Canoeing on the Clearwater

Last Sunday Mike and I took the canoe out for a trip down the Clearwater River south of Rocky.
We put in at one bridge about eight or so miles from town and got out at a second bridge about three miles from town.


The water was murky and we found plenty of rapids to enjoy. If you're wondering, the water is quite shallow. We could often touch bottom with the paddles and we scraped gravel a few times.


The river has some tall. dramatic banks with gravity-defying vegetation.


During the trip I couldn't help but think what a Canadian thing this was to do. The country was opened up by explorers and fur traders who traveled by canoe.


We found several islands in the stretch we did.


Someone tried to make river access easier.



The land changed from steep banks to rolling farmland as we neared the second bridge and it brought us back to civilization, both in reality and in our minds.

Happy Canada Day everyone. I hope you get a chance to explore something.

Gratitude Monday - Beneath the Waxing Moon

Scenes like this are everywhere.

It's a matter of getting out and finding them, and enjoying them when you do.

I have gone out for late-evening paddles a few times over the years.

Little else in the world is as peaceful as floating along in the quiet punctuated by the haunting call of the loon or the lonesome howl of the coyote. We're blessed to have friends to camp with who enjoy it as we do.

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If you're curious this is Astotin Lake, Elk Island National Park, at about 10:30 p.m.

Gratitude Monday - Sunday Morning Well Spent

We spent a sunny summer Sunday on a nearby lake doing a spot of fishing.

We paddled around then took a short break. We were away from the few other fisherfolk on the lake and it was quiet. The lake is carved out of the bush and thus surrounded by trees.

We spent more than four hours on the water chasing after northern pike. The lake holds perch, too, so it is claimed. I haven't seen one.

I had a too-small jack on my hook for a minute or so. It set itself free, saving me the trouble. It was a thoughtful fish in that way.

Our only other fish-related excitement was when a pike hit us at ramming speed. It was scary.

I suspect it was a sign that we weren't supposed to be fishing. We ignored it.

We canoed down this inlet just to have a closer look. It was a pleasant and soothing side trip.

Our world is filled with wonderful spots to enjoy. No special equipment is required as Nature is there as She is. Fishing is an enhancement and an excuse to be out, and I'm grateful for the chance to do it and enjoy the abundance of our natural world.

Modern Muskrat Love

A muskrat cruise through Astotin Lake.

The bump in the water is a muskrat. We saw a few of the little critters as we canoed on Astotin Lake in Elk Island National Park last weekend.

They seem so happy. Whether they are or not depends, one assumes, on the muskrat and what kind of a day it’s having. This one went about its important muskrat business and barely took notice of us.

It was so peaceful to paddle on the lake and watch the wildlife. I found it soothing to see the muskrats float by us. Maybe they were busy, maybe they were doing patrols of their lodges, or maybe they like to come out and laugh at the silly two legs who float on top of the water instead of in it like sensible souls.

He also reminded me of other times. When I was young I was a tomboy. I took more of an interest in the farm and the outdoors than cooking, or clothing styles, or talking about boys, or personal grooming beyond keeping my hair combed when I thought about it, or other activities commonly associated with females. In short, girly stuff bored me senseless. In all frankness it still does.

What I loved to do was go out with my dad on the long spring evenings to check for beaver and muskrat in the creek about a quarter-mile up the road. Our farm was more than a half-mile off the highway and surrounded by trees. This made it quiet for us and a haven for the wild things.
Dad hunted muskrat and beaver in those years. The creek had plenty to offer, we believed, and taking out a few a season was just something we did.
We’d mimic the sound of a beaver slapping its tail on the water by dropping a rock off the bridge. Later, if dad’s .22 was true, we’d throw rocks in the creek beyond the poor thing’s lifeless body so the ripples would send it to the shore. Dad was a damned fine shot. He did not miss.

I lost interest in this around puberty. Dad did too. It’s been nearly 40 years since I went hunting with him in the evenings. Today I have no desire to kill anything. I’d rather watch the critters go about their lives.
I’m neither proud nor ashamed of the evenings at the creek. It happened. It’s there. It exists as part of my past and watching the muskrats on the lake brought those days back to me. I do not miss the hunt, but I miss the time.