For Jaimie.
Sean leaned into the paddle and drove the canoe forward into the driving rain, rain that bounced off the hard, sepia-tinted surface of the lake like pearls. Wishing his son Tyler was in the bow to lend some muscle, he sighed, resigned that he was on his own this time.
Shrugging off the thought, and the trickles of water that ran down the back of his neck, he settled into the steady, connected rhythm that would get him across the open water leading to the first portage, maybe even catch up with the canoe that shimmered in and out of his vision away off in the forward distance.
Strength and speed didn’t move a canoe towards a destination, continuous motion did. He focused on the tension of the paddle against the water, his hips feeling the canoe shift and glide beneath him. Gradually the sodden, grey horizon resolved into the treeline on the far shore, and he squinted against the rain, seeking out the portage. He knew it was tucked into a cove just to one side of a headland marked by a lightning-blasted tree. Waves and rain gave way to a rocky promontory, the stark carcass of a white pine emerging as he drew closer. He began to search for the portage trailhead…there it was, a shadowed opening in the forest, and then he spied the blazes on the trees.
Slipping over the rocky bottom visible under the calm water of the sheltered cove, he eased the canoe onto the beach. There was another groove in the sand - must be from the canoe he saw earlier. He hoped the other party wouldn’t snag his favourite campsite just beyond the portage.
Leaving that to fate, he scrambled out of the canoe, hauled it up a few paces, and began unlashing his kit and removing it for toting. Slipping the largest bag over his shoulder, he grabbed the other two and stepped into the forest.
The trees and rain closed in on him like a cloak as he moved up the trail – portages always seemed to go up! – taking care with the placement of his feet on the muddy, rocky path. No bird song, just the tramp of his feet and the patter of rain. After twenty minutes or so, he emerged on the other side, dropped his burdens, and had a blow as he looked for the other canoe…there it was, slipping around a peninsula about a quarter mile off, shrouded in rain and mist.
Eager to catch up, he trotted back down the path, and with a practiced lift and swing of the hips, hoisted his canoe onto his shoulders, the yoke settling onto the life jacket he had left for just such a purpose. Hustling along the trail, he was soon at the new beach and he set his craft in the water. Stowing his gear and tying it down, he stepped in and pushed off.
As he rounded the peninsula, the rain eased up and he could see quite a distance, but no sign of the other canoe. Maybe it was a trick of the weather and he had only imagined it - a ghost canoe, ha-ha. No matter, the task at hand was enough and he bent to it, wanting to make the camp site and set up before it started to rain again.
Luck was on his side. He arrived to find it empty, and with an hour or more of daylight left. He disembarked, shuttled his drybags up to a rocky ledge that was partly sheltered by scrub brush, and quickly prepared his campsite. Chores finished, he soon had a pot of stew bubbling on his cook stove. After wolfing it down and washing the utensils with sand, he hung the food pack high in a tree and considered a fire. He cast an eye overhead and saw a few stars, and figured it was worth a try. Dry wood could always be found if you knew where to look, and he had brought along a few prepared tinder bundles – dried grass and twigs – and soon had a decent blaze going.
Easing back against a rock, he reflected on the day and his decision to come in the first place. He and Tyler did an annual trek, and as the time approached this year, his main feeling was aching loss - Tyler hadn’t made it because he was dead.
He didn’t think he could manage the trek emotionally but had a glimmer of an idea that it might help bring some…connection, closure, aw hell, he didn’t know what. It was just a growing feeling that it was right to come anyway, that somehow it would honor Tyler. His son. The boy that smiled like a sunrise, could paddle all day, and still have the wit and energy to rank his old man for being…old.
He leaned back and looked up at the sky, remembering the night it happened, the late-night knock on the door, and the solemn highway patrolman asking if he could come in for a moment. There had been an accident, he said, a truck that jack-knifed across the road, and…he didn’t hear much after that, just a roaring in his head, and he felt a cold clenching fist clamping around his guts as the details were related. After closing the door on the departing officer, he had sunk down to the floor, weeping, inarticulate sounds that caught in his throat. In time, he managed to breathe again, and pulled himself to his feet, thinking to call his ex-wife, whom Tyler had lived with. He had no idea what he’d say, but she’d be hurting too…
Moisture on his face broke his fugue – was it raining again? No, just tears. He doused the fire and cocooned himself in the tent, falling into a fitful slumber.
Waking early, he watched the tent walls lighten gradually until they were a warm golden colour. His bladder insisted he abandon his cozy sleeping bag, and he emerged into the day, a day that was looking fine.
Sore from the previous day’s exertions, he unslung his food pack, liberated the stove, and got some water boiling. While he waited, he looked around and admired the morning mist rising off the lake like spirits, rose and amber tinged from the rays of the rising sun. He made coffee and sipped slowly and gratefully, watching the day come alive.
