If I were a rat, my paddling gear would be neatly folded and stacked in a plastic bin labeled, Scott’s Paddling Gear. The bin would be in the basement among other gear bins—bike apparel, camping equipment, ski wear—all labeled clearly and arranged according to season. I would probably even have a bar of apple-scented soap inside to keep my paddling gear smelling sweet over the winter.
I’ve tried a couple of times to be all Martha Stewart-like in my basement. It’s just no use. I like to stretch my paddling season as close to winter freeze-up as possible. Just when I think it’s time to put my gear away we get a warm December day and it all gets dug out again. Even after the mercury falls, and paddling seems to be out of the question, I can’t bring myself to admit the season is over. The bag of soggy gear just gets tossed in the garage until spring.
This is where I get back to my point about not being a rat.
If I were a rat, I would have learned my lesson by now. I know this because researchers study rodents in laboratories, testing their capacity to recognize and avoid unpleasant smells. In one study, rats quickly learned to associate a poisonous drink with its particular odour and soon knew enough to leave it alone. (Paddlers haven’t figured this out yet, but this is another story altogether.) In another laboratory test, rodents demonstrated a near-perfect memory when it came to avoiding odours.
Scientists, and the rats, tell us there is a direct connection between our sense of smell and memory, and I believe it. The smell of fresh-cut cedar reminds me of the cottage, pipe smoke evokes my grandfather and black felt-tip markers bring back memories of my grade-two art class with old Mrs. Greener. And every spring, when the sun shines, eaves start to drip and creeks overflow their banks, I load my boat and go in search of my gear. Knowing not to look in the basement, I head for the garage, where I fumble around, looking here and there. Then I smell it.
When I unzip my paddling bag to check that everything is inside, my first memory isn’t of walking through an orchard of green apple blossoms.
Like a hurricane through a Stilton cheese factory, the smell of my gear blows up my nasal passage to the odour receptor cells that pass on the sig- nal to the limbic system in my brain that catalogues my memories. A few neu- rons fire and then I smile. “That was a great day,” I say to myself as I remember that last paddle in December.
Rats learn to avoid putrid odours after one or two exposures. They would learn after their first paddling season. They would wash their gear in little rat washing machines and fold it into little rat plastic gear bins labeled, Rodney and Roxanna Rat’s Paddling Gear.
Rats, I guess, are smarter than me. But rats don’t get to paddle late into the fall.
I’m glad I’m not a rat.
This article first appeared in the Spring 2005 issue of Rapid Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Rapid’s print and digital editions here.
