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| [Note Guidelines] Photographer's Note |
FINALLY...
Once fall semester started, I haven't had much time for anything except schoolwork. Today was no exception. But as I was sitting at my desk doing some lab stuff for Petrology, I got to thinking about Quetico again, and this time, I couldn't shut it out of my mind.
I thought about the quiet, the wildlife, the solitude, and the feeling of being completely alone in the wilderness. I thought about the way my paddle feels in my hands, and the way my little canoe bobs like a cork over the rolling waves. I thought about the nights around my campfires; my small crackling glow of Heaven amidst nights so black, you can see every star in your visible half of the Universe staring back at you with a light as ancient as time itself.
The cool autumn breeze was blowing into my room from the open window, gently fluttering the corners of my stack of papers, whispering things to me that I know I must be crazy to understand. When I felt it touch me, it ran from my fingers to my elbow in slow motion, then up my arm to my shoulder, and finally, down across my chest and directly into my soul. The words on my lab reports started to jumble into an incoherent mess of hurried English characters, and at that moment, I felt like I was trapped. Suddenly, the old house became a dark and stifling prison, and I couldn't take the sensation any longer.
Enough was enough. It was time for my last paddle of the season.
So I put away my books and dug my fishing pole and paddle out of my closet, and I loaded the canoe onto the pickup for the last time this year. Longing for some new water to cover, I drove to East Grand Forks and hit the Red Lake River, just upstream of the little dam, at around three in the afternoon.
I pushed off from the landing and headed upstream, and before I rounded the first bend, my heart was already at peace. There's something about paddling a canoe that awakens my deepest emotions, brings light to the darkest regions of what's left of my soul, and washes me with a sense of calm that simply cannot be replicated in any other part of my life. When it is just me and the river, and the paddle is steadily translating our silence into the timeless language of our most distant past, there is nowhere else on Earth I would rather be.
Unlike the Red River of the North, the Red Lake River is clean and peaceful. Today there was no shifting to ride out the wake of speeding boats, no garbage lining the banks, and no cursing at the unbelievable tenacity of Valley mud. No, the Red Lake River is a secret wonder, an oasis.
It was late in the afternoon when I hit the water, and the cool breeze became cooler and cooler as the sun sank lower towards the Western horizon. The trees were starting to show the brilliant colors of autumn, and tiny armadas of yellow and crimson floated past me as I made my way against the current. I stopped in a couple of places to rest and check out some tracks along the banks, but I wasn't to see any wildlife on this trip. Just a snapping turtle, some birds, and a pair of red squirrels chasing one another throughout the treetops.
But no matter, because it was just me and the river, and we had a lot of conversing to do.
I paddled the five or so miles to the highway 220 bridge, where someone has built a giant rope-swing over the water, and has thus created a prime spot for lazy afternoons of cold beer and warm sunshine. But nobody was there today, so after making a few casts into some swirling water, I turned around and started the journey home. No fish on the table today, though I saw plenty of them plucking flies off the surface and then disappearing back into the murky depths. I made a promise to myself that next year, I will take up fly fishing.
The trip back was with the current and the wind, and though neither were of any strength today, the banks seemed to go by much faster. I made it back to the East Grand Forks landing in just over three hours total time, putting my average speed around four miles per hour. Not bad considering my frequent stops for photographs. Tired, sore, and hungry, I loaded up the canoe and headed back to the grindstone; my mind already wondering where the coming spring will take me.
So long as it's just me, my canoe, and quiet waters, it doesn't really matter... |
tnahari, MT900spg, kross1 has marked this note useful
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