As I paddled over long distances through unpredictable waters, I found that the journey itself challenged accepted understandings of wilderness. Our mode of travel surprised many people who saw the canoe as perhaps out of place in modern times and their questions were always the same:What will you eat? Where will you sleep? What if it rains?

People who had paddled some of the places we were travelling told us how to experience Lake Superior, the kind of gear we need- ed, the places we should camp. While we gladly accepted this advice knowing that it came from concerned and experienced pad- dlers, I was conscious of an accepted mentality, a paddling culture promoting appropriate ways to experience the land. Speed and dis- tance seemed very important in this culture and were often discussed within an atmosphere of competition or within a conversa- tion of survival in a hostile or indifferent wilderness.

“[The Lake] defies anticipation,” remarked one woman who was paddling the North Shore of Lake Superior. She leafed through a book of her sketches of the rocky shoreline and spoke about her frustration with Superior’s unpredictable weather. Intended destinations were often not reached, schedules could not be adhered to. She sighed as she admitted to being at the mercy of the weather. 

The Moisie begins softly, like all rivers. A tiny dam is the height of land and the Labrador border, and from there it’s 400 kilometres of gathering excitement, southward through Quebec to the St. Lawrence River. We had given ourselves 18 days for the descent, though it’s been done in 11 and more rightly should be done in 23.

The river tripled quickly in width and flow, changing from a channel that seemed to have most of the water missing to continuous busy rapids. Speckled trout rolled in the mid-river rock eddies as we hurried past, wave splash flashing white in the drizzling gloom of this perpetually rainy river. We camped above the river’s gorge with long views upstream and down, water tumbling over ledges below us, where monster crystal eddies whispered the siren song of huge and foolish fish.

In camp we would often hear Vanessa talking about the old days because every campsite triggered a thousand memories of the ones that came before. At 17, she had paddled out of the Mackenzie Mountains and then hiked back along the Canol Road to the mountain put-in where she had started months before, an endless summer of adventure and deprivation. She paddled north out of Yellowknife to reach Wilberforce Falls on the Hood River, and that had devoured another summer. By the time she was 21, she’d tracked her canoe up the George River and over the height of land into Labrador to descend the frothing Notakwanon into the fiords of the Atlantic. She had camped in so many places, places so beautiful that it made you ache. And she was only 31.

Inconceivably, she had already been down the Moisie twice, both times with camp kids stretched to their limit, hyperventilating with excitement and hounded by fear.With male trip leaders as role models, and a girl-boy ratio heavily biased toward the male, she fought to be seen as an equal. She carried more and carried longer, making the torturing wooden beast that was their wanigan her own personal challenge. The teenager became a woman with tempered steel behind her brown eyes, a character seemingly hammered and forged by water.

For this third trip down the Moisie she combined a group of solo playboaters whose very lives revolved around fast rivers. Each paddler was paired with their Significant Other, so there would be lots of women to do the swearing and the distaste- ful heavy work.Vanessa told her partner of the Moisie long before he had ever held a paddle. She told him of the darkness of her long minutes there, of the terrifying glimpse of her own mortality. And then she led him into her passion for wild rivers until they played in moving water with every spare moment of their lives. They tumbled together into the garden of river obsession and he became an inseparable part of her critical armour.

It was on the Moisie that we all began to reflect on how we had changed as people who travel rivers. Vanessa’s mind was now always sifting and sorting the chaos of water, planning her own self-rescue. We paddled the canoes loaded, we searched for the bold centre lines of the playboater and we lived in our moving water world with great comfort and respect.

Classic solo canoeing is a great way to develop basic canoeing skills because it allows you to see an immediate cause and effect of your actions more clearly than in tandem paddling.You end up with a versatile package of flatwater solo skills that allows you to paddle a canoe comfortably, efficiently, with grace and confidence in all conditions. Whether I go for a week-long wilderness adventure, a canoe ballet spin at sunset, or an afternoon exploring a breezy lake, I utilize much of the classic solo stroke repertoire.This versatility is a rare thing for our times when most sporting activity is compartmental- ized and specialized to the extreme.The real plus of going solo, however, is that it allows you to journey at your own pace and it gives you the freedom to follow your whims and your dreams.

