Standing in my shop my mind draws a supple outline of the canoe that is to be. She is full-figured and, well, playful; maybe I will name her Xena. Working towards making her a reality, I have build the strong-back and set the molds. Together they orchestrate a rhythm in space and time. Each mold outlines a different cross section of the canoe. The chorus of molds subtlety changes tone, harmonizing with its sister molds. The molds at mid-ship are deep and baritoned, elegantly falling off to the slender soprano molds at fore and aft.
Leaning against the wall of my shop, I listen to the song this canoe will sing when its bow parts water. The song rides on a four part rhythm measure out by the dip and burgle of the paddle, the creak of the hull and the chuckle of the bow as it breaks the surface. Dip-gurgle-creak-chuckle… Dip-gurgle-creak-chuckle…Dip-gurgle-creak-chuckle. The song sometimes talks of anticipation or exhaustion, but always of wildness. It is an old song, listened to by eons of paddlers, from Penobscot Indians to me.
A small adrenalized butterfly wanders through my gut – Christ, I want to get this canoe finished.
My thoughts drift back some thirty years. I am paddling west, down a channel that leads into a Great Salt Lake marsh in early November. The north bank gives away to open water. The early morning sky is clear and moonless, there is a slight crust of ice on the water and my hands are almost numb from the water running down from the blade of the paddle when I finish a stroke and lift to start another. Looking up I am staggered by the shotgun burst of Milky Way stars over head.
The canoe is loaded with a duck hunter’s paraphernalia: a Chesapeake Bay retriever, shotgun, shells, lunch, coffee and four dozen decoys. The Chesapeake Bay rides majestically amidships, the decoys ride aft, crowded together like desperate immigrants and I set at the stern, paddle in hand.
I search the Milky Way for My-Star, the star that is the end point of my celestial navigation line. Its astrological name is unknown to me. For all I know it may even be a planet. Regardless I have come to depend on it. My-Star smiles hello to me out of the north sky and my waders ooze with anticipation. The navigation line points me to a small, mostly flooded island somewhere in the middle of this large impoundment. I have had monster duck hunting here, coming back with full limits of ducks plus a goose or two.
I paddle on, with My-Star on the starboard side, until I come upon an old dormant Russian olive tree. The tree has been there for God knows how long. Its canopy of leaves has mostly fallen away like a tattered night gown revealing an old woman who has suffered the contortions of rheumatoid arthritis. Her large scaffolding limbs are swollen at each joint, the smaller finger branches jut achingly right, then left. However, she still stands strong and bolt-upright, her robust canopy striking a symmetrical arch against the multitude of stars. She must have sunk her roots deep, allowing her to live in strength and harmony despite her affliction. She is the starting point for my celestial navigation line.
I feather the next stroke, switch sides and reverse paddled, swinging the bow of the boat parallel with my navigation line. I am paddling dead on to My-Star. With each pull of the paddle the Old Woman disappears further into the ink well of the early morning sky. She is, as always indifferent to my coming and going. I like that Old Woman.
I paddle directly into the large impoundment of fresh water. During the night, a huge raft of ducks assembled on the open water before me. The borders of the raft undulate, resembling a squirming gigantic ameba. As I approach, it splits without protest allowing my entry. The birds are not panicked; they maintain a twenty foot symmetrical perimeter around my boat. I pull on the paddle. Dip-gurgle-creak-chuckle…Dip-gurgle-creak-chuckle…Dip-gurgle-creak-chuckle… I ship my paddle onto my lap, listen, and watch as the boat drifts further into the raft.
Most of the ducks are asleep, heads tucked over their back, beaks nestled into the hollow where wing joins back. As the boat wanders forward, the birds dead ahead wake and swim to the port and starboard sides, opening a passage for me to enter. As I pass, the birds off my stern swim back together, stitching the opening way closed. Once in awhile a sound sleeper will be nudged by the bow. The duck wakes and is, for a moment, panic stricken. Simultaneously it turns directly away from the boat, stretches its head forward like a thoroughbred, windmills its wings and feet punishing the water in an explosion of thrashing feathers and webbed toes. Once it reaches the perimeter, it stops wind milling, folds its wings and glides, pushing water ahead of it; it lowers its head, settling its beak onto its breast and lets its momentum carry it a bit further inside the raft. The duck then tucks its beak into its wing hollow and its serenity is restored.
The few ducks that are awake seem to bicker with each other. What they are squabbling over is anyone’s guess. For all I know they may be hurling racial slurs at my decoys. What is clear, however, is that mallard hens will not be shouted-down. When a hen gets a gut full she lets loose a short, deep booming machine gun burst of quacks whose volume trails at the end. QUAACK!!!!! QUACk!!!! QUAck!! Quack! Quack. quack.
The cavorting of these ducks has not gone unnoticed by the Chesapeake Bay. He sits with all the serenity of a fueled-up heat seeking missile. This is what he was born for, to retrieve waterfowl; waterfowl that is only a dozen passes away.
