Arrgh, River Pirates

Avast me hearties! Give ear to me tale of hardship and woe on the raging waters!  Last Sunday, preparing to celebrate International Talk Like A Pirate Day, I stood alone at the boat launch in Devon's river valley. I'd tried the rustic facilities beside the launching area, but dry-heaves from the stench quickly drove me out.  After a lengthy internal debate over retrying the iffy biffy, an old schoolbus finally arrived with a half-ton truck. Both were towing hi-rise canoe trailers. What had been a lonely, desolate, windy place was suddenly transformed into a hubbub of cheery activity. Everyone seemed excited at the prospect of a canoe trip down the Mighty North Saskatchewan River. (Cue Arrogant Worms song, “Pirates of the North Saskatchewan”).

The weather had been great all week but Saturday night saw the temperature drop faster than Paris Hilton's britches at a hottub party. It went from 25 the previous day to just 15 the day of our river ride. The once sunny skies became more threatening than a grizzly bear with a dozen rye and cokes in him. What was worse, however, was the wind was almost strong enough to name, like they do hurricanes.

There was no way I was going to cancel, though. I'd paid over thirty bucks to this Rent-A-Canoe dude and I wasn't going to let a little thing like dangerous winds thwart my pursuit of adventure. Besides, I'd planned ahead and wore layers and layers of clothing in order to stay warm. I also ensured I had a lot of high energy snacks such as trail mix which I was able to enjoy guilt-free for once, since I was actually doing something active.

After a half-listened to safety speech by Mr. Canoehead, we loaded up our voyageur-mobile and headed out on the water. I sat in front on the seat with Judy on the floor in back. This worked about as well as a solar powered tanning booth.  I probably outweigh Judy two-to-one. This inequity caused the bow of our boat to be much lower than the stern, making our canoe go in circles. The other fourteen boats were already way ahead of us when we decided to give up and land in order to change positions. By the time we got back into the stream of things, we could barely see the other canoers in our armada.

“We are going to be the last ones to arrive,” I moaned. “I don't want to be last!”

“Oh, stop your whining,” grumbled Judy. “We can catch up to them when they stop for lunch.”The thought of lunch made me feel a little better. I put my back into closing the distance with the other vessels with visions of my ham croissant dancing in my head.

We began making pretty good time once we'd figured out the whole steering thing and no longer going in circles. The others had seemingly all decided to wait for us although as we approached we could see that they were still paddling madly. The reason for their lack of progress, and ultimately, ours too, was that the river had taken such a turn, that the gale-force winds that were once at our backs were now in our faces. We laboured to paddle our tiny craft against wind and wave as we encountered meter-high whitecaps kicked up by the gusts. Snatches of the song, “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” kept racing through my mind.

We attacked the waves with gusto, our muscles straining to keep moving forward. It wasn't a case of not giving up as that wouldn't have helped. With the velocity of the current below us and the wind at our bow, you couldn't coast. If you stopped paddling for even a second, your canoe would slough sideways and be turned over by the huge waves, So paddle we did. Mentally, I swore that if we got out of that patch of river alive, I was going to give up canoing permanently.

As soon as we made another corner, however, the wind instantly abated and the river's surface was calm once more. The sun even came out. We headed to shore for a well-earned bite and a chance to rest our arms which were ready to rebel and fling themselves from our bodies. We didn't care how far ahead the others got. It was snack-time.
At the halfway mark, we pulled off shore to find a gaggle of giver-uppers too pooped to continue. Their boats were already loaded onto the trailer. My shoulders, arms and fingers all voted as a bloc to bail on the rest of the trip but the Scot blood coursing through my veins would not allow not getting full value for my money. As they say, the difference between a Scotsman and a canoe is that canoes tip.

We pressed on. After we fought two more gale force sections, and beaching in the shallows like confused whales, we finally drifted under the Quesnell Bridge in Edmonton and landed at Laurier Park. I knew we weren't the last, at least, because another couple had pulled in a minute after us. It was only then we found out that we had actually arrived first and that of the 15 boats at the beginning, only three would make it all the way. Ten teams quit halfway and two had to be rescued by the RCMP!

I slowly, carefully and gratefully slipped  into Judy's car for the comfy, effortless ride home, a funny little ditty dancing in my head.

And it's a Heave (HO) High (HO) Comin' down the plains, Stealin' Wheat and Bareley and all the other grains...