Canadian Stories, A Folk Magazine Written By or About Canadians

The St. Lawrence River that twists through Eastern Ontario before its imminent arrival in Montreal is a volatile beast. On tranquil summer mornings it presents itself as a sleeping beauty, its surface a verdant mirror tinged pink with the rising sun. On days like this we set out to paddle, my husband and I, our kayaks packed with the gear to allow us to partake in lunch on some remote island, out there, far away from the tenets of society with its steady hum of traffic and passersby. We push off from shore, looking into the water whose clarity, even at twenty feet or more presents us with a view of twelve-foot long ribbons of river grass that undulates with the river’s current, schools of unsuspecting carp, and even the occasional lost artifact such as a discarded tire, and one time, a child’s tricycle, its surfaces coated in river algae.

“Look, over there,” my husband will point with his oar.

On a rock, perched like a soldier at attention, watching for small, passing fish stands a blue heron, its feathers more of a dusty hue, its dark eyes trained on the water. It sees our approach from the distance and readies itself for flight. We do our best to sidetrack it so as to not disturb its feeding habit, but it rises from the rock, linear wings circling in loops. It releases a cry: ‘Brraaaaccckkkk!’ as it ascends. At moments like this, floating over the glass-like surface of the river, the only sound that of the gentle dipping and rise of our paddles, the river encapsulates a world of bliss. We are surrounded by the aroma of wild flowers and grasses, the unique and almost acrid scent of the water, and the sweet sap of nearby pine and spruce.

Then one morning in mid-autumn, the season having been overly rainy and windy, we decided to set out on a trip across the river from the Ingleside area to one of our favourite destinations, a U.S. island named Croil whose circumference spans at least two or more kilometres. The day was overcast, the wind moderate but not unmanageable.

“I hear the weather is supposed to turn worse later this afternoon,” a neighbour remarked as I stood in a grocery store line up, purchasing a few last minute items for our trip. I kept that in mind as we drove to the river’s edge and parked the car, then dismounted the kayaks from the roof and carried them to the water. Today, the river was a different beast, its tone morose like the sky, its shores being licked and teased by one foot high whitecaps. I felt trepidation because, although the distant water in the centre of the river where the lakers pass can look calm enough from shore, it can be deceiving. I didn’t much care for the direction of the wind coming out of the northeast, nor the ominous look of the sky to the south.

“Maybe we shouldn’t do this,” I told my husband.

“Ah, we’ll be fine,” he said without concern.

The temperature was a chilly four degrees Celsius. We slipped on our nylon paddling gloves and set out, working against the wind.

Within ten minutes we found ourselves in the centre of the river, over the deepest part of the channel. Here the waves rose to three foot heights, foaming as they rushed towards us. We kept our kayaks turned into the waves at a 45 degree angle, doing our best to meet the wave peaks head-on while continuing our paddle towards Croil. Water splashed onto me, soaking my gloves and, with the cold wind pressing against us, turning my hands frigid. The skin first burned, then went numb.

“I don’t think I want to go all the way over there!” I yelled to my husband whose kayak remained a steady twenty five feet ahead of mine. “I think we should turn back!”

He disagreed. “We’ll be fine. We’ll get around the island and have lunch. That will warm us up.”

I didn’t like the waves on the river. As we approached Croil and made our way around the easternmost tip of the island, the wind struck harder, whipping the water into a froth with whitecaps that did their best to ram us towards the rocky shoreline. Finally, after much effort, our hands stinging with cold, we reached our destination: a sandy strip of beach on the southern side of Croil, a sole wooden picnic table set up for visiting boaters. On this day, in mid-October, no other boaters were in sight; not the recreational cigarette or fishing boats, not the peaceful glimpses of passing sail boats, not another canoe or kayak anywhere. We had entered solitude in of ourselves; two lone figures reaching land and scrambling madly to set up our small butane cook stove in order to heat our tea and stew in an attempt to warm ourselves up.

Within minutes, the weather changed for the worse. Clouds amassed in a dark, thick army and released a volley of ice crystals the size of tapioca pellets that stung and bounced off our skin.

