September 29, Little Crow Lake, 7:00 am
Waiting for the fog to lift.
I have written those words so many mornings on this trip. Sitting here each morning, yearning to see, waiting for way to clear, but invited to be still, to wait, to watch. The fog itself is so beautiful– the way it settles and lifts and shape shifts, like a slow graceful dance, uncontrollable and wild. It reminds me that what I see before me is only part of the story of the vast beauty that lies behind and beyond. Hidden at times; Then revealed.
We are packed, except the tent in which Don still rests. I do not want him to miss seeing the Crow River in all its autumn splendor , so we will wait to leave this morning until the fog lifts, and I will wait to waken him until then, savor this last morning.
The island is visible but nothing of the ridge beyond, or the bog behind. The sun does not seem to have been able to coax the fog to budge at all, though I think it may have crested above the trees over my shoulder by now.
Last evening’s sunset was stunning, like Noah’s rainbow after his own trial.
Not that this trip was a trial, but it has tested me in some way. How well will I love? How will I say good-bye? Let go. Allow myself to be softened. Be loved.
Yesterday, we met a twosome of men gathering firewood along the portage trail. The usual paddler’s small talk ensued. “Where are you headed? Where are you coming from? How long are you in? ” When Don mentioned that were on day 14 of our trip, the response from one of the men was, ‘And you still like each other?!”. So, yes, there is something about these trips that stresses, both testing and revealing relationships of all sorts– with one’s companions, with nature, with oneself. Perhaps I need not feel there is something wrong (with me, with us), something that requires fixing, rather love the sheer humanity of it all.
There is no retreat from one another out here. Of course, there are mornings like this, perhaps a quiet afternoon sitting spot, a stroll with the camera, a retreat into a book— so every personality quirk is brought into sharp awareness, to be loved, gentled, laughed about, allowed to annoy. Without the cover of our culture of busyness and constant distraction, which is available to us back home, one cannot as easily suppress or hide one’s wounds and dysfunctional behaviors– power and control, communication patterns, codependent natures, all come out to be seen in the broad daylight of this place. For healing, if we let it be seen by Love. Likewise disappointments, sadnesses, hopes, fears, heartaches are closer to the surface, no longer hidden by busy-ness or the myriad of addictions that we use in order not to feel them.
I am bonded to this man, committed through thick and thin. This morning the fog is still thick, that is all. Beyond it there is untold beauty.
The fog will lift. The earth will turn. The sun will persevere. Love will win.
To love is choice AND Love is what we are made of. At once, it is both intentional and inherent. Love everywhere.
Oh, yes, but that sunset was magnificent. — from its brilliant golden beginnings through deep oranges and pink to those final flaming magentas– reflecting on the water, surrounding the island. Beauty everywhere.
The fog has still not budged. It is quite dense this morning, but it will lift. I will see color again. Color everywhere.
3:30. Lake Opeongo
Expansive view, 180 degrees. We landed on a south-facing stretch of pebble beach just around the corner from the Proulx Lake portage dock, where we will be picked up by the water taxi in the morning. The sun (She came out in full force after burning off that fog) is hot, the air temperature near 70, I’d guess — more in the sun, less in the shade, and so we move from sun to shade, remove a layer, put it back on.
I turn my face away from her now. She is too bright for human eyes.
The warmth here, after the equinox, is much more dependent on the presence of the sun these days, as the cool air from the north, where the sun will not be seen at all for the next six months, begins to descend upon the earth. For now, the warmth retained in these waters also keeps the air temperatures moderate– that’s why the fog after all, as the overnight air temperature, without the sun’s radiance, drops and the warmer lake water evaporates into its chill, condensing into billowing clouds of fog– until the return of sun’s warmth at last evaporates that cloud once again. It is a fascinating relationship– a dance of sorts, a rising and falling, an ebb and flow, a tug and a pull.
Puffball clouds sit low on the horizon, which circumscribes this vast body of water from the infinite dome above. It will be an awe-some spot from which to stargaze– or full moon gaze, as will be the case this evening.
Now, small waves lap from a light southeast breeze, breaking onshore almost once per second– in a rhythmic splash, splash, splash. I can only imagine the height and force at which they batter this shoreline when the winds are up. The eroded sand banks and exposed roots of clinging pines hint at its wild power.
It is a different Algonquin out here.
Earlier.
We finally paddled from camp into the still heavy fog this morning shortly after 9, deciding we could poke our way, hugging the shoreline of Little Crow Lake and that maybe by the time we got to the marshy end where the lake narrowed into the Crow river once again, the sun would have worked her magic. The ridge on the opposite side of the lake never did emerge from the cloud for us this morning.
