May 26 2008
The Water Way—A Tale From Another Time
Water does more than float our boats. Water captivates us. It can be tranquil or terrifying, healing or destructive. It soothes us and frightens us by turns. But whatever its mood, water is always fascinating—and mysterious. It carries us along with it, and the destination isn’t always one of our own choosing. This is the Water Way. It’s a journey open to us all.
A white-throated sparrow greeted the dawn. My old canoe drifted gently on a northern lake, while the rising sun slowly infused color into the skirting forest. I sat motionless, staring out over the sparkling water. The air was cool and wet and clinging. It smelled of damp earth and rotting wood. A freshening breeze shook droplets of water from the needles of the pines, mimicking the patter of the soft rain just ended. In the far distance, a solitary loon called.
The canoe drifted with the breeze, and I drifted too. And then… I woke to a new day. Not to the green, well-watered land of my dream, but to a dry hilltop, its red soil furrowed and creased and cratered. The shattered trunks of trees rose around me, all of them now leafless and barren. The air held scant promise of relief. It had the stifling heat and choking stink of a forge. From time to time, a distant popping broke the stillness, erratic and seemingly aimless. Soon that, too, was gone. Then all was quiet. No birds sang.
No birds sang… Suddenly I realized that I could hear again. The awful, ringing silence of the past weeks had ended. (How long had that silence endured? I asked myself. How many days? How many weeks? But no answer came. It was as if the same ringing silence had now invaded my brain.) Still, I could hear again, and that was good. I kicked out with one foot and heard the rasp of my boot sole scraping across the hard earth. I brushed my hand across my chest and heard—heard!—small stones rattle to the ground. Now move the other hand, I commanded, and my body responded. And the other foot. That foot, too, did as it was told. OK, I thought, it’s time to go. I rolled onto my side, struggled to my knees, stood. The hot sun beat down on my helmetless head. I ran my fingers over my scalp, discovering a sticky plaque of matted hair and blood. The movement reopened a long gash in my forearm. It dripped more blood on my face, and the blood coursed down my cheek until it seeped between my cracked lips, stinging furiously and awakening a raging thirst. I felt no pain, but my tongue seemed to have grown impossibly large. Too large for my mouth. My throat was intolerably dry. I tried to speak, to ask the ravaged land to tell me where I was and why and how long I’d lain under the hot sun, half-buried in red earth and stones, dreaming of water and pines. But all I could manage was a strangled, inarticulate croak. I groped belatedly for the canteen at my waist. It was empty. Read more…
There’s no doubt about it. Scouting for new places to paddle can be exciting. Occasionally, though, the excitement gets out of hand. A lot of less-traveled ways to the water are old carriage roads or overgrown jeep trails. These aren’t always kind to cars, and breaking down in the middle of nowhere isn’t everybody’s idea of a good time. Sometimes it pays to scout by bike.
Sooner or later, most people trash a knee. Or two. And if you’re approaching the half-century mark, chances are that “sooner or later” is now. But you don’t have to give up the active life. No way! Join the club, instead. The Gimpy Knee Club, that is. With a dash of caution and a healthy portion of common sense, there’s no reason why you, too, can’t keep on keeping on. Paddle! Pedal! Hike! The birds are singing. The water’s lapping. The roads and trails beckon. Spring is underway. The La-Z-Boy® can wait. 
