Canoe of Destruction

There were two eagle sightings, two different kinds of woodpeckers, and multiple unidentified bird calls and unintended mallard-scarings. Winter canoeing can be a quiet sort of adventure, good for unexpected birding– except, perhaps, when there is ice-chopping required. It takes a certain kind of person – or really, a certain kind of attitude – to want to launch a canoe in the middle of winter. It’s something in between a desire for adventure, willingness to don many layers of clothing, and curiosity. Plenty of people float the river in the summer and fall, but who does it in the snow? When my friend Peter suggested this idea two years ago, I thought he was a little bit bonkers – but I went along for the ride, and I have to admit, I’m hooked. The river is peaceful in the snow, and has a character distinct from its summer form. And there’s something about enjoying an activity that makes people go “huh?” that makes me feel a little bit hard core.

Whether or not my friends Rosa and Nick were as skeptical as I was that first year, I’m glad they came along for the ride – and not only because the journey hinged on Nick’s father’s radical three-person canoe. I like people who are up for a little adventure, and, like the crew in Kalamazoo, I felt totally confident in our abilities to take care of each other in case of mishap.

Getting the canoe from Lake DuBay was a small adventure in itself – mostly because the canoe was about as long as my car. But my ratchet straps did their duty, and it drove like a breeze despite its comical look. Between the canoe haul and our previous scouting of the Plover River to determine its winter navigability, we had used up half of northern Wisconsin’s daily winter light allotment, and planned to rendezvous at Rosa and Nick’s the next morning.

We dropped a car at Iverson Park, and piled into the canoe-loaded Camry to put in underneath the footbridge at Jordan Park. Both Rosa and I had canoed this stretch of river in warmer months, and anticipated a number of obstacles in the form of brush, branches, and trunks across the river. Conveniently, Nick’s three-person canoe came complete with a set of oars. We figured if we became frustrated with endless portages due to ice or debris, we would just turn ourselves around on the meandering current and row and paddle ourselves back where we came from.

 The oars were not used for retreat, but they did do their fair share of ice-chopping. There’s a certain point after which you don’t want to turn back. Where the river bent round sharp curves, the edge ice reached out and kissed the center of the river. We plowed through with out giant canoe, and where that wasn’t enough, paddles and oars were engaged in voracious ice-slamming. Eventually, thanks mostly to Nick’s persistence, the “Northwest Passage” of the Plover was achieved.

Edge ice makes it tricky to pull over, but we found a spot – after a bit more ice-chopping- to extract our canoe, and feasted on pita bread, popcorn, and cheese. Scouting the coming ice, we decided on a portage, and slid our canoe, sled-like, over snow and branches to a place where the water was open and clear.

Finishing it’s frigid voyage at Iverson Park – victoriously, having arrived before dark with no wet or frozen passengers – the Canoe of Destruction re-claimed its seat of honor on my ever-faithful Camry roof, and headed home.

For the canoers – happy enough that the “Fun Til Death” canoeing mantra had erred on the side of “fun” on this adventure – warm beverages, a good tuck-in, and a peaceful winter night’s rest were in order.

Northern Reflections

Snow has at long last graced the landscape here in north-central Wisconsin, and the world is transformed. The laying down of this blanket uncovers far more than it covers, and reveals more than it disguises. Animals that slunk about in the early days of winter now leave evidence of their every terrestrial move. Recognizing tracks is not my specialty, but I do follow them on occasion. There is something comforting – and mystical – about traveling the path of a deer or a hare or a coyote. I trust a good deer path. The other day, on a woodland ramble, I traced a ledge carved into the side of the hill behind Minister Lake. This sliver of a footpath would have been all but imperceptible to my eyes without the thin line of hoof prints unwinding the puzzle between trees, brush, and snow. Smack-dab in the middle of the path, the deer seemed to lie down, or rustle around for something. An area of snow matted down, partially decayed leaves unearthed, I wondered if this is where my deer had spent the night. Or had it merely found a meal beneath the snow?

The previous evening, returning to my house with handfuls of laundry, the sounds of the world ceased to sound. For a moment, all I possessed was vision, and my vision took me into another world. The deer came unexpected, catching my attention with a bounding jump that seemed to require no energy at all. Its movement was so seemingly effortless, and the light just so – the sun had already set and the world was journeying into a deep wintery dusk – that I was drawn not only out of my own mind, but nearly out of my own body. The first deer made another leap through the falling snow, drawing my attention to its runner up, who moved with the same graceful enchantment as the first. There were three in all, and I watched them until they were gone from sight – bounding their way into the fading colors of the wood. I have almost never seen a single deer. Their tracks run in curves and parallels – deer, it seems, like the company of friends, but are no copycats.

Eventually, I made my own way in the woods above Minister Lake. I had never wandered this far around its edge before, and I happened upon a cluster of small white pines. They were dwarfed by almost every surrounding tree - short enough that I had to stoop low to clear the outer branches upon entering this sacred space. The stillness was unrivaled. I was surprised – and not surprised – at the boisterousness of my own movements. As soon as I stopped – nothing. One could never hope to win a game of hide and seek with an animal of the forest. The spaces between the pines were just right for hiding me, though. I felt as if I was in an open and airy home. At a clearing in the midst of that enchanted place, I looked up to the sky and said: thank-you.

Then, I plodded home happy, in all my noisy glory.

