For Love of Lakes

Hastening Slowly

· · 54 · · Hastening Slowly Whatisitthatwearenotseeing? Whatisitthatwearenothearing? TERRY TEMPEST WILLIAMS Of the available means of travel from one watery place to another, the canoe, with mile made stroke by stroke, yard by yard, must surely be the slowest. While that may be true for miles covered, what if the destination is to understand, to establish dialogue with a lake? Measures of speed depend on one’s destination. I discovered this truth my first time in a canoe during summer break from college at the invitation of a friend. Pat asked me to join him for a weekend canoe trip on a lake now part of Voyageurs National Park. I had traveled the border lakes by motorboat for two summers but had never set foot in a canoe. I readily agreed to go. Pat’s family cabin, near the mouth of the Ash River, served as our jumpoffpoint .Packsfilledwithtent,sleepingbags,andprovisionssatassembled on the dock. Pat retrieved the canoe from beside the cabin and set it in the water. The green canvas-covered wood craft bobbed light as a leaf alongside the dock. Its sleek symmetry, simple design, and gently upturned ends spoke of a heritage little changed over the millennia, a craft born into an · · 55 · · understanding of lake. Tiny cracks in the paint and well-worn seats revealed this to be a seasoned veteran of lake outings. As I began to step aboard, Pat warned me, “Canoes are a little tippy, step onto the midline.” I stepped onto the wood ribs and the canoe wiggled as though it were alive. I took my paddle and settled into the bow seat. After explaining the proper way to hold the paddle, Pat demonstrated the forward stroke and draw stroke, and we were off. The mists of time blur most of the details of that first experience. I don’t recall if we caught fish or even if we tried. I remember little of the weather, the precise route we took, where we camped, number of miles covered, or even our destination. I do remember unpracticed arms so sore they groaned for mercy before the end of the second mile. Most of all I remember sensing how the canoe put me into a new relationship with the lake. I sat much lower and, with the narrowing at the bow, so much closer to the water than when in a boat. My lower hand on the paddle could directly touch the waves. I could wet my fingers in their coolness. I could dip a cup of water and drink. I learned that with practice I could even point a dripping paddle skyward and let its water run down the blade and feel at least some of it dribble into my mouth. Fully loaded, the canoe drew less than three inches of water, allowing us to slip easily through beds of reeds and lily leaves. We explored shore edges and shallow bays where no motorboat could possibly pass. I watched amazed at the countless insects large and small that walked or hopped on the surface of the floating plants at my fingertips. The distinctive smell that distinguishes lake from land seemed so crisp, so penetrating, when sitting at its source, undiluted by a motor’s fumes. Though not in the water, I was surely of the water. • • • Pat’s plan called for us to leave the lake on which we began some miles after launching and carry our belongings, canoe and all, to another lake and to a wonderful realization: With a bit of help from us, the canoe could take us wherever we wished. The craft freed us from inconvenient geography. How liberating! hastening slowly landscapes· · 56 · · Ialsodiscoveredsilence,silencethatenabledmetohearthewindinthe rushes, the lap of water against the skin of canvas, the calling frogs. For the first time I felt the pulse of a lake. By slowing us to the pace of a walk, Pat’s canoe freed my senses to inhale the lake experience, to flood my mind with lake, to feel an intimacy I had never known. ...