The Qu'Appelle River. Good... or evil? Is it a good river suffering from human indifference, or is it primarily an evil river bent to seduce the unwary? Shall we spend time and money to save the river, or is it best put down? I don't know. Let's talk about herons.
Good... or evil? Undeniably good. Even a lousy day float can be saved by a heron sighting, because they are shy, graceful birds rarely seen outside the river. I have seen a number of great blue heron on the lower Qu'Appelle. Their territory does not have much overlap with pelicans, or strangely enough, great horned owls. They are only blue in flight. Standing on the bank they are thin and grey, like a large stick.
Unlike pelicans, it is unusual to see more than one heron at a time. I suppose they areas shy around others as they are around humans. It seems to be motion that sets them flying more than anything else. They don't seem to actually hear my approach before I round the bend. I have made some sad conclusions from this, which I hope prove to be false. Birds don't have visible ears; surely their hearing is not as good as ours. If the heron doesn't hear me what else might birds not hear? I have a terrible fear that the rich melodies of songbirds are not fully appreciated by their mates, but only by us.
If it's motion that scares them, I imagine that staying still I must resemble a log floating through the river. If you think that's silly, maybe you haven't spent enough time on the river. Certain ducks will lay low and still to mask themselves as logs. I thought this was silly at first -- clearly, it's a duck. However, I have now seen actual, bona fide logs that look like that. I have seen logs that look like muskrats, stereos, dishwashers, fishermen, and canoes. Trees grow queerly and water gnarls them until any shape can be obtained. Now anything floating slowly in the water, or sitting motionless on the bank, is at considerable suspicion of being a log.
I once thought I saw a heron standing on the bank. However, the object made no motion, and I was paddling, so I knew it must be a log. A surprisingly heron-shaped log, but a log nonetheless. I continued paddling toward the next bend. The log bent down, ate a fish, unpacked two huge wings, and flew around the corner.
When I came around the corner there were two herons standing there, and my log still in flight over them. The herons were spooked by my appearance, and they launched into the sky as well. I had never seen three herons at once before, and I don't think they knew how to act in such large company, either. A couple of them settled into the tops of trees, and it is very funny to watch these large birds perch on the high branches. The tree bows considerably under the weight. I suppose herons are too large to fit onto the lower branches.
There, friends, is my case that herons are good. Make of it what you will, and ask yourself, is a river more than the sum of its birds and twists?
Day 59 ended: 50*28.947N, 101*47.859W
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Monday, September 29, 2008
Day 58: Crossings and fences
I cooled down significantly by the day after the private causeway. The truth is, most of the people in this area were very respectful of paddlers. Many fences were just a single electric wire, high enough on one side to underpass without ducking.
Other farmers had solved the problem of crossing the river by piling up boulders for equipment to roll over. They put up signs saying "CROSSING" on either side to warn of this kind of structure. I am not sure a sign is really necessary, but it shows they were thinking of me, and helped explain the mystery that I had thought of as man-made weirs. The purpose is not in stopping the water, but in crossing it.
I don't mind these kinds of crossings. They are usually fun to paddle over, or at least easy to push the canoe through, and I imagine the fish have a better time navigating them, too.
And the river after Round Lake is often beautiful, well-treed, well-moosed. The water is clearer and there are frequent shale banks to stop on.
While happy in these thoughts I came across one of the worst fences I had seen. Three barbed wires straight across with frequent posts. I was fortunate to be just able to squeeze the canoe under on the side, while ducking through the fence on shore.
Maybe it is a good river, worth saving in places, and where else but the section after Round Lake? It's too bad that just a couple inconsiderate people can ruin so much of the river.
Day 58 ended: 50*31.395N, 101*55.356W
Other farmers had solved the problem of crossing the river by piling up boulders for equipment to roll over. They put up signs saying "CROSSING" on either side to warn of this kind of structure. I am not sure a sign is really necessary, but it shows they were thinking of me, and helped explain the mystery that I had thought of as man-made weirs. The purpose is not in stopping the water, but in crossing it.
I don't mind these kinds of crossings. They are usually fun to paddle over, or at least easy to push the canoe through, and I imagine the fish have a better time navigating them, too.
And the river after Round Lake is often beautiful, well-treed, well-moosed. The water is clearer and there are frequent shale banks to stop on.
