"Halfway down the lake. Halfway down the lake." If I'd have known what a mantra was that would have been mine. Paddling Second Cranberry started fast and quickly turned endless. Endless roads, now this. But there was no way I was going to let out a peep about tired shoulders. Just kept paddling, tried to find a rhythm that'd work for me and when I got tired, like Emil said, switch sides.
Every so often the canoe would feel like it was going forward but sliding sideways at the same time. Finally, almost as much to pass the time as get advice, I asked what was going on.
"Archie me lad, that's just me straightening us out. Way back when, I learned how to paddle from an old timer, Noah by name. 'Course his boat was way bigger and didn't smell too good. Told me to always grab the small end, then showed me how to turn the paddle into a rudder at the end of the stroke. A stroke with a twist at the end. Don't know if it has a name. Neither did he. But she works and the secret's in the thumb at the top of the paddle. Starts out pointing to the side. Ends up turning and pointing down to the gunwale. Keeps us on course and moving forward at the same time. Efficient you might say. Outside of the pain in my upper arm that is. By the by, don't forget to feather your paddle."
Off to my left was a distant shore. Not like it was way off on the horizon but if I had my bike with me, and if there was a bridge - guess if I can conjure up a bike why not throw in a bridge for good measure? What the heck, throw in one of the big twenty-five ounce bottles of coke chilled in ice water while I'm at it - I figured it would take no more than eight or ten minutes to peddle over. Guess peddling is faster than paddling (careful Archie me lad or you'll turn into Uncle Emil). On the upside, the right shore wasn't but five minutes away.
One thing was for darn sure, traveling in a canoe has little effect on the size of distant islands. I'd paddle for a while, look up, and there, a spot on the horizon, floated a tiny clump of trees. Ten minutes later, same island, same spot, same size. Then I'd look over the side of the canoe. Yup, the water said we were moving forward alright. Paddled for a while more. No change. Never closer.
Weird thing was, all of a sudden, the island would grow real fast. Before I knew it, we'd be passing alongside the pines, waves foaming on the rocks, birches, and dead fall lining the shore. However, no bears or wolves. Oh well, it was better than seeing nothing but lake as we pulled our way along. Next minute we were back to nothing but water and another green dot afloat where the blue above met the blue below.
What felt like a thousand miles and three days later, Emil said it was closer to five miles and something over an hour, we began to circle an island. Seemed like this was the end of the road for the day and we were looking for a spot to land the canoe (or the old man was messing with me). You'd think it was easy, that we could have pulled in anywhere but it turned out islands don't like visitors. The shoreline barrier of brush and sharp stone seemed to tell us to look elsewhere.
Finally, "Pull your paddle and duck while I slide her in. Don't want you to lose an eye and mess up our fishing. I'll take it from here. Ramming speed!"
Uncle Emil whooped it up and paddled like a demon straight at brush brush crowned slab. Then, just before we grounded, he turned us ninety degrees to the left as though the canoe was bolted down directly under my butt and we were pivoting.
"Just love to do that. Sit tight while I step out."
A wobble or two and the stern bobbed up. My turn next. Once ashore my job was to hold the canoe while Emil unloaded.
"Let's go exploring and find ourselves a kitchen and bedroom."
Not sure what he meant by that. There was no house that I could see. We each grabbed a pack and headed uphill with Emil leading the way. Just like we were explorers.
One thing was for sure, this was no tropical, desert island. Not a palm tree in sight. Didn't look like anybody named Friday was going to show up to make us shrunken head soup for dinner either. The thicket of brush I was ducking and easing my through was sprouting from a half a city block-sized, jagged and cracked, chunk of rock. A couple of dozen, half starved jack pines and a few clusters of birch trees none stretching more than thirty feet skyward, shared this rock with the brush. All was ragged as though it was still in the process of becoming something else. I guess paradise is in the eye of the beholder. And this little ragged chunk did look something like the ones I'd conjured up while reading "Field and Stream." Only this one was real.
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