Portaging the stream

With a lifting motion on the sides of the canoe, I swung my leg up and out of the boat. My boot plunged into the clear, cold water. It rushed into my boot, soaking my wool socks. Each step my foot squished into the sole, my sole hanging to algae covered rocks that lined the stream bed. The cold of the water swirling round my toes, rhythmically flowing with each step. The current pulled against the bow of the canoe, and I grabbed the railing near the stern and held on, steadying her low hull.

Kerry climbed out of the bow of the boat, into thigh-deep water. The water was cold, and in sharp contrast to the heat of the sun. Lining the stream was a thicket of low underbrush and reeds. Crags of fallen limbs lined the bank, twisted and wedged between round granite rocks the size of basketballs. Purple flashes of irises dotted the foil of green. The air at this latitude was clear and had a cool color to it. The warmth of light one finds in the southern reaches of the state was nowhere to be found. The sun rained down with clarity, unfiltered and piercing in its glare and heat on the skin.

We had stepped out into an eddy as the stream made a dog leg and emptied into the lake we had just crossed against a stiff headwind. We stepped forward into the eddy, guiding the bow of the canoe into the current. Our fingers curled around the aluminum lip of the boat. The water slapped the Kevlar hull and made the unmistakable gurgling noise we had become accustomed to in our days spend paddling through these northern waters. Weighed down by our packs, the boat sat low in the water. The occasional wave cracked against the hull and sent a spray of water onto our nylon bags. We stepped deliberately, finding our footing amongst the uncertain field of rocks that lined the bottom of the creek.

Each step forward, was marked by a momentary pause, as we assessed our next. The trees surrounded us closely, a leafy enclose only twelve feet across. The water wrapped around our legs, crisp and laden with the subtle hue of tannins picked up from the lake beyond. It formed a churn of froth and bubbles as it flowed on past. We forged on – step and pause – lifting the boat out of the rushing water to clear the slick black rocks as we moved forward.

Finally, clinging to overarching branches, we made the final pull across the precipice that formed the beginning of the stream. The water beyond was calm and protected in a small harbor. Below the surface, the sandy bottom extended out like a plain, dotted with stones and haphazardly strewn rocks, covered in the memory of generations of aquatic life. In their crevices crawfish idled, and minnows darted after the young of the insect world.

We guided the hull into the water, and shaking the water from our boots, stepped into the boat. With the faintest whisper of a sandy swoosh, we pressed our oars into the gritty bottom and pushed off into Knife Lake.

I know, I know...

I'm totally bitching, but what the crap, why do we insist on cramming as much junk into one day as possible?? What happened to doing good work in a reasonable amount of time and making living, and enjoying, life a priority? I literally have had 10 minutes to eat my lunch today. Dumb.

That's all, I'd bitch more but I have to go to a meeting.

Skaliticians show @ 7th St. Entry

Originally uploaded by gordonelliot

You can check 'em out on cyberspace at: www.myspace.com/skaliticians.

Office life

When I was nine or ten, I had an old computer that I inhereted from my uncle. It was pure electronic bliss. Big ol' boot discs, that only I knew how to properly use. Cobra command or something similar where I got to bomb enemy hide outs from the comfort of my side scrolling helicopter. Life was good.

As I got older I decided that, what was more fun than just playing video games I could beat, was using the sophisticated word processing software that was on this old computer. I would sit in my room during the summer, binoculars in hand, and alternately look out the window and record the important "business information" that I could gather. Pressing work was at hand, and I didn't have any time to lolligag. This of course was with the obvious caveat that I could stop and play with my pet snakes that were on the desk when need be. (They would later fall victim to a series of gruesome attacks by Sox, our cat) But life was good. The windows were open, I was word processing the crap out of everything, and one couldn't ask for much more.

Today I sit at a desk. It's bigger than the one I had then. It has no cubbies underneath for highlighters and makers. It has walls on 3 sides, and my butt doesn't get sore from sitting on a crappy wooden chair because I've got the biggest, baddest, mother f*(#ing ergonomic chair this side of the Mississippi. I have a computer that boots all on its own—no discs needed—and it has two monitors and a crazy wheely mouse, and all sorts of things I couldn't have even dreamed of then. Hell, it even has an internet connection, which in 1991 I only partially understood, but the $100 to buy a modem was cost-prohibitive.

Sadly, with all the gadgets, doo-dads and allure of "the office life", I think I would take an afternoon observing the woods behind my parent's house, playing with those dumb snakes, and feeling the summer heat ebb and flow in and out of the room through the open windows in an instant. Sometimes our dreams of the world are a lot more interesting than what it really turns out to be.

create

Does anyone else have this: The intense desire to create, and, burried somewhere deep down the unarticulated vision of the perfect idea. Every project attempts to somehow capture this ideal, but always falls short, never able to manifest itself and give meaning to what one does. The cycle continues and the perfect project always hangs agonizingly close but never attainable.

Office Bonk

I didn't think it was possible to bonk when I wasn't even exercising, but I think it might be happening. I have to think about, and then work hard at, the simple act of typing this. Last day I skip lunch for no good reason.