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.