Isolation therapy

 

 

The wonders of the Canadian wilderness

 

It’s morning on a remote river, fog low to the water. My canoe is repacked with maybe   fifteen miles paddling downriver before dusk. I check my map and mark a few rapids that will require scrutiny before shooting.  A bowlful of Red River will hold me until lunch. I shove the canoe into the dark water. A chill is in the air.

The Canadian wilderness holds me in a hypnotic spell. I have been advised that that it is foolhardy to canoe alone on a rogue river. I respond that it’s more perilous driving on America’s expressways. The nuts rate is much higher there.

On a hillside I see a bear with two cubs coming down to the water. I raise my paddle and drift quietly along. A loon dives for fish. The river is veiled in vapor. Bulrushes line the margin. Boulders keep an eternal vigil. Off to my left a flight of mallards skim the surface with a show of watery crystals, form a V, and honk their way to some unknown destination. The sun climbs over a stand of spruce. I slip off my vest.

I pass a village of Cree Indians. They wave a greeting. I’m tempted to stop and powwow but the GPS tells me that I have a lot of paddling to do if I am to rendezvous with the bush pilot who dropped me off upriver nine days ago. Children on a pier are playing cowboys and Indians. Amazingly the Indians are winning the battle. I dip a cup of water and drink deeply. Back home if I did that my guts would begin cramping and my inlays would glow. It is satisfying being out of civilization. Parent swans, shepherding three cygnets, eye me warily, while maintaining their   distance.

A canoe with two Indians comes alongside. They’re from the village I passed a few miles back. I lift my paddle and put out my hand. Tying our canoes together, we drift downstream with the current. They fish in an eddy, below the rapids, where walleye spawn. They say if I stop I can have fish for lunch, in fact, they offer to cook one for me. I see in their smile they have forgotten that my ancestors killed their ancestors. I haven’t forgotten. I accept their offer. I see fishing nets and bows and arrows in the canoe. I ask if they use the old ways. They say the old ways gives all animals a better chance. I agree with nurturing nature.

In late morning, the vapor lifts. I see turbulence far ahead and hear the sound of tumbling water.

I secure my canoe to a ledge and climb the escarpment for a look-see. It’s a good one. I take out my binoculars and sweep the rapids from side to side. It looks like a portage will be safer. I hate portages. My Old town weighs eighty pounds, a big load for an old man. Then there are supplies. Four trips maybe. Dying when shooting a rapid would be okay. Dying incrementally in a nursing home is not the way I want to exit my life. I prefer being in control of my destiny. I opted for the dangerous route. My pulse rate rises off the chart.

             The sun slants toward the horizon. I beach the canoe between two large boulders and make camp for the night. I gather driftwood and start a fire. The Cree gave me an extra walleye Preparing a fish on a spit excites my taste buds. My supplies seem to be dwindling. I look at my watch and realize that I have one more day until my pilot will drop out of the sky to pick me up. Twilight comes and mosquitoes begin taking blood samples. A tundra fly gets frisky as I pitch my tent. I will sleep well this night. I look through the mesh and watch the Aurora Borealis fire streamers of color across the cobalt sky. Wind music begins to sound in a stand of tamarack. As night descends, eyes, reflected by the flames in my fire, appear on the perimeter of my camp. I will have company as I sleep. I snuggle in my sleeping bag. I suck on a chunk of caramel.

             I awaken and crawl from my bag to find my Cree friends cooking over a roaring flame. They say they killed a big deer on their way to another village and thought I would enjoy some venison. We  eat breakfast together, strips of venison and scrambled goose eggs, breakfast on a boulder in the middle of nowhere…now that’s real atmosphere.

               I get out my GPS and see that I am near our rendezvous point. I explain the function of a GPS and present it to my friends as a gift. I inform them I will return next year and that I’d like to visit their village and find out more about their old ways. They say I will like hunting seal and bears from a dogsled. I tell them, absolutely, I will definitely return.

                Below the escarpment we hear the sound of an airplane as it sweeps onto the river and slushes to a stop. My friends watch as I lash my canoe to the pontoons, and climb on board. They wave as we lift from the surface and head back to civilization. I make reservations for next year. I wish things were the same as it was four hundred years ago. As we reach cloud level I stare down into the canyon. The Indians are canoeing away. Back on the tundra I see a pack of timber wolves on a hunt. A mother moose is frolicking with a calf in a rushing tributary. I call my wife and inform her the isolation was invigorating and that I will soon be home.