While happy in these thoughts I came across one of the worst fences I had seen. Three barbed wires straight across with frequent posts. I was fortunate to be just able to squeeze the canoe under on the side, while ducking through the fence on shore.
Maybe it is a good river, worth saving in places, and where else but the section after Round Lake? It's too bad that just a couple inconsiderate people can ruin so much of the river.
Day 58 ended: 50*31.395N, 101*55.356W
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Day 57: The last voyageur?
To imagine yourself the first person at the scene of a virginal land, the first to reach some destination and take in its bounty of promise. That is the great white wilderness myth. If it had any great value to me I suppose I ought to have studied the history of the rivers I travel. I gather from conversation and asides in books that I am accidentally retracing an old fur-trading route between the west and Montreal, by French voyageurs. I suppose I could have packed a couple pelts from the Indian trading post in Banff and amazed myself around every bend in the river, exclaiming that surely this must be what those men first saw so long ago.
The reality of the river makes this myth inaccessible to me. The Qu'Appelle is a drainage ditch between pastures, with faint memories of wild glory scattered about. It is choked by dams and fences, and now a driveway as well! I was shocked to see the river just end abruptly, before my eyes, with no channel continuing anywhere. I thought I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere, but no, as I drew near I saw that someone had simply laid a concrete road straight across the river, with nothing more than 6 inch pipes at intervals to allow current through.
I am forced to make new myths. I am not the first man, but the last, to make this particular voyage. The voyageur route was made possible by a certain political situation that lasted for a finite period of history. I have heard that the United Arab Emirates, being the descendents of nomadic peoples, have enshrined the right to travel and make camp in their constitution. Here, the law will soon protect only highway travelers and landowners will fence, gate, and dam every river in their backyards. As I understand it, and I hope I do not, the law in Florida allows landowners to shoot anyone on their property without first ascertaining if they be burglars or wayfarers. Who will take this route if every mile brings a new wall across the river, and setting foot on land to pee or sleep risks death without vengeance? It will never be possible to obtain advance permission from the hundreds or thousands of people who claim some toehold on the banks of the river, especially when risk and weather make a schedule unaffordable.
There continue to be people who push themselves to set new records, to be the first to do wonderful new things. The first to go around the world on human power. The first to unicycle across the United States. Perhaps when we run out of interesting firsts, people will begin competing to be the last ones to perform feats made impossible due to changes in political and atmospheric climates.
Being last carries with it a certain responsibility, so I will respect the life and history of the river by keeping clean camp and recording its last words, whatever they may be. And there may yet be hope, so I can lean over the patient Qu'Appelle and beg it to fight for life. I recorded the coordinates of this river-strangling driveway and took photographs. I can take these to the authorities, or paddlers, or fishermen, and ask if this is what is to become of the river. If so, I hope that day comes quickly, so I can be not only the last to paddle the entire river, but also the first to drive the entire length.
I put the canoe up on its wheels and rolled it over the road. Getting back in, I noticed thin blood dripping from my left foot; two leaches had attached themselves and drunk their fill as I made portage.
Day 57 ended: 50*31.469N, 102*09.210W
The reality of the river makes this myth inaccessible to me. The Qu'Appelle is a drainage ditch between pastures, with faint memories of wild glory scattered about. It is choked by dams and fences, and now a driveway as well! I was shocked to see the river just end abruptly, before my eyes, with no channel continuing anywhere. I thought I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere, but no, as I drew near I saw that someone had simply laid a concrete road straight across the river, with nothing more than 6 inch pipes at intervals to allow current through.
I am forced to make new myths. I am not the first man, but the last, to make this particular voyage. The voyageur route was made possible by a certain political situation that lasted for a finite period of history. I have heard that the United Arab Emirates, being the descendents of nomadic peoples, have enshrined the right to travel and make camp in their constitution. Here, the law will soon protect only highway travelers and landowners will fence, gate, and dam every river in their backyards. As I understand it, and I hope I do not, the law in Florida allows landowners to shoot anyone on their property without first ascertaining if they be burglars or wayfarers. Who will take this route if every mile brings a new wall across the river, and setting foot on land to pee or sleep risks death without vengeance? It will never be possible to obtain advance permission from the hundreds or thousands of people who claim some toehold on the banks of the river, especially when risk and weather make a schedule unaffordable.