I resume paddling and glance off the starboard side. The Wasatch Range is outlined in coral - sunup is on its way. The morning light is beginning to hide the Milky Way and a north wind begins to blow, raising a light chop on the water. The waves break on the bow with an anxious snicker, smothering the easy chuckle. Ahead of me, maybe 25 yards is My-Island. I will land on the leeward side, where the chop fades into calm waters. The wind is perfect for hunting over a spread of decoys.
When I paddle into the placid water a couple of drake mallards register their protest. They quack a raspy, cigarette smoker's laden alarm, slap the water with their wings and explode straight up, facing into the wind. Three feet above the water they seem to stall for a moment, until the beat of their wings find traction. Once off, they turn 180 degrees, catch the wind and rip down the marsh.
I stop the canoe and hop out into six inches of water and a foot of silt and begin to place my blocks. I grab a decoy, unwind the anchor cord, with my right hand clutching the body and my left the anchor; I coil to my right and hurl the decoy and anchor. Together they travel through the air, twirling like a deranged airplane propeller. When the decoy plops on the water, the taught line and sinking anchor pull the decoy upright. It took me a year to perfect this technique. When I am all but finished I’ve arranged my blocks into a large, lazy, yawning “C”, with the mouth facing leeward, leaving enough room in the mouth to allow ducks to comfortably land into the wind. The final couple of blocks are placed in the mouth to look as though they have just landed. The Chesapeake Bay nods his approval.
I pull the canoe well away from the spread and hide it in the cattails. I grab my gear and the Chesapeake Bay and we take our station in a make shift cattail blind centered on the yawning mouth of the decoy spread. The sun is now full-faced and the rafts of birds are off the water. Large flocks of ducks pass over head well out of gun range. The Chesapeake Bay twists his head to keep track of them. I pour a cup of coffee and watch the heads of the cattails keeping time with the wind.
A burst of cinnamon rips by just in front of the blind. I drop my coffee and hiss “SIT!” to the Chesapeake Bay. The teal boomerang around, out over the choppy water, cup their wings, begin their descent into the yawning mouth of the lazy C, using the north wind to break their speed. I click the safety off the side-by-side and wait until they are unequivocally committed. When the birds are fluttering their wings just before they sit on the water I shoulder the shotgun, draw down on one bird and then the other. The shot swarm snuffs the life out of the first bird. It lands in a feathered heap on the water. The second swarm slaps the other bird down but does not kill it. It hits the water on its back, turns upright, and swims in a slow tight circle with its head randomly wandering about like a hard-punched boxer. After a moment the head falls forward into the water and it drifts slowing in the direction it was swimming. I send the Chesapeake Bay for first one duck and then the other.
The coffeemaker chimes and my memory evaporates. I walk upstairs to the kitchen and pour a cup of coffee.
Leaning against the wall of my shop, I listen to the song this canoe will sing when its bow parts water. The song rides on a four part rhythm measure out by the dip and burgle of the paddle, the creak of the hull and the chuckle of the bow as it breaks the surface. Dip-gurgle-creak-chuckle… Dip-gurgle-creak-chuckle…Dip-gurgle-creak-chuckle. The song sometimes talks of anticipation or exhaustion, but always of wildness. It is an old song, listened to by eons of paddlers, from Penobscot Indians to me.
A small adrenalized butterfly wanders through my gut – Christ, I want to get this canoe finished.
My thoughts drift back some thirty years. I am paddling west, down a channel that leads into a Great Salt Lake marsh in early November. The north bank gives away to open water. The early morning sky is clear and moonless, there is a slight crust of ice on the water and my hands are almost numb from the water running down from the blade of the paddle when I finish a stroke and lift to start another. Looking up I am staggered by the shotgun burst of Milky Way stars over head.
The canoe is loaded with a duck hunter’s paraphernalia: a Chesapeake Bay retriever, shotgun, shells, lunch, coffee and four dozen decoys. The Chesapeake Bay rides majestically amidships, the decoys ride aft, crowded together like desperate immigrants and I set at the stern, paddle in hand.
I search the Milky Way for My-Star, the star that is the end point of my celestial navigation line. Its astrological name is unknown to me. For all I know it may even be a planet. Regardless I have come to depend on it. My-Star smiles hello to me out of the north sky and my waders ooze with anticipation. The navigation line points me to a small, mostly flooded island somewhere in the middle of this large impoundment. I have had monster duck hunting here, coming back with full limits of ducks plus a goose or two.
I paddle on, with My-Star on the starboard side, until I come upon an old dormant Russian olive tree. The tree has been there for God knows how long. Its canopy of leaves has mostly fallen away like a tattered night gown revealing an old woman who has suffered the contortions of rheumatoid arthritis. Her large scaffolding limbs are swollen at each joint, the smaller finger branches jut achingly right, then left. However, she still stands strong and bolt-upright, her robust canopy striking a symmetrical arch against the multitude of stars. She must have sunk her roots deep, allowing her to live in strength and harmony despite her affliction. She is the starting point for my celestial navigation line.
