were partly crazy for this. “ I’ve always wanted to do that, but I have to
wait till my old man dies, he is too worried about me”. I chuckled and said “Yea, you should do it
sometime”, but what I really thought was this. First, when does a middle aged
man take orders from his aging father, is that admirable or just sad? And second,
his dad should be more worried about his chain smoking habit and the strong
smell of liqueur his son had wafting around him. Regardless, Dan the canoe man was incredibly
likable and friendly. He let us use his oversized camp stove and stood around
and chatted as we scarfed down our beans.
Dan was quite insistent on us
leaving our emails and phone numbers. He was fascinated by our trip and was ecstatic
when I said I would send him a post card from New Orleans. The next morning I watched dan pour a decent
amount of rum into his coffee. Instead of lecturing him on the dangers of alcoholism,
I nodded and quipped, “I guess its 5 o’clock somewhere”, Dan just laughed and said, “I know I shouldn’t,
but coffee just isn’t strong enough.” In
proper fashion of a man who wears wife beaters, has a silver tooth, chain
smokes and had rum before 10am, he pulled out ancient disposable camera to snap
a picture of Toby and I as we left. Our goal was the town of little falls where
we had a contact offering a warm bed, showers, and a hot meal.
We only had 30 miles to paddle
today, so we took it easy. The river has
widened considerably along with having an quick and consistent current. The forests around us now are almost at full
bloom, making us feel that summer is finally here. We had heard that we would be passing a
military base on the right bank, and that was quickly confirmed with incredibly
loud and successive booms. The sharp and
quick rat tat tat of machine guns, followed by louder, and evidently larger
rounds created a strange dichotomy with the serene and quiet opposite bank.
With the sounds of war on our right and nature on our left, we turned on our
radio and floated down the river. I can’t say that we enjoyed the awful sound
of 80’s hair bands much more, but heck, it helped us paddle.
Our host for the night is Pastor
Dave. I contacted Pastor Dave from the website WarmShowers. Essentially, the
website is geared toward cyclsits who like to travel by bicycle and would like
host or be hosted by other cyclists. I saw that Dave and his family lived in
Little Falls and gave him a call a few days earlier. With a invitation secured,
we couldn’t wait to finally shower and do laundry after two long and hard weeks
on the river. Dave was waiting on dock
next door to the church he pastors. We pulled up tired from fighting a last
stretch head wind.
The church building is quite comfortable.
The sanctuary being a very tall seemingly curved A-Frame. They had just bought
new wooden pews. I could tell because there was a fresh woody smell in the
air. Dave called his wife to pick us up
and in the meantime he offered us something to drink. My tongue was parched, days of toil and sweat
clung to my clothes, my hair looking oily enough to be a pomade model. “ You
guys want, water, juice or beer?” For a
spilt second my brain had the register such an odd statement. Going almost
going through the five stages of grief: First, denial, “could a pastor really
be offering me a beer IN a church?, no never, this is NOT happening. Second,
anger: “He must be testing my self-control and piety! How dare!” Third: bargaining,
“Ok, if I do drink this beer in church, I promise never to do it again.” Fourth:
depression “Ok, I won’t say yes to the beer, even though it sounds very
refreshing right nowL”,
then finally, Acceptance: “Wow pastor, thanks, this is definitely a first for
me, SWIG!” I wondered quietly how their commune services work if this was what
they offered to guests on a Saturday.
Pastor Dave’s house looked like a mansion
when we pulled in, even though it was a modest one and half story home on a
country back road. Taking a shower felt like a rebirth, the grit and grime
washing down and disappearing through the drain. For the first time I had to
follow the instructions on the back of the shampoo bottle. “ Apply generous amount
to hand, lather in hair, Rinse and Repeat.” Until now, I assumed that was a
ploy to sell more shampoo. We had an
amazing supper of lasagna and finally, some green salad; a far cry from our
steady diet of hot dogs, baked beans and dried noodles. Tonight we sleep like
kings, in beds, clean, and stuffed full. Tomorrow is a full day of portages.
Wish us luck.
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