There continue to be people who push themselves to set new records, to be the first to do wonderful new things. The first to go around the world on human power. The first to unicycle across the United States. Perhaps when we run out of interesting firsts, people will begin competing to be the last ones to perform feats made impossible due to changes in political and atmospheric climates.
Being last carries with it a certain responsibility, so I will respect the life and history of the river by keeping clean camp and recording its last words, whatever they may be. And there may yet be hope, so I can lean over the patient Qu'Appelle and beg it to fight for life. I recorded the coordinates of this river-strangling driveway and took photographs. I can take these to the authorities, or paddlers, or fishermen, and ask if this is what is to become of the river. If so, I hope that day comes quickly, so I can be not only the last to paddle the entire river, but also the first to drive the entire length.
I put the canoe up on its wheels and rolled it over the road. Getting back in, I noticed thin blood dripping from my left foot; two leaches had attached themselves and drunk their fill as I made portage.
Day 57 ended: 50*31.469N, 102*09.210W
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Day 56: On Round Lake
Oh, Round Lake isn't round; they just call it that. Out of hope, maybe, or spite. It pocks with points and bulges with bays, and looks rather more like a smashed ant than a round. Its shape must be forgiven because it is politics which mars it most.
Round Lake shares the happy circumstance of most lakes on the Qu'Appelle, with the south side in reserve land and the north an economic free zone. So these lakes grow grand cottages on one shore looking across to wooded hills on the other. The value of these cottages does not depend solely on view but also the water level, so the pleasure craft can be readily launched from lakeside garages.
Thus these lakes are dammed. To dam a lake, though, you need the permission of every flooded one, and only one side has cottages. The Canadian government, in respect of the treaties, must obtain Indian permission to flood the land. Arrangements have apparently been made on all but Round Lake, where the old dam stands open.
I do not know the reasons for this, but the white people I've met have all but accused the natives of extortion. "There were some nasty things that happened in the residential schools," said one, "but they need to understand that these treaties aren't written in stone."
Another told me, "They say it was flooding their pastures, but there's no cows on those pastures!" I certainly hadn't seen any. "It's better for them, too."
I can sympathize with these people. A lakeside cottage is a significant investment, and they hadn't considered the risk that the lake retreat. So what can they do?
Their arguments, however, are very unconvincing to me. Abrogating the treaties breaks the only semblance of legal ownership they have to the land, anyway. It simply says, yes, we will just take the land because you are powerless to stop us. And I do not trust someone who claims to know what is best for the natives; that is how this whole mess started.
In lieu of the Indian side of this disagreement, which is unavailable to me, let me offer my opinion as a self-interested river traveler. The lake was low, but not shockingly so, not enough to make a round lake crooked or vice versa, just enough to expose some nice sand and boulders for me to pull my canoe up on. No dam meant no portage and no risky dam shoot.
I imagine that the more natural ebb and flow of the water creates a healthier ecology as well. I never saw water on the Qu'Appelle so clear as after Round Lake. If I had a spear I could easily have killed a dozen fish a day, just looking down out of my canoe. I could nearly catch them on my paddle.
I guess all the mud and silt empties out into the lake. The clear river is alive with ferns and weeds, an entire world under the water, a world that is inaccessible to those of us just skimming the surface. The green weeds swaying back and forth are like the hairs of sirens, luring hapless river rats to break that surface once and for all.
Day 56 ended: 50*31.737N, 102*20.369W
Round Lake shares the happy circumstance of most lakes on the Qu'Appelle, with the south side in reserve land and the north an economic free zone. So these lakes grow grand cottages on one shore looking across to wooded hills on the other. The value of these cottages does not depend solely on view but also the water level, so the pleasure craft can be readily launched from lakeside garages.
Thus these lakes are dammed. To dam a lake, though, you need the permission of every flooded one, and only one side has cottages. The Canadian government, in respect of the treaties, must obtain Indian permission to flood the land. Arrangements have apparently been made on all but Round Lake, where the old dam stands open.
I do not know the reasons for this, but the white people I've met have all but accused the natives of extortion. "There were some nasty things that happened in the residential schools," said one, "but they need to understand that these treaties aren't written in stone."
Another told me, "They say it was flooding their pastures, but there's no cows on those pastures!" I certainly hadn't seen any. "It's better for them, too."
I can sympathize with these people. A lakeside cottage is a significant investment, and they hadn't considered the risk that the lake retreat. So what can they do?