“Blast!” I yelled, running with my tea and bowl of stew, to take shelter behind a tree trunk. Although we’d dressed for the outing, with neoprene pants, a fleece liner, and a wind-proof shell, the clothing did not provide enough warmth to keep me from shivering. We tried warming our frozen hands over the butane stove; we sipped hot tea. The water became more violent as bits of ice bored into it, creating a popcorn effect along the surface. Waves pushed into the shore, licking at the ends of the kayaks.

“We’d best get out of here and head back home before we face real trouble,” I said. “This isn’t good; this is getting worse instead of better.”

“I think you’re right,” said my husband.

We packed quickly, the skin of our hands stinging in protest, and set out into the kayaks again, back in the direction from which we had arrived. Now the waves along the shore came at us with more intensity, rocking the kayaks like marbles being rolled from side to side in a petulant child’s hand, the wind pressing against us, whipping our hair back from our foreheads and making our eyes water. Ice pellets continued, needling us as we fought against the elements. Soon enough, yet exhausted, we rounded the tip of the island and faced the river that we had to cross again...and shuddered. Whitecaps rolled over the river proper, looking more oceanic during a tempest than like a river. I’m not a lover of deep water, but on a day like this - the worst I’d ever seen in my two years as a kayaker - I’d never had to face the river in one of its worst moods: that of the storm driven nemesis.

We set out, our arms and shoulders straining, feeling the waves build behind us and propel the boats forward. And then the worst: the deceitful river whose centre depths and surface turmoil are never apparent until you reach the edge of the watery vortex.

“Are you happy?” I yelled at him. “Look at it!”

He laughed, but within minutes the two of us regarded the river with consternation.

“Things are about to get ugly; keep paddling, no matter what,” my husband told me. At this point, my energy depleted and my hands so cold that they felt like frozen rubber blocks gripping the paddle, I did my best and we entered five and six foot wave swells that came at us from the side and behind, rising in dark grey masses with foamy whitecaps like angry, scooping hands wanting to strike at the alien kayaks. The sensation of rising in an elevator, to be dropped, then heaved, then dropped repeated itself over and over again as we were pushed forward and to the side. We used our rudders to try and maintain a steady, forward momentum. Then a wave hit the side of my husband’s kayak, and another, filling the hull with gallons of uninvited water and threatening to capsize him. He veered sharply to the left, doing his best to ride the waves while continuing to paddle, for in this turmoil he couldn’t risk stopping to pump water from the cockpit.

I felt fear grip me, tightening my gut into a knot. I could only think of our car waiting on a distant shore, and of warm things at home: a hot shower, a comforting bed, dry, thick clothes. My eyes watered. Home please; just get us home safe, I prayed. This day taught us to never tempt Mother Nature; never undermine the power of wind and water combined.

We strained our arms, eyes watering, and for minutes we continued to be tossed about, rocked, twisting to maintain our balance as peak after peak of water rushed at us with a fury. Finally, we saw the oasis of relief in the distance where the water calmed as it reached shallower depths closer to the mainland. I began to count my strokes; one, two, three, four, mentally telling myself that by the time I reached one hundred we’d be out of this madness.

We came into the calm and let our shoulders slump. My husband used his pump and began the task of relieving the boat of its accumulated water. We looked at each other and he said, “I guess that’s the last time we’ll be going over to Croil or across the river this season.”

“Home, James,” I said, getting into the car, the skin of my hands reddened as I rubbed them briskly in front of the heater.

With relief, we reached our point of departure and lugged the kayaks out of the water and back onto the roof of the car. We drove home. Although we are both avid kayakers with a sense of adventure, that day taught us that we are not invincible; we are only two small, insignificant objects in the face of an indifferent river whose moods can be as unpredictable as a sleeping lion. We arrived home and a hot shower never felt so good.

And so, on the days when the river winks at us with the message ‘Come hither and see what might happen to you’, we remain on shore, hiking the land’s trails instead. We await more lenient days, while the beast sleeps or indicates it is in a playful rather than baneful mood. Soon enough, winter will arrive and lock the water down under a foot or more of ice, but even through the ice, in the grip of January winds, if you stand close enough to the river, you can hear it call to you. The water moans as currents without mercy roil and tumble beneath the ice, indicating that although the beast may slumber in the cold season, it never ever slips into seasonal REM.