When I was 10, my very first solo adventure was inspired by a desire to explore the shoreline near our dock. My dad encouraged me by giving me an 11-foot birch bark canoe. I was thrilled with the idea of my first solo voyage, but I worried about the possibility of not being able to return safely. Dad tied a 100-foot length of yellow floating rope from the dock to the stern of my little canoe. I had a great time that summer revelling in my 100 feet of freedom, happy in the knowledge that I was secure. Even if a gusty wind tried to take me away, I would feel the reassuring tug of the line when I reached the end. Before long, however, the mysteries of the distant shores beckoned and I wanted to explore beyond the safety of my tether. With my Dad’s permission I untied the line and set off with my newfound skills. This childhood memory of freedom is my touchstone and the feeling that I believe classic solo canoeing can instil in everyone.

Becky Mason is a canoeist, visual artist and filmmaker. She keeps busy with teaching, work- shops, demonstrations and slide shows as well as championing environmental issues. Her award winning video, Classic Solo Canoeing, was released in 2000. 

This article first appeared in the Summer 2003 issue of Canoeroots Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Canoeroots’ print and digital editions here.

Luckily, we’re within sight of the island where we’ll camp, but the alluring prospect of shelter and food is suddenly diminished by the need to angle.Ahead lies all the warmth and nourishment I need in the form of a deep walleye pool. Here a short riffle eddies out into the slack water sequestered behind a spit of rock. To paddle past such a spot would be like ordering a cold beer and not drinking it. I lower the anchor and we pull our fishing gear from wet packs.

The walleye are holding near bottom where the current and slack water meet. I cast and let my lure sink before deftly bouncing a small jighead and white soft-plas- tic grub along bottom. I have the walleye dialed in and a precise presentation means hooking a fish every few casts. I catch and release the fat green-and-gold river dwellers in quick succession and, with the fish giving such an enthusiastic endorsement of my angling skill, the hours slip by like minutes.

I glance at Francine. Her rod is resting across the gunwales of the canoe—a sure sign of waning interest. Although she is catching her share, rain soaking through her jacket has dampened her angling zeal.

“I’m tired of fishing, let’s just keep a few for supper and head in,” she says.

Rain trickling down my back only lubricates the angling machine within and I’m shocked at the suggestion of quitting. Anything less than four or five hours is a bit of a letdown, especially when the fish are biting. Francine points out that, without fish, our evening meal will consist of a well-travelled package of freeze-dried chili. I tell her I’ll keep a few fish closer to dinner, “they’ll be fresher that way.” Francine knows this is simply an excuse to fish all evening.

“I think you like fishing more than sex,” she sighs. Luckily I am anticipating this statement. It’s the inevitable accusation from the partners of passionate anglers. I laugh and quickly reply, “Of course not my dear, don’t be ridiculous.” Thankfully, fishing from a canoe, I don’t have to look her straight in the eye.

While contemplating the pros and cons of the two activities, I’m jolted from my musings by a double-header. We both have a fish on. Although Francine obviously has the bigger of the two, she is too worried I’m going to let mine go to enjoy the battle waged by her walleye. She twists around to face me.

“Keep it!” she commands as I’m pulling the jig from a 16-inch walleye. As I lower it to the water she makes one last desperate plea as she reels. “Wait, we’ll stuff it with rice and bake it by the fire.” But even in the face of this last fervent appeal, I loosen my grip and the walleye swims away. Francine’s wrath falls squarely on her fish, although she looks directly at me as she snaps the walleye’s neck. “We’re heading in,” she states.

Vivid hallucinations of lines forming on my fiancée, dividing her into shank, ribs and loin convince me of the need to eat. We pull anchor and make for shore. I get to work reconstituting the chili while Francine prepares the walleye. Although I’m quite willing to share my chili, I’m not sure how Francine feels about sharing her fish. But when we sit down to our respective feasts, Francine slides a large fillet onto my plate and garnishes it with a kiss.

Freelance writer/photographer James Smedley lives in Northern Ontario. He has earned nine national writing awards, his most recent from the Outdoor Writers of Canada National Communication Awards for 2002. 

This article first appeared in the Summer 2003 issue of Canoeroots Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Canoeroots’ print and digital editions here.