Their arguments, however, are very unconvincing to me. Abrogating the treaties breaks the only semblance of legal ownership they have to the land, anyway. It simply says, yes, we will just take the land because you are powerless to stop us. And I do not trust someone who claims to know what is best for the natives; that is how this whole mess started.
In lieu of the Indian side of this disagreement, which is unavailable to me, let me offer my opinion as a self-interested river traveler. The lake was low, but not shockingly so, not enough to make a round lake crooked or vice versa, just enough to expose some nice sand and boulders for me to pull my canoe up on. No dam meant no portage and no risky dam shoot.
I imagine that the more natural ebb and flow of the water creates a healthier ecology as well. I never saw water on the Qu'Appelle so clear as after Round Lake. If I had a spear I could easily have killed a dozen fish a day, just looking down out of my canoe. I could nearly catch them on my paddle.
I guess all the mud and silt empties out into the lake. The clear river is alive with ferns and weeds, an entire world under the water, a world that is inaccessible to those of us just skimming the surface. The green weeds swaying back and forth are like the hairs of sirens, luring hapless river rats to break that surface once and for all.
Day 56 ended: 50*31.737N, 102*20.369W
Friday, September 26, 2008
Day 55: What are you going to do about... your head?
There was no wind so I made straight for the dam, using a mixture of J and C strokes to maintain a constant direction without changing sides. I hoped my wake, a perfect "V", would impress Svein and Maryanne, who kindly saw me off with a cup of coffee and helpful gifts: pens, a knife, and a tiny multitool.
There were five people standing on the dam's pathway as I approached, a man with his two sisters and two sisters-in-law. I briefly explained what I was doing, and one of the women asked me if I at least had a hat and sunscreen.
She wanted to see me try to shoot the dam, if I thought I could. They offered to help me portage otherwise. With this group of people waiting and willing to help, the risks of the dam were multiplied. The two foot drop looked like four, the healthy, voluminous flowof water looked like a deadly whirlpool ready to swallow me in. I only understood that later; sitting alone in the water past the dam I would see that it was easier than the one I shot in Fort Qu'Appelle. But now I deemed the dam too "scary" to run and accepted the extended family's offer to portage, so they came down to my canoe.
"That's no hat, that's a pith helmet!"
Oh no. That brings us to the continuing saga of the hats.
I am a forgetful person, so it is necessary that I put this down despite the heartbreaking effects it may have on some readers. In a year I will remember just the names and certain features of some rivers. In two years, a vague recollection of some kind of kayak or perhaps canoe trip I took. In three years, if anyone asks me about making this trip I will respond with disbelief about the entire thing.
My friend Calvin has used this to his advantage in the past. He has said that to convince me of anything it is only necessary to claim that I once said that very thing in the past. I know he has done this several times to make me believe things that seemed quite doubtful at the time, which I have now forgotten. But I know that I can become easily excited about some concept, discuss it at length, and forget it by the next day when I taste the next piece of mind candy.
That diversion is necessary because I will criticize Calvin further down, but he may forgive me if I mock myself first. Only time will reveal who will have the last hurrah in this story which I am now finally going to tell.
Two nights before my departure Dave and Sarah, father and daughter, asked me if I had a hat yet. I said no, so they decided to pick me up in the morning and we would go hat shopping together.
Calvin could not believe it when they pulled up. It was not mere skepticism, it was a frontal assault on everything he believed, as though someone had just produced evidence to him showing up is down or the world is a simulation.
"What? They wouldn't drive up here just to get you a hat. Tell me the real reason!"
Calvin had, sometime before, considered offering me his grandfather's helmet, used in some important conflict which totally escapes me. He may even have used fairly certain language about giving me this hat. I cannot know, because I am skeptical about Calvin's predictions of future events, even those within his control.
This has gotten me in some trouble at least twice.
My friend Karen came up to Calgary one week, and one evening we called "Music Night", inviting people to come over with instruments and we made strange sounds, had some laughs, and maybe even got some music out of it. Calvin was excited about doing this again while Karne and her violin were still there, and talked about having another one Friday afternoon.