Mental Floss

Running and I have had a long affair. It began grudgingly in middle school, when my father kicked me out of the house to run around the block, which was about half a mile. I barely made it round. In the 8th grade, for reasons unknown, I joined the cross country team. I wore Winnie-the-Pooh boxer shorts and an oversized t-shirt, and don't remember too much about the season, except for our Wednesday runs to McDonalds, where I spent 68 cents on ice-cream and then somehow ran the mile and a half back to school, and the "epic" five-miler at the end of the season. I ran real slow. I had no goal or ambition with the sport, never came close to winning a race, and was scared off by the cult-ish high-schoolers the next fall. Instead, I played in the marching band - which, at our school, counted as a gym credit. My senior year, we had a brass coach that whipped us into shape with in-step "breathing blocks," where twenty or more of us ran in time to the click-click-click of a wood block and breathed in for four counts, out for four - in for four counts, out for eight - in for four counts, out for twenty, pushing every ounce of air out of our lungs in hopes of building that muscle stronger. In the winter, I ran laps around the hallways with the softball team - twenty seven times around the school, the centripetal force of ourselves whipping us around each corner, past lockers and pictures of state champion teams. The point was never the running, although I don't remember minding the repetition. Funny, the things that stick with you.

The summer after graduation, I worked on my uncle's dairy farm milking cows. Up at 6am, down to the barn, back at 10 for food - and maybe a nap, which was a new concept to me - milk again in the evening, stay up late laughing and watching movies. In the middle of the day, I would run. One day in July, I came back to the house red in the face. My aunt and uncle took one look at my ridiculously flushed 18 year old face and said that I might want to reconsider my choice to run at noon in the hottest part of the summer. Looking back, I think I ran that summer because one of my upcoming classes for my first semester in college was Wellness, and I knew I would have to run. And run I did. The professor, also the track coach, ran a running class. I remember feeling a lot of freedom as we pounded the streets of Holland, Michigan on our thrice-weekly route. I remember feeling good, despite the required heart-rate monitor strapped around my chest. Now, I don't claim to be any sort of super-star runner, but I will claim a certain amount of perfectionism entwined in my personality - positively spun as a dogged work ethic - and my lack of slacking off seemed to impress the professor/coach, who cajoled me several times to join the track team in the spring.

I did. It was one of those decisions that, for better or worse, changes your life. Up until that spring, I had dabbled in running, but after that semester, like it or not, I became a runner. Again, I was no star, and never claimed to be -- but keeping up with a troop of my peers who had been dedicated competing runners for years was a marked accomplishment for me. I still remember very clearly the first day of practice. It was mid-January, a sunny day with some melting snow. I wore warm-up pants, a cotton t-shirt, a long-sleeve cotton shirt, and a cotton sweatshirt, with gloves and a hat. The coach, who was about 6 foot 2 and thin as a rail, said that we would just go out for "an easy five miles." My eyeballs about popped out of my head as I tried to keep it cool. Five miles, as you might recall, was my capstone run of my only bout with cross country - over five years ago. I hadn't run even close to five miles since then. Halfway around the route, I was sweating through my many layers of cotton, panting and wondering if I could make it to the end. One group of girls had zoomed by long ago. But there was one who hung back, just a little, and kept telling me I could make it. So began my adventure with track.

I hated the meets. I hated getting dressed up in the skimpy little outfit they gave us with my white, white legs and gaudy white running shoes, and lining up on that bare-as-bones track with everyone watching. I hated having to run fast under pressure, and the nervous anticipation that preceded it. As I said, I was no star. In fact, I came in dead last in every single race except one. That one race - the one where I finished SECOND to last - was my shining moment, and the one time I dipped under the 6 minute mile mark. I am no speedster. But the encouragement I got from my teammates was substantial. I was never made to feel as if I was dragging anyone down, and in fact, think I surprised a few folks. At our first meet, an indoor race in February, I was told that I would be a part of a relay. "Alright," I said, "but you'll have to give me a quick lesson on passing the baton first." I think that was when they realized that I was really a rookie. "You've NEVER passed a baton before?" Well, I didn't drop it.

As much as I hated the competition, I loved the practices. I don't think the back of my legs stopped being sore all semester, but I loved the rhythm of every long run, and the camaraderie that came between the group of girls I was finally able to keep up with. I got to know the streets of Holland better than I ever would have in a car, and my leg muscles better than I would have merely climbing the steps of the library - of which I also did plenty.

I never ran track again, but the love of running has never left. The farthest I ran in college was 8.5 miles, the summer after track - just because. Running has taken plenty of hits when I have been busy and stressed - factors that have come into play far too often in my life, if you ask me - but it is always there, faithfully awaiting my return, when I decide to come back to it. Besides the occasional side stitch, it never begrudges my absence, and always returns faithfully back into my life when I return to it.

I have gone through years of unremembered tennis shoes, but the rhythm is always the same. One foot in front of the other, breathe in, breathe out, stretch, repeat. Some say it is like meditation. It is mental floss, strengthening my brain as it strengthens my legs. Moving forward. Exploring the lay of the land. There is no better way to keep yourself in the present moment than to demand your of your mind to stay there with your body. At this, running excels.

In Vanuatu, I had to stick to jumping rope. But running was there for me still when I came home, almost as if I'd never left. In 2011, I spent the winter training solo for the Kalamazoo marathon, a distance I swore was ridiculous and would never run. I loved it.

But the marathon wasn't the capstone. I haven't gone down, or up, from that point. Only forward. In the book "Born to Run," one of the characters, Caballo Blanco, tells the narrator that running is about thinking "easy, light, smooth, and fast." And when you have got the first three, he says, you don't even have to think about the forth, because it's already there. I've been thinking about that this week as I run, especially when the wind and hills pick up. The rhythm keeps me going, and makes me feel light and free and alive. Clears my brain and raises my confidence.

So when people look at me as if I'm a little bonkers for going out in below-freezing temps for a little job, I think I'd be bonkers not to go. There's nothing in this world that makes me come home to myself more than running. And if I find something, I suspect I'll do that in any weather as well.