Paddle Up

Sometimes in the throes of those uncomfortable August nights, there’s a near-overwhelming urge to slide the little green canoe into the water and paddle up the river, which by now has almost no current thanks to the old damn down toward town. It’s muggy and stale, and the evening belongs to the bonfire’s glow and mosquitoes that show up in droves, thirsty for their fill. If I put the canoe in the water now, there’s little chance that I’ll have to worry about boats because everyone is winding down for the night and have been for some time. 

From the river, if I paddle quiet enough, it’s possible to pick up the soft murmur of voices inside cottages, maybe playing cards and swilling down tasty drinks, or reminiscing of Kawartha cottage memories from times long since past with friends or family long since gone. 

I’ll pass the mouth of the creek with the iron bridge that the trailer park kids love to jump from and glide effortlessly past the year-round residents on the east side of the bank, now within sight of the narrows where the lake funnels into the river. Once I’m there, I’ll fight what little current chugs through there, past the four cottages set hundreds of feet from the water with their giant manicured lawns which always baffles me; why escape from home where you have to cut grass, only to come to the cottage and…have to cut grass? 

I’m approaching the sandbar now – you’ve got a pretty good idea which body of water I’m on by now – and once I’m on top of it, I’ll drive the paddle into the sand, momentarily stepping into the soup-warm water before continuing on. Somewhere down the lake I can hear the drone of a motor buzzing across the water in a location unseen, and frankly I’ll be more than content to keep it that way. Even though they’re all the way over there and I’m all the way over here, they still seem too close, too loud, and too invasive to the experience. 

There’s just enough light bouncing off the surface of the water from the last of the suns’ glow to betray the presence of tens of thousands of mayflies hatching, flying vertically before becoming completely spent and crashing to the waters’ surface where, without a doubt in my mind, bass and maybe even some sneaky walleye will make a meal out of them. They’ll also inevitably end up on the side of every cottage, shed, garage and bunkie near the water with a light on. 

The paddle slices through the now-oily looking water without so much as a sound, the canoe cutting across the far end of the sandbar while the big dipper makes its presence known above, a crescent moon rising out of the tops of red pines and cedars. It’s here that I stop, point the bow of the canoe back the way that I came, and put the paddle down. 

For a few moments, I lay down on the bottom of the canoe and stare up while the rest of the lake goes to sleep, and for those few brief moments while the choir of critters along the shore sings their tune, the lake is mine. 

Mike Fitzgerald is an avid outdoorsman and knowledgable homesteader who writes for multiple publications about living off the land. You can follow him on his adventures via instagram as @omnivore.culture