I knew, because I knew Calvin, that this was the type of thing he would talk about but would never actually happen. Karen did not, and when Friday afternoon drew near she tried to impress upon me the importance of returning home, that I was insulting my friends by running late. Now, I remember giving a lengthy explanation that the event was impossible, no phone calls had been made, no emails sent, that this was all Calvin's fancy. She remembers this explanation as a shrug and a sigh, and was upset with me for some time later, even though the house was entirely abandoned when we arrived.
Calvin did get me once, because the correspondance was in email. Calvin, Clement, and I had talked for awhile about making a trip to Vancouver to see sights and friends. Calvin seemed quite excited about it, talking at length about how the real way to go was to take the bus because it was such a beautiful drive. As the dates approached, I was trying to get firm information from Calvin about booking the bus tickets, but his attitude had suddenly shifted. He didn't want to go all of a sudden, and why take the bus when you can just fly? I was pretty shocked. Maybe I missed the tone in the email, the underlying belief that this just wasn't going to happen. Clement had already booked flights. I managed to get the same plane out with him, and a later one back. Sometime during the week Calvin had even said that maybe he would still meet us out there, but I don't think Clement or I took that possibility very seriously.
That is all to say that while Calvin may have a firmer grip on the past than I, I was not going to believe he would lend me the hat until I had it in hand.
Dave, Sarah, and I drove all around Calgary looking for Tilley hats. This is a Canadian brand designed for marine use, and Dave is quite fond of his. We went to the store that used to sell him, and the proprietor suggested three places. The first one didn't exist, and he had the second one confused with a gay cruise line. After driving all over the city in humor and confusion I finally had my two hats: the Tilley and the pith helmet.
I said I might wear the hats on alternate days, but early on in the trip I found the Tilley too comfortable to give up. Moreover, it had a chin strap that held it firmly in place those very windy days. The strap on the helmet was too long, and it wasn't adjustable, so it didn't feel as secure.
But I think we made a strategic mistake when purchasing that hat. I have a preference for growing my curly hair out long and wild, but my trip began soon after my sister's wedding. My hair was shorn to show respect for that day, and still near its nadir on that silly day we bought the hat.
After nearly two months on the river, my hair was inching towards its more natural state. I do admit to using an off-brand shampoo on those few occasions when a shower has been available. This shampoo promises it is ideal for "Richness and Volume" or "R&V" by the label. This claim is highly doubtful, but certainly unnecessary for my hair which is naturally resplendent in "V". The Tilley hat was becoming too small for my head.
So I had just switched to using the pith helmet. It did fly off the first day in the wind, but I recovered it. I have worn it since then but gone hatless when the wind threatens to tear it off or strangle me with the chin strap.
Calvin, you have won a minor victory after your initial setback, but do not think the saga has ended.
It has only just begun.
Day 55 ended: 50*32.413N, 102*32.317W
There were five people standing on the dam's pathway as I approached, a man with his two sisters and two sisters-in-law. I briefly explained what I was doing, and one of the women asked me if I at least had a hat and sunscreen.
She wanted to see me try to shoot the dam, if I thought I could. They offered to help me portage otherwise. With this group of people waiting and willing to help, the risks of the dam were multiplied. The two foot drop looked like four, the healthy, voluminous flowof water looked like a deadly whirlpool ready to swallow me in. I only understood that later; sitting alone in the water past the dam I would see that it was easier than the one I shot in Fort Qu'Appelle. But now I deemed the dam too "scary" to run and accepted the extended family's offer to portage, so they came down to my canoe.
"That's no hat, that's a pith helmet!"
Oh no. That brings us to the continuing saga of the hats.
I am a forgetful person, so it is necessary that I put this down despite the heartbreaking effects it may have on some readers. In a year I will remember just the names and certain features of some rivers. In two years, a vague recollection of some kind of kayak or perhaps canoe trip I took. In three years, if anyone asks me about making this trip I will respond with disbelief about the entire thing.
My friend Calvin has used this to his advantage in the past. He has said that to convince me of anything it is only necessary to claim that I once said that very thing in the past. I know he has done this several times to make me believe things that seemed quite doubtful at the time, which I have now forgotten. But I know that I can become easily excited about some concept, discuss it at length, and forget it by the next day when I taste the next piece of mind candy.
That diversion is necessary because I will criticize Calvin further down, but he may forgive me if I mock myself first. Only time will reveal who will have the last hurrah in this story which I am now finally going to tell.
Two nights before my departure Dave and Sarah, father and daughter, asked me if I had a hat yet. I said no, so they decided to pick me up in the morning and we would go hat shopping together.
