On paper, northern Saskatchewan looks like an easy place to be alone. Maps show few roads, few settlements—almost nothing to interrupt the serenity of a solo trip.
I had been looking forward to getting back here to paddle some rivers I hadn’t yet explored, but 18 days into the 40-day trip the wind that is battering my tent is having the same effect on my mind. I’m lying in my tent, trying to ignore the voices that keep reminding me of all the disasters that could befall me here, so far from any help. It’s logical to be vigilant, alert, but will this cacophony ever stop? I don’t have the experi- ence to know and no one to talk to, except the voices. They aren’t very helpful.
Paradoxically, my body is fit, and I’ve never travelled so efficiently, so gracefully. Inside my sleeping bag, I wrap my tanned arms around my torso and feel solid muscle and bone. Being alone, my observa- tion skills and my intuitive knowledge have reached levels I never would have thought possible. I perceive the patterns of this land, large and small. I know where it will rise and fall, where it will permit passage between watersheds or around an unrunnable rapid. My maps don’t so much guide me, as just confirm what I see. It’s a state of being that doesn’t happen when you are with other people, when interacting with them takes the place of interacting with the land.
But I’m too aware of my fears. My imagination, such a friend at my writing desk, makes leaves falling outside my tent sound like charging moose and turns riffles in the distance into boat-devouring cataracts. Minor missteps nag at me: I broke my stove cleaning it; I left my sharpening stone at the last campsite; the wind came up on me as I crossed some open water. My anxiety is drowning the confidence that normally allows me to guide others down such rivers. Can I really rely soley on myself?
I hadn’t expected to have to answer this question, and it’s getting the best of me. With thunder booming and rain pelting the fly, I don’t want to face another day on the river with both the wind and whispers of self-doubt filling my ears.
Ducking my head into the sleeping bag, I curl into a ball. My breath warms my nose and the insulation dampens the noise of the storm. I concentrate on these comforts to try and stop my thoughts from racing. Finally, in the midst of picturing a forest fire engulfing me, I fall into a restless doze.
At three in the morning, the rain stops. As the incessant pattering tapers off the relief of silence takes its place. A jolt of optimism runs through me and I grab hold of it, vaguely sens- ing a few ways it might be possible to look forward to a day of paddling. The anxiety of being alone out here for another three weeks melts away as I focus only on the next 12 hours; I’ll run a few rapids maybe, endure the vagaries of a day of weather, get along fairly well with the ever-present, but usually shy, wildlife. In the calm after the storm it seems manageable.
In this perfect moment I realize that my greatest fear is not that something will happen to me, it’s that I will give up on this journey for no reason other than being unable to subdue my negative thoughts. With this fear out in the open, it seems ridiculous, or at least surmountable. I turn on my headlamp and spew it all into my journal, feeling like I’ve just lifted the weight of a canoe off my shoulders after a four-kilometre portage.
That afternoon, the river throws its usual surprises at me, but “the unknown” seems less of an adversary. As I approach a ledgy set of rapids, a large bear ambles down to the river. So black and sleek, it looks healthy and at home here. When the current brings me alongside, it scoots up the bank out of sight.
I turn back to the rapids and run them blind, trusting my river sense that tells me this is a manageable drop. Centred in the here and now, I enjoy the rapid for all it’s worth. I even twirl my paddle at the end before digging it in to start my search for a worthy campsite. There’s no telling how far that will be, I’m the one writing the guidebook!
In any case it’s probably six more days to Black Lake, and then I’m off down the Fond du Lac, a much bigger river, and then…. I breathe deeply, smell the jackpine, and release that creeping voice to the wind, along with the one that says I probably should have scouted that set.
This article first appeared in the Summer 2005 issue of Canoeroots Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Canoeroots’ print and digital editions here.