Upon entering the spruce bog on the River, we paused, floating for a time in the boat, waiting again. I really wanted to share this beautiful meandering river– its intimate bog surround by those hillsides of autumn, with Don. I also wanted to take some photographs!
By 9:30 the fog was at last lifting enough for us to proceed, at least on the west side of the river, which was receiving more of the sun’s warmth. The contrast between the west side of the river and the east was remarkable. The east bank still shrouded in fog, appeared as a wintry scene, with the dew drenched larch, cedar, and spruce glimmering in the reflected light, so that they looked to be coated in frost. Millions of cup-shaped webs, flocking the trees, added to the illusion of winter. Meanwhile the river right was ablaze in autumn.
The photos above and below are taken to the river left and the river right, within 2 minutes of each other
We reached the portage up to Red Rock Lake, by 10:30. We were not walking this trail to Red Rock, we just got out of the canoe there for a potty break and to shed a layer.
By 11:30 we were eating lunch on a point on Proulx Lake. We were both were hungry by then, as breakfast this morning was less than satisfying (note to self- do not attempt overnight couscous again)
Proulx lake
We hit the portage trail from Proulx to Opeongo, the last one of the trip, at 12;45. At 1400 meters in length, we chose to split the trail into 2 today by paddling across the small pond that bisects the trail into two sections (you can stay on the trail and walk around the pond if you so choose).
We were paddling away from the dock on Opeongo, in search of a campsite, by two.
We met a lovely young couple from Toronto along the trail. They were headed into the park for a week — to Big Crow then on to Lavielle and Dickson. We chatted a bit with them about canoes and trips, the lengths of portages and the weight of food. (concurring that it’s always good to hit the long trails at the point in the trip when the food pack is empty!) Clearly enjoying one another and their time out here, they too were enthralled with the beauty of autumn. I thought of my daughter, my/her longing for her to find such companionship, someone with whom to share this adventure of life. To find Love, to Love and Be Loved. To be seen and valued? Is this not our birthright?
I read these words earlier, they spoke of how at times “one forgets how much you are appreciated and loved, but maybe you’re not paying attention. Maybe your heart has grown hard and cynical, and so you cannot open to receive it.’ Sometimes in a relationship taking the other for granted and the building up of unspoken hurts and resentments can become engrained into habits, I think. The drifting apart into private worlds of hurt as well as desires that aren’t shared or are diminished by the other. Maybe we just fell out of good practice– of seeing the other with a loving (soft) gaze, of allowing ourselves to be seen the same way. ‘Is it you or is it me?’
The suggestion given in the reading is to practice filling oneself with joy, compassion, and love (and dare I add, beauty, wonder, mystery) — allowing that to flow outwards to the other. Reminds me of another dream I had once, when I was basically given instructions for living, for healing, for being loved and being love, instructed to ‘gaze upon this tree, notice how it is being filled with light, deep into its roots. let yourself be filled that way. there is nothing else you need ‘do’, but let yourself be filled with love.’ then I was asked to ‘notice how the light fills the tree upward from its roots to overflow from outstretched limbs. it is not ‘doing’ anything ‘right’, and this light will naturally overflow from your very being, too, if you let yourself be filled with love, from your own outstretched limbs overflowing with light’
This 20 year old dream, still re-minding me. I am still living into that truth, still learning from the trees how to do it, how to live deeply rooted in love here. Reminds me of that Mary Oliver poem on my nightstand.
When I am among the trees
When I am among the trees, especially the willows and the honey locust equally the beech, the oaks and pines, they give off such hints of gladness. I would almost say that they save me, and daily. I am so distant from the hope of myself, in which I have goodness, and discernment and never hurry through the world but walk slowly and bow often. Around me, the trees stir in their leaves and call out, "Stay awhile" The light flows from their branches And the call again,'It's simple,' they say, 'and you too have come into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled with light and to shine'
Now the breeze has calmed; the lapping more gentle, the feeling less frantic. The lake is quite quiet now, much more so than I imagined it would be on a Friday night in September at the height of fall color. We have seen no other canoeist, just one motorboat headed to pick up the father and son with whom we shared the portage trail out from Proulx Lake. They’d passed us on the Crow River when we were taking the break at the portage to Red Rock, told us they’d been at the cabin on Big Crow last evening, Hogan before that… We shared stories about that long portage, as we stood chatting with them, the canoe on my shoulders.
We have turned the canoe on its side for a back rest out here on our pebble beach. Our bodies are weary. We will sit here, wait for the moon to rise.
It has been a good trip.
an algonquin affair 