Calvin could not believe it when they pulled up. It was not mere skepticism, it was a frontal assault on everything he believed, as though someone had just produced evidence to him showing up is down or the world is a simulation.
"What? They wouldn't drive up here just to get you a hat. Tell me the real reason!"
Calvin had, sometime before, considered offering me his grandfather's helmet, used in some important conflict which totally escapes me. He may even have used fairly certain language about giving me this hat. I cannot know, because I am skeptical about Calvin's predictions of future events, even those within his control.
This has gotten me in some trouble at least twice.
My friend Karen came up to Calgary one week, and one evening we called "Music Night", inviting people to come over with instruments and we made strange sounds, had some laughs, and maybe even got some music out of it. Calvin was excited about doing this again while Karne and her violin were still there, and talked about having another one Friday afternoon.
I knew, because I knew Calvin, that this was the type of thing he would talk about but would never actually happen. Karen did not, and when Friday afternoon drew near she tried to impress upon me the importance of returning home, that I was insulting my friends by running late. Now, I remember giving a lengthy explanation that the event was impossible, no phone calls had been made, no emails sent, that this was all Calvin's fancy. She remembers this explanation as a shrug and a sigh, and was upset with me for some time later, even though the house was entirely abandoned when we arrived.
Calvin did get me once, because the correspondance was in email. Calvin, Clement, and I had talked for awhile about making a trip to Vancouver to see sights and friends. Calvin seemed quite excited about it, talking at length about how the real way to go was to take the bus because it was such a beautiful drive. As the dates approached, I was trying to get firm information from Calvin about booking the bus tickets, but his attitude had suddenly shifted. He didn't want to go all of a sudden, and why take the bus when you can just fly? I was pretty shocked. Maybe I missed the tone in the email, the underlying belief that this just wasn't going to happen. Clement had already booked flights. I managed to get the same plane out with him, and a later one back. Sometime during the week Calvin had even said that maybe he would still meet us out there, but I don't think Clement or I took that possibility very seriously.
That is all to say that while Calvin may have a firmer grip on the past than I, I was not going to believe he would lend me the hat until I had it in hand.
Dave, Sarah, and I drove all around Calgary looking for Tilley hats. This is a Canadian brand designed for marine use, and Dave is quite fond of his. We went to the store that used to sell him, and the proprietor suggested three places. The first one didn't exist, and he had the second one confused with a gay cruise line. After driving all over the city in humor and confusion I finally had my two hats: the Tilley and the pith helmet.
I said I might wear the hats on alternate days, but early on in the trip I found the Tilley too comfortable to give up. Moreover, it had a chin strap that held it firmly in place those very windy days. The strap on the helmet was too long, and it wasn't adjustable, so it didn't feel as secure.
But I think we made a strategic mistake when purchasing that hat. I have a preference for growing my curly hair out long and wild, but my trip began soon after my sister's wedding. My hair was shorn to show respect for that day, and still near its nadir on that silly day we bought the hat.
After nearly two months on the river, my hair was inching towards its more natural state. I do admit to using an off-brand shampoo on those few occasions when a shower has been available. This shampoo promises it is ideal for "Richness and Volume" or "R&V" by the label. This claim is highly doubtful, but certainly unnecessary for my hair which is naturally resplendent in "V". The Tilley hat was becoming too small for my head.
So I had just switched to using the pith helmet. It did fly off the first day in the wind, but I recovered it. I have worn it since then but gone hatless when the wind threatens to tear it off or strangle me with the chin strap.
Calvin, you have won a minor victory after your initial setback, but do not think the saga has ended.
It has only just begun.
Day 55 ended: 50*32.413N, 102*32.317W
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Day 54: For love or money
It was a day of rest at Crooked Lake, spent in the usual way. I showered, washed my clothes in the sink, recharged my batteries, read and wrote.
In my writing I reflected on a dream I had in the night. I was magically transported to Calgary, which promised me everything a city might offer. I could rent a large dilapidated iron foundry for $29 a month. It might lack some domestic conveniences at first, but the extra cash on hand would go a long way to relieve that. Women would fall at my feet, the air would be always clean and never too cold.
I turned this down for some vague feeling I should really be on the river instead. Who can say if I turned down a devilish temptation or providence's call out to a wayward son?
