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Lake Agassiz’s Child
- Michigan State University Press
- Chapter
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· · 99 · · Lake Agassiz’s Child Landscapeisnot“land,”itisnot“nature,”anditisnotspace.... Aplaceowesitscharactertotheexperienceitaffordstothosewho spendtimethere,tothesightsandsounds,andindeedsmellsthat constituteitsspecificambience.Andtheseinturn,dependonthe kindsofactivitiesinwhichitsinhabitantsengage. TIM INGOLD Lake Winnipeg lies in the Canadian Province of Manitoba, some seventy miles north of North Dakota and Minnesota. It is the largest surviving remnant of Glacial Lake Agassiz. Geri and I left the Winnipeg suburbs several hoursagoheadingnorthtoseewhatwecanlearnfromthis,thetenthlargest body of freshwater in the world. The ends of our double cockpit sea kayak stick far beyond the ends of our car. The boat looks like a streamlined red-and-white pterodactyl with folded wings that could take flight on a whim, carrying the car off as though captured prey. We arrive at Grand Rapids, situated on the northwest shore of Lake Winnipeg, Mistehay Sakahegan (“Great Lake”) to the Cree, where the Saskatchewan River empties the waters of a thousand prairie streams into the big lake. We arrange to leave our car in the police parking lot for the sixteen days we expect to be on the lake and set up camp in a primitive public campground at the edge of town. Morning awakens calm and sunny, the midnight thundershower now far east across the vast lake. Two pelicans sit on floating wood as we launch lakescapes· · 100 · · at the mouth of the river. Arms and paddle soon flow in relaxed rhythm. At 260 miles long and 60 miles across at its widest, this lake is a third the size of Lake Superior. We plan to paddle north along the west shore, then east across the top of the lake to Warren’s Landing, then on to the Cree settlement at Norway House. We will return to our car by the same route in reverse, 230 miles in all. • • • The lake has a legendary reputation. Numerous lake freighters and lives have been lost to its storms. The lake has been described as a “boiling, raging cauldron of unleashed fury.” Experienced wilderness paddler Roger Terenne says, “It happens so quickly. Lake Superior gives you fifteen minutes from calm to dangerous waters. But with Lake Winnipeg you get five.” Adventurer Phil Manaigne has said, “It’s definitely the roughest meanest lake in Canada. One minute it charms you and fifteen minutes later it tries to kill you.” I understand. I paddled this lake with college friends decades ago, before I met Geri or read those words. On the map the shoreline subtends a broad arc for over ninety miles, west to east, across the lake’s north end. Smooth curves on a lake map often mean sandy shores. The beaches here are of limestone pebbles, limestone blocks the size of children’s tables, and limestone sea cliffs. Modest wind and waves and Geri’s aching forearm slow progress, and we decide to land on a steeply sloped pebble beach. I fear for the kayak’s thin skin in an encounter with the sharp limestone. We leap into the water and finally manage to drag the kayak over driftwood onto the beach. A limestone block provides us a perfect kitchen, and we discover a tent site among the large stones. Morning. The lake is glass. Half an hour into paddling a wolf howl breaks the stillness. Now we see him, coal black body sauntering down the long pebbly strand headed in our direction. Our paddles freeze. The craft’s momentum carries us silently across the shining surface on a line toward shore. The distance between wolf and kayak closes and the animal, incredibly, doesn’t sense our presence. We watch in breathtaking silence as he trots leisurely past. How magnificent! · · 101 · · A limestone cobble island glistens white with pelicans, gulls, and terns. They rise in an alabaster cloud and drift out over the lake as though the land itself has levitated and floated away. Only the cacophony of bird voices reveals truth. What a magnificent bird, the white pelican. White body, black-fringed wings spanning up to nine feet, ridiculously large bill and mouth pouch—a master of graceful flight. I’ve watched pelicans rise on thermals, becoming mere specks in the sky, visible only when flying crossways to me, disappearing as the flock turned on the spiral toward me. Now you see them, now you don’t. The magic comes when they defy gravity and glide mere inches above the water, wingtip to wingtip, in motionless motion. A pine marten in glistening black fur scampers across limestone pebbles from the water’s edge into the woods. A relay of eagles...