I feather the next stroke, switch sides and reverse paddled, swinging the bow of the boat parallel with my navigation line. I am paddling dead on to My-Star. With each pull of the paddle the Old Woman disappears further into the ink well of the early morning sky. She is, as always indifferent to my coming and going. I like that Old Woman.
I paddle directly into the large impoundment of fresh water. During the night, a huge raft of ducks assembled on the open water before me. The borders of the raft undulate, resembling a squirming gigantic ameba. As I approach, it splits without protest allowing my entry. The birds are not panicked; they maintain a twenty foot symmetrical perimeter around my boat. I pull on the paddle. Dip-gurgle-creak-chuckle…Dip-gurgle-creak-chuckle…Dip-gurgle-creak-chuckle… I ship my paddle onto my lap, listen, and watch as the boat drifts further into the raft.
Most of the ducks are asleep, heads tucked over their back, beaks nestled into the hollow where wing joins back. As the boat wanders forward, the birds dead ahead wake and swim to the port and starboard sides, opening a passage for me to enter. As I pass, the birds off my stern swim back together, stitching the opening way closed. Once in awhile a sound sleeper will be nudged by the bow. The duck wakes and is, for a moment, panic stricken. Simultaneously it turns directly away from the boat, stretches its head forward like a thoroughbred, windmills its wings and feet punishing the water in an explosion of thrashing feathers and webbed toes. Once it reaches the perimeter, it stops wind milling, folds its wings and glides, pushing water ahead of it; it lowers its head, settling its beak onto its breast and lets its momentum carry it a bit further inside the raft. The duck then tucks its beak into its wing hollow and its serenity is restored.
The few ducks that are awake seem to bicker with each other. What they are squabbling over is anyone’s guess. For all I know they may be hurling racial slurs at my decoys. What is clear, however, is that mallard hens will not be shouted-down. When a hen gets a gut full she lets loose a short, deep booming machine gun burst of quacks whose volume trails at the end. QUAACK!!!!! QUACk!!!! QUAck!! Quack! Quack. quack.
The cavorting of these ducks has not gone unnoticed by the Chesapeake Bay. He sits with all the serenity of a fueled-up heat seeking missile. This is what he was born for, to retrieve waterfowl; waterfowl that is only a dozen passes away.
I resume paddling and glance off the starboard side. The Wasatch Range is outlined in coral - sunup is on its way. The morning light is beginning to hide the Milky Way and a north wind begins to blow, raising a light chop on the water. The waves break on the bow with an anxious snicker, smothering the easy chuckle. Ahead of me, maybe 25 yards is My-Island. I will land on the leeward side, where the chop fades into calm waters. The wind is perfect for hunting over a spread of decoys.
When I paddle into the placid water a couple of drake mallards register their protest. They quack a raspy, cigarette smoker's laden alarm, slap the water with their wings and explode straight up, facing into the wind. Three feet above the water they seem to stall for a moment, until the beat of their wings find traction. Once off, they turn 180 degrees, catch the wind and rip down the marsh.
I stop the canoe and hop out into six inches of water and a foot of silt and begin to place my blocks. I grab a decoy, unwind the anchor cord, with my right hand clutching the body and my left the anchor; I coil to my right and hurl the decoy and anchor. Together they travel through the air, twirling like a deranged airplane propeller. When the decoy plops on the water, the taught line and sinking anchor pull the decoy upright. It took me a year to perfect this technique. When I am all but finished I’ve arranged my blocks into a large, lazy, yawning “C”, with the mouth facing leeward, leaving enough room in the mouth to allow ducks to comfortably land into the wind. The final couple of blocks are placed in the mouth to look as though they have just landed. The Chesapeake Bay nods his approval.
I pull the canoe well away from the spread and hide it in the cattails. I grab my gear and the Chesapeake Bay and we take our station in a make shift cattail blind centered on the yawning mouth of the decoy spread. The sun is now full-faced and the rafts of birds are off the water. Large flocks of ducks pass over head well out of gun range. The Chesapeake Bay twists his head to keep track of them. I pour a cup of coffee and watch the heads of the cattails keeping time with the wind.
A burst of cinnamon rips by just in front of the blind. I drop my coffee and hiss “SIT!” to the Chesapeake Bay. The teal boomerang around, out over the choppy water, cup their wings, begin their descent into the yawning mouth of the lazy C, using the north wind to break their speed. I click the safety off the side-by-side and wait until they are unequivocally committed. When the birds are fluttering their wings just before they sit on the water I shoulder the shotgun, draw down on one bird and then the other. The shot swarm snuffs the life out of the first bird. It lands in a feathered heap on the water. The second swarm slaps the other bird down but does not kill it. It hits the water on its back, turns upright, and swims in a slow tight circle with its head randomly wandering about like a hard-punched boxer. After a moment the head falls forward into the water and it drifts slowing in the direction it was swimming. I send the Chesapeake Bay for first one duck and then the other.
The coffeemaker chimes and my memory evaporates. I walk upstairs to the kitchen and pour a cup of coffee.
Copyright Stephan Fowler 2008. All rights reserved.