The $29, though. Dreams about money bother me. They usually come in a particular form. I will see at first some unusual, large coin on the ground, and pick it up, finding it to be valuable. Then there is another, and another, and the dream turns to greedy coin-collecting until it all vanishes at my waking.
It ruins the dream. The pleasant memory of a dream comes from visiting strange places with exotic rules of physics, saving people with your magical powers, fighting or running from terrifying monsters, falling in love with impossibly perfect women, or making love in impossibly public places. There is no pleasure in acquiring a wealth that is never spent.
The worst dream along these lines I had long ago, and I hope I do not bore you too much in relating it. Two lines of dejected people were filing into a stadium, and long-hooded men carried out caskets as the lines slowly advanced. I was told that the heads of the lines fought to the death in the stadium; the winner earned their heart's desire, and the loser was carried out like this. I chose one of the lines and waited my turn.
But when I reached the front, heading the other line was my heart's desire Herself, and I Hers. We did not fight but walked out together to the confusion of those evil monks. We enjoyed each other's company until some man stole the bag of coins I carried. I had to get it back, although She said this was not important. I defeated the thief and took back what was mine, but when I returned She was gone and I could not find Her.
I feel revulsion when I have these dreams. As in dreams, so in waking life I must waste time chasing such worthless valuable. When I was a child and had these dreams I could not believe the effort of acquisition was wasted, and I would actually search my room for the missing coins when I woke up, offended that they were not there.
This trip has been encumbered with money. I need it, I feel, to buy food, repair kits, and the occasional designated campsite. Oh sure, I could have done a lot of fishing, but even fishing has heavy costs if you do it legally; $100 per province by one estimate. The mythological stature of Christopher McCandless, of "Into the Wild", was that he began his trip by giving his bank balance to charity, and burning his cash. My savings give me a sense of security, knowing I could fail many times and still get back up. I worry this security has its costs in freedom.
I remember reading a story in English class about a boy, lost in the wilderness, using the $100 in his pocket to start a fire, to survive. The class balked at this waste of money; it was a symbol we were not ready for.
As I fed the flames of my cooking fire that night, the tender in my wallet itched. I felt like I had to turn just so, keep the right angle to protect it from the flames.
Day 54 ended: 50*36.218N, 102*40.335W
In my writing I reflected on a dream I had in the night. I was magically transported to Calgary, which promised me everything a city might offer. I could rent a large dilapidated iron foundry for $29 a month. It might lack some domestic conveniences at first, but the extra cash on hand would go a long way to relieve that. Women would fall at my feet, the air would be always clean and never too cold.
I turned this down for some vague feeling I should really be on the river instead. Who can say if I turned down a devilish temptation or providence's call out to a wayward son?
The $29, though. Dreams about money bother me. They usually come in a particular form. I will see at first some unusual, large coin on the ground, and pick it up, finding it to be valuable. Then there is another, and another, and the dream turns to greedy coin-collecting until it all vanishes at my waking.
It ruins the dream. The pleasant memory of a dream comes from visiting strange places with exotic rules of physics, saving people with your magical powers, fighting or running from terrifying monsters, falling in love with impossibly perfect women, or making love in impossibly public places. There is no pleasure in acquiring a wealth that is never spent.
The worst dream along these lines I had long ago, and I hope I do not bore you too much in relating it. Two lines of dejected people were filing into a stadium, and long-hooded men carried out caskets as the lines slowly advanced. I was told that the heads of the lines fought to the death in the stadium; the winner earned their heart's desire, and the loser was carried out like this. I chose one of the lines and waited my turn.
But when I reached the front, heading the other line was my heart's desire Herself, and I Hers. We did not fight but walked out together to the confusion of those evil monks. We enjoyed each other's company until some man stole the bag of coins I carried. I had to get it back, although She said this was not important. I defeated the thief and took back what was mine, but when I returned She was gone and I could not find Her.
I feel revulsion when I have these dreams. As in dreams, so in waking life I must waste time chasing such worthless valuable. When I was a child and had these dreams I could not believe the effort of acquisition was wasted, and I would actually search my room for the missing coins when I woke up, offended that they were not there.
