a little blurb for Father's Day.................true story - bit of a spooky experience for one of us on this day, lol.
Sound Imagination
It was a great afternoon for a paddle – sunny, halfways warm, light wind. We carried the canoe through the 80 yards of tangled forest, to the edge of the lake. My son, 6 years old, at the time, was bursting at the seams with excited anticipation. Smiles and animated conversation accompanied us as we plied the waters, across the cove and into the bending channel. The canvas covered, cedar craft gliding easily against the slow moving, foam speckled current. The simple act of paddling seemed to pull the senses toward a destination of a more complete awareness of one’s self and the energies around us.
We enjoyed a fascinating and memory making couple of father/son hours – fishing some dark pools, turning over glistening river rocks to discover lively invertebrates, finding a story creating curled feather floating in a small back eddy, awed by curious hovering dragonflies. We even had a snapping turtle alongside, checking out the watery swirls created by our progress against the early Summer’s weakened current.
The shadows grew longer, the breeze died out and the subdued light of evening settled over our playground. We pointed the bow downstream and quietly drift paddled back towards the winding channel.
Quick, scurrying sounds, in the thick marsh grass grabbed our attention. The rippling movement, of the long grass, raced directly towards us and a muskrat dove off the muddy bank. Water droplets, from its splash, splatting the side of the canoe. A couple of bullfrogs started up a booming chorus among the licorice smelling, white flowered lily pads and a loon yodeled further down the lake.
The water was smooth as glass except for the small disturbance of our paddling efforts to return to the starting point of today’s adventure. Sounds were amplified, as there were no obstructions to deflect the audio waves across the sheen of the water’s surface.
My daydreaming was rudely interrupted by our vessel suddenly rocking violently from side to side – I’d never considered the youth sized paddle, I’d carved from a junk of straight grained spruce, would be used to wildly thrash at a group of little brown bats hunting unknown insects. They seemed to enjoy the challenge of avoiding the flailing piece of wood and stayed with us for several minutes.
Several paddle strokes later, a beaver, disliking intruders sliding through the semi-darkness of its home waters, slapped its tail hard, on the dark surface, in defiance.
We quietly slipped towards a familiar beacon – a tall tamarack skeleton, outlined against the darkening sky, a sky slowly filling with tiny twinkling stars. Up on the hill, amongst the dark spruce, a great horned owl confidently boomed its familiar four note call.
Just before we made landfall, the strange sound of bagpipes filled the still, dark air – the awkward groaning blasts, emanating from the back deck, of the only camp on this end of the lake, seemed to momentarily quiet the more natural sounds we had recently experienced.
Once on shore, I secured the paddles and fishing rods to the worn canoe seats. “OK – here’s the truck key and flashlight. You’re in charge of lighting the way for us and unlocking the door.”
Rocking the wet canvas hull off my thighs, I settled the thwart across my shoulders. Pivoting the craft back a little, to be able to better see the way, I chuckled out loud as I witnessed a very fast, bobbing light winding its way through the trees away from me and towards our vehicle. The bouncing white beam of light was barely able to stay ahead of those little young legs chasing it.
Gary Marlborough