Roots

It seems to me we make up our lives of stories, meaning-makers that we are. And I for one can catch significance and symbolism in even the most mundane details of a day. Maybe it's all just the fabrications of a monkey-mind, but sometimes there is a grace to these narratives that helps me wade through even the deepest suffering. Sometimes these moments of seeing are the wellspring of my deepest joy.

When I was quite small, my parents sent me to a summer camp. I was horse mad, and had chosen the camp because of it's lush and prolific horsiness sprayed across the brochure. It turned out to be quite different from my imaginings of days of wild riding across open fields and forests. It was a small place, boasting a few Connemara ponies that we weren't allowed to ride, an above-ground swimming pool, and an acre or two of fields surrounding an old farmhouse that served as a dining hall. The property was dotted with a small cluster of wall tents for the 30 or so campers who attended each session.

The staff were an eclectic bunch, as much as I remember all these years later, they seemed old and quirky to my seven year old sensibilities. The cook in particular was an interesting character, a little gruff, wiry, crease-faced and quiet. I was a little afraid of him although it was clear he was well loved by the other camp staff.

The week I was there fell over July 25th, and the camp had a tradition of celebrating 'Christmas in July'. Everyone at camp was assigned a secret Santa, and on the day a tree was decorated, a turkey dinner was served and gifts were exchanged. Someone on staff knew that Christmas was my birthday, so when it was my turn my secret Santa stood up in front of the dining room to present me with my gift while everyone sang Happy Birthday. It was unexpected, I was shy and therefore horrified to be the centre of attention, and my secret Santa turned out to be the cook. And then he pulled out my gift - a paddle he had carved in the last 5 days, inscribed with the word "Roots" on one side of the grip. I can't remember all of what he said, other than his shy apology for not having finished carving out the other half of the camp motto on the other side..."Wings". To this day 40 years later, half a "W" is all that adorns that side of the grip. I was overwhelmed by the gift, the giver, the magnitude of the item I was being given. No doubt, as was my fashion, I clammed up. It's an unfortunate reaction that I sometimes still have when unsure of how exactly to express gratitude, or overpowered by strong emotion. It's easily misunderstood as disrespect or ungratefulness.


This paddle lived for a long time at my family's cabin, for all those years I spent living out of my car, or at basecamps. One winter I moved into the cabin for a few months before moving out west again, and took it with me when I left. At that time, the significance of the thing struck me. It had come to me long before I ever dreamed myself a paddler, but as an adult canoes have been the defining vehicles of my life. It had also come from a place with no nearby lakes, rivers or oceans, so it had always seemed strange to me that it's maker had chosen such a gift. To give to a small, introverted and mousy little girl at a horse camp with not a canoe in sight. It is hard not to imagine this gift as a missive from this long lost stranger, a future reminder of my arrival into one of the great passions of my life. As if somehow, my path as a wilderness guide and paddler and all it's soulful explorations and deep connections had been written into my DNA.

This morning I pulled the paddle out of a closet where I had stored it months ago while redecorating, still living with it's unfinished message. And I am considering that other side. I have come to be rooted here, indeed I have always thought there is a kind of rootedness to my nature. But I wonder, what needs to come into balance?
The work of this week is begin to carve new wings, because I think I might need them.

Wayfinding

Amidst the west coast fogs of August and smoke from burning forests throughout this province, I paddled with a group for 12 days this past month. The coastal wilderness we travelled through remains one of my favourite places around this island - magical, ethereal, filled with changing light and oceanic textures. 10 years ago I paddled this same section of coast for the first time. At that time, fairly new to a sea kayak, I felt at the mercy of swell and wind and coastal bathymetry; I had moments of terror on that first trip that I have rarely or ever experienced before or since in any wild landscape. Coming from a river environment, I was used to dynamic water, understanding the way that a boat can get pushed around by waves and current, and how to respond, but the verticality and sheer power and volume of the ocean was intimidating. All things moved on multiple axes, the scope so large that it caused me to lose my bearings. There were currents which were invisible to me, so large and influential that I could not perceive them, waves emanating from sources tens or hundreds of miles away, and from below. Fog drifted in white walls that obliterated visibility as we inched up the coastline. My paddling partner kept disappearing behind mountains of swell, dipping dramatically in and out of sight as we rounded each jutting headland. My normally loose hips (save ships) were tight. In those moments of blindness I felt very alone, exposed and small - a tiny speck of cork bobbing on a monstrous sea.