This trip has been encumbered with money. I need it, I feel, to buy food, repair kits, and the occasional designated campsite. Oh sure, I could have done a lot of fishing, but even fishing has heavy costs if you do it legally; $100 per province by one estimate. The mythological stature of Christopher McCandless, of "Into the Wild", was that he began his trip by giving his bank balance to charity, and burning his cash. My savings give me a sense of security, knowing I could fail many times and still get back up. I worry this security has its costs in freedom.
I remember reading a story in English class about a boy, lost in the wilderness, using the $100 in his pocket to start a fire, to survive. The class balked at this waste of money; it was a symbol we were not ready for.
As I fed the flames of my cooking fire that night, the tender in my wallet itched. I felt like I had to turn just so, keep the right angle to protect it from the flames.
Day 54 ended: 50*36.218N, 102*40.335W
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Day 53, part 2: A little caution
The wind on Crooked Lake was going due east, my purposed direction. I saw cottages all along the northern shore, gulls everywhere, and pelicans on the sandy points. One pelican did not settle for the black skull cap worn by the others. He seemed to have a long black wig, down to his shoulders. Queer bird.
I began to see campers and boats on the shore and knew I was near the Provincial Park. Large storm clouds were building behind me. The wind picked up, throwing decent waves at me and making it difficult to steer. I put on my life vest. The waves washed me ashore at a beach between the park's two campgrounds.
I walked up to the registration booth. It was self-registration during the week. I went back to the canoe and paddled to the first water site beyond the beach.
A man hailed me as I approached the campsite. He was wearing blue coveralls unzipped a few inches revealing white hair on his chest. White hair spilled out from under his blue cap as well. The cap read "Svein Bryeide Construction Ltd", but I did not notice that yet.
"So are you into wild parties and loud music?" I said.
He answered without irony. "No, I never really got into that."
"Me neither." This was going to be a quiet campsite, which made me happy.
We talked about my trip. Svein Bryeide had run a construction company for 30 years, working for the oil industry. He had no thought of retiring yet. He and his wife Mariann had graduated from tent camping, to a tent trailer, to a camper top, to a trailer camper. He claimed the current model had a living room with "a chesterfield and a fireplace", and that might have been true. It seems like a luxurious way to travel. They were taking a week's vacation at Crooked Lake, visiting friends in the area.
I was canoeing through southern Canada, and I was traveling alone. I was exposed to all the dangers of the waters.
"But a little caution goes a long way," Svein said.
"What's that?" I didn't hear.
"A little caution."
"Oh, yeah."
"Still, probably safer out there than on the highways."
Svein's comment stirred far more latent emotions in me than he could have expected. Every time someone had tried to point out the risks involved in the trip I was making, I wanted to tell them to look at the risks they accepted everyday. Driving is not safe for being common. There was more.
My friend Melissa had been a constant companion in Calgary. I was not there long before she invited me to go hiking with her, which became something we did any time the weather was warm. The Canadian Rockies are beautiful in the summer. You will never run out of places to walk, no matter what your skill level. Clement often came hiking too. Sarah also frequently joined us.
The winter is often hard on me, and the 2007 Canadian winter was no exception. I felt uneasy, the things I took pride in were valueless, everything I did was wrong, I had no value as a man to women. It is a difficult state of mind. When you don't care for what you can do, you try all those you can't and that only confirms your ineffectiveness.
I began to lean on my friend Melissa. It is strange how friendships can evolve. Sometimes they can become deep quite suddenly, sometimes they can totter on that edge and then back off. One night I called her in an almost manic state and she calmed me down. She did not doubt I had value. She was patient as I wavered in spilling myself out to her. She was going to Australia in the summer but there was time enough to talk before and after that.
I decided to stay in Calgary for my PhD.
I also decided to build a boat. Some year of undergrad I built one out of cardboard and duct tape. It was easy and it was hard and it took my mind off of some things. It was a success and a failure; it died on its maiden voyage. I was floating under the engineering building when a pipe opened overhead, and the inside was all wet cardboard.
I decided to build a better boat. A wooden canoe, and I looked until I found the easiest plans to build a decent canoe. It would be a JEM Merrimac, and the plans cost about $50. I ordered the wood on June 14, 2007.
The next day was very bad.
"My friend died about a year ago. She never got to go to Australia, and she'd been planning that trip for years." I was speaking wildly.
"It happens to everyone," Svein said.
I hadn't explained anything. He looked away.
"It's always hard," he said.
Day 53 ended: 50*36.218N, 102*40.335W
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