Tyler used to tease him about his morning java, saying things like, “if you want to wake up, why don’t you knock off twenty push-ups”, or “Dad, just drive to work on the wrong side of the road, that’ll get your heart going”, or “stick a fork into the toaster.” A quirky kid, no doubt about it, with his own unique take on the world. If he went into Tyler’s room in the morning to rouse him, throwing open the curtains, Tyler would say “Dad! Too many photons!” And he had a good heart, too. Once, when he was helping him with his math homework, teaching him about averaging, Tyler had said, “oh, it’s just like sharing.”
Despite the dull ache the memories provoked, Sean chuckled and began to put together the makings of breakfast. His meal soon done, he broke camp, loaded up the canoe, and began gliding across the glassy water of the lake, scattering water-skaters, and being buzzed by the occasional dragonfly.
As he passed by a marshy area, a startled heron took off with a squawk like a duck with a bad cold, only to land a hundred metres further on, a pattern that continued for a time, no matter how hard he tried to sneak up on it. His companion for the morning. Tyler would have named him by now, “Mr. Squawk”, or “Miss High-Pockets” or some such, counting down the approach sotto voce as they crept up, immersed in the game of it.
After the fourth or fifth jump, he was squinting into the distance to see where it was perching next, and thought he saw a canoe ahead, disappearing into the shadows close to shore. The thing was, if you could see another canoe, you could usually hear it, too – the rap of a paddle on the gunnel, or the mutter of distant voices – but he heard nothing above the buzz of insects and the occasional gurgle of his own paddle. Ghostly indeed.
A short while later he moved onto the shore and made a lunch of cheese, hard salami, and dates, watching a garter snake slither across the ground as he munched. Hunger satisfied, he leaned back and stretched out, weighing the relative benefits of nap versus a swim.
Tyler would be swimming, for sure. Over to the other side of the lake so he could dive off that cliff. Thinking of how much life the boy had in him, he choked back a sudden sob, feeling the loss of that being cut off. No chance to see him grow into manhood. Maybe have some kids. He would make a great father. Would have.
The grief still came in sudden waves, and he had learned to ride them until they subsided. There had been some very black days, even weeks, where it was unrelenting. Being out here helped though. The natural setting seemed to accept his emotions, soaking them up and transmuting them into a semblance of peace.
He decided against both a nap and a swim; best to keep moving.
A light breeze ruffled the water and pressed against the side of the canoe, causing him to paddle continuously on the opposite side. Kneeling on the bottom, he shifted forward and slightly off-centre, lowering his profile and using the curve of the canoe to compensate for paddling on one side.
Peering ahead to look for the landmarks leading to his next camp site, he spotted the ghost canoe again as it slipped around a rocky outcrop about 400 metres ahead. Got you, he thought and re-doubled his efforts to close the distance. He rounded the outcropping and slipped into a long, narrow inlet with a low rocky bench backed by a meadow on one side and a cliff crowned with pines on the other. Although he could see to the end, there was no sign of the canoe. No portage either, so where had it gone?!
He must be seeing things, his imagination getting the best of him. He let go of the idea and continued up the channel, water still as a tomb now that he was out of the wind. And then he suddenly recognized the location: he and Tyler had camped here for a couple of days some years ago. Coming across a break in the bench that offered a sandy pull-out, he landed the canoe and got out to have a look around.
Yes, there was the grove of trees where they had set up camp, and at the far end of the inlet he could see a creek spilling into a large cove where Tyler had practiced his canoe acrobatics. He would stand on the gunnels at one end of the canoe and propel the craft forward by pumping his legs, an occasional dip of the paddle helping things along and providing balance. Once he had talked his old man into a duel: they stood up on the gunnels, facing each other, and rocked the canoe recklessly until someone fell in. Tyler was surprised that it had been him most of the time. One day, Tyler had spent a whole morning learning how to walk around the circumference of the canoe on the gunnels, keeping his paddle wedged into the water for balance. He never quite made it but came close a couple of times. Sean chuckled at the memory…until a crushing wave of grief overwhelmed him, driving him to his knees and dragging great, wracking sobs from him. He shrieked and moaned and wept, pounding his fists on the rock beneath him until they were bloody.
Finally, empty, he raised his gaze to the cliff opposite…someone was standing at the top looking down at him…it was Tyler! At least it looked like Tyler, the same proud stance and cock-eyed baseball cap. The figure seemed to hold his eyes, and then slowly, casually, tossed a salute before turning away and walking until it receded from his vision.
Tyler had been with him all along.
The following morning found him heading back the way he’d come, paddling slowly because of his injured hands, and because he wanted to nurse the new-found feeling of abiding connection he felt with his lost son. Late in the day he reached his starting point, packed his gear into the car, slung the canoe on the roof, and drove back home.
Before going to his house though, he stopped at the cemetery where his son was buried and walked to his gravesite. He stood silently for a few minutes, remembering. Then, reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a water-polished piece of granite he had plucked from the stream at the head of the inlet, and placed it on top of the tombstone.
“Same time next year?”
Kevin Love, November 2021
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