But in the past decade the ocean and I have become friends, and while she owns my respect, she no longer feels so threatening. Even in those moments when she challenges me, as she rolls and blows and pushes in thick with foggy blankness, I trust her. And I trust myself and the tools I have garnered over the years before and since my first introduction to this Pacific creature. The rivers will always have my heart, but so does she. And she is full of ideas, living metaphors for this journey that I am on.

This past month I had the fortune to circumnavigate these same islands, one of many wild homeplaces I have been lucky enough to inhabit and love. It was an extended time to explore corners I had not yet or rarely had the time to see on shorter trips. The 'outside' or west facing coasts of these islands are known for their exposure to wind, swell and fog, and on some days these forces can conspire to complicate or prohibit passage by kayak. On the day we paddled around the most exposed bit of coastline the forecast predicted some manageable but significant swell and light winds, and a promise of lifting fog that seemed to be manifesting as we rounded the first headland. But soon the only thing that became clear in the rolling sea was the white wall that shrouded our progress and remained stuck in, thick and pernicious. I responded to the conditions by consulting my quiver of tools; the simultaneous use of compass bearings, watch, calculations speed over distance, the minutest details of the coastline features matched between chart and barely observable reality. Even my ears were pulled into the game as I listened for the sounds of waves crashing on rocky shelf to gauge distance from the shore in different spots. I chatted to those closest to me, mostly about navigation, shoulder checking every few moments for those just behind, our group tightly packed, my staff partner shepherding the back of the group, a couple of whom were feeling sea sick in the poor vis. It was fun, absorbing, and engaging technical work which did not allow for a moments' lapse in attention. At each rest stop I checked and rechecked landmarks, noted and counted visible points and backstops, tracked our drift forward or back, took into account time or distance lost.

A few hours in we stopped again, this time on the home stretch, but with a boat in need of a tow I unlocked my focus from wayfinding for just a few moments. After a few minutes I realized I had lost our exact location, and scrambled to pinpoint it as we passed a few tightly spaced headlands. But towards these last few miles a sound had begun to come to us through the fog, the whistle of a navigational marker known to lie about a mile southeast of our final destination.

At some point someone asked me how I was keeping a fix on our location and what slipped out of my mouth was 'by feel'. I laughed and quickly corrected myself by explaining the myriad of concrete tools at my disposal, but the truth of that first thought hit home. This is just it, all these tools, the skills I have learned over time are the gifts of 'feel', an intuition that is made up of faith, skill and a focused and expanded awareness. There are components of this that are 'technical' - speed over time, magnetic bearings, navigational aids and markers.  And then there are things my gut and body tells me. Even when external reality seems to deny them, they garner a kernel of truth that can be counted on. I am good at recognizing and following my instincts and trusting my skills on the water, but in the past few years have lost faith in myself in other ways.

This past month the ocean reminded me that I have done the best that I can, given the complications and challenges I have faced in the parts of my life that are most tender. And my best has been pretty good - I cannot be faulted for a lack of self examination. I am worthy of my own trust, despite having wandered off course at times. This has not been a squandered life, because amidst this foggy section of the journey I still have myself and all the things I have learned and know. I am allowed to be happy, to find myself in the right place at the right time, if only by navigating the uncomfortable blindness by the handrails and landmarks that show me I am on the right track. And not losing faith when I seem to have drifted.


What I know is this - I must pay attention to the minutest details of this coastline, listen in for the sound of surf  and watch for the rocks and headlands as they emerge from the fog. I will stay present to what is directly in front of my hull, and keep my senses tuned to the magnetic bearing of my heart. Keeping my eyes open to the reality of the emerging landscape I will find my way home. I will try to remember that sometimes in the lee of the most formidable rock gardens there is shelter for a safe landing.