River Running

As usual, along about the end of February, I find myself musing about things to come. I become a little less present as I plunge my thoughts and emotions into the upcoming fishing season. As the snow begins to melt and trickle from seemingly flat surfaces towards the lowlands of increasingly bulging creeks and rivers, I notice the new swiftness and I can't help but feel the urge to do a little river running.

It's the nature of rivers to drop in elevation over distance. That is, of course, how they flow. Some relaxing and beautifully meditative rivers drop consistently with few or no surprises. I love to travel these wonderful rivers because they give me the opportunity to play with friends or trail a fishing line or lean back in my canoe and contemplate something important or nothing at all. This is the nature of most of the rivers I travel in Michigan.

Many of the rivers I travel further north, into the Canadian Shield, are not gradual. These rivers pool and drop and pool and drop, keeping me ever alert. The deep pools of swirling water are where I often find the fish. I love these rivers for their energy. They lift me up and move me forward at sometimes breakneck speeds. The canoe goes forward, up and down, right and left and side to side all at the same time. My paddle becomes a rudder and a brace, slowing and turning me as the conditions demand. My arms hurt. My back is rigid and my butt and legs are an extension of my craft, using body language to direct me. And then it's over too quickly and I'm bobbing on riffles, heading towards calm water where I once again must use my paddle to move forward. Sometimes these rivers even force me to stop and get out of my canoe, wary about a drop I might not be able to navigate.

I don't prefer one type of river over the other. They are both special. It's the variety that is important to me. Moving forward at a steady pace, as in the case of my Michigan rivers, is delightfully energizing in the way a nap rejuvenates me. Moving forward in a chaotic way, shaking things up and amplifying the adrenaline, as in the case of my Canadian rivers, energizes me in the same way a good brawl gets the juices flowing.  

It's March and it's time to rumble! See you on the river or on the bank. Your choice. But I'm not waiting. 

"All rivers, even the most dazzling, those that catch the sun in their course, all rivers go down to the ocean and drown. And life awaits man as the sea awaits the river." ~Simone Schwarz-Bart

"Eventually, all things merge into one, and the river runs through it." ~Norman Maclean

In The Eddy

With August, we finally got summer. It was brief. Now, with the onset of September, I'm seeing more of the golden flowers that mark the end of summer. Around my home, there's a burst of Black-eyed Susan and Goldenrod. And today is the day of the Corn Moon, the full moon in September that in older times marked the time to harvest the corn.

As I fall deeper and deeper into the acknowledgment that summer is waning, I seek with eagerness the solace of a September that will embrace me with a sense of home; that is, that deep and unconditional welcome that rarely comes from any other source but going home. Home does not have to be literal in the sense that it is the house, the dwelling, the town in which one lives or grew up. Home can be, and more often is for me, falling into the embrace of nature, especially during this time of year. There seems to be nothing more motherly, more welcoming, more at home, than nature's autumn embrace in the North Country. I'm antsy to see what has occurred locked away in the woods around my home when the summer's heat and biting insects kept me from exploring more deeply.

In The Eddy

I'm in the eddy. I've taken a break. I've swung out of the current, pointed myself upstream behind a boulder or a fallen log, and allowed myself to breathe. I've become quiet so I can hear the world turning and get my directions.

For those of you who don't paddle, an eddy is the downstream side of an obstruction in the river. It's a place in the river, because of that obstruction like a log or a boulder, where the water is moving more slowly and in a different direction, in a circular flow as the water backfills into the pocket created behind the obstruction. Eddies are most useful to paddlers as a place to rest, read the river, and make decisions about the next move up or down the river. Paddling from eddy to eddy, slipping into an eddy for a break, gives you the opportunity to assess your next move. Often, when running rapids, I enter and exit a series of eddies as a way to pause and pick my path. The key is in the timing.

With autumn nipping at my heals, the timing is just right. I'm in an eddy of my life as well as a more seasonal eddy. September and I have swung out of the current, taking a break, assessing our next moves. Breathing.

Come on in, the water is just fine.

What's Your Hurry?

I've puttered the weekend away. I weeded the garden, cut some fresh flowers for the house, moved some gravel in the driveway, washed some windows, and spent quite a bit of time in the hammock reading. I must admit I felt occasional twinges of guilt about my indulgence, but not enough to overcome my pleasure. 

Around all this self-imposed down time, I shuttled canoeists who were paddling the Manistee River near my home. The “put-in” was not too bad. They picked me up at my home about 5:30 on Friday evening, bought me dinner, and we drove to their put-in campsite. That night, they camped and I brought their vehicle home with me. Reportedly, they were on the river by 5:30 Saturday morning. The “take-out” was another story. My phone rang about 11:30 Saturday night. They were ready to be picked up as they had decided to do the entire weekend trip in one spurt, 100 miles in less than 24 hours. I got up, dressed, made a pot of coffee and headed for the take-out landing.

It was a beautiful night. The moon was full and casting shadows. It was a crisp night and the fog was settling in. At the take-out, I could hear a partridge drumming. And the deer were everywhere. I can only imagine how beautiful it must have been paddling that river after dark. I've paddled at night before. It's truly an exotic and eerie experience. But most of my night paddling has been out of necessity, to escape a bear who has made my camp his home or because the fish were biting.

And truly, I can only imagine the beauty these paddlers experienced, because they were too tired to talk about it. I'm totally confused as to why a group of good friends would want to spend a whole day and half a night on the river without hardly speaking or seeing each other and subjecting themselves to the food one must eat while moving in a canoe without the benefit of a campfire. They didn't even paddle together as the group arrived at the take-out over the course of the next four hours.

Many of us do the same thing in our daily lives. We push and strive to get somewhere, to get ahead, to beat the clock in some way, to attain something, to make good on a promise. And when we reach our destination we have little or no memory of the experience because we've often taken it on alone or, in our haste, left our partners behind. We're stiff and tired. We are even too tired to share our experience with anyone as the thought of restoration is the only thing that permeates our mind.

Today, I'm enjoying a beautiful Sunday morning with more of the same quiet reflection and small chores ahead of me. I imagine my canoeing friends are sound asleep. Any day, I’ll take the sweet obsessions that wander through my thoughts and daydreams over the mania that now demands their dreamless sleep.

“One of the great disadvantages of hurry is that it takes such a long time.” ~G. K. Chesterton

“Rivers know this: there is no hurry. We shall get there some day.” ~Winnie the Pooh

“Nature does not hurry. Yet everything is accomplished.” ~Lao Tzu