There was an ever so faint trail of mist, white, lingering and hovering over the smooth, smooth surface. Light was just dawning as the sun slowly rose. All was quiet, all was still, save for the sporadic birdsong and the creak of some lonely cicada. Or perhaps it was a cricket?
The lake, undisturbed and unstirred from a sleepy, moonless night, rippled underneath. The sky, blue and clear, lightly dabbed with clouds of cotton white, reflected on the watery mirror that spread into the distance. The sound of water drip-dropping from my oar onto the lake’s almost flawless face was almost embarrassingly loud.
With every stroke, a thin silvery whirlpool emerged and faded. With every paddle, the lake parted before the bow, bowing to form gentle waves that would ebb, flow and fall across the horizon onto silent shores.
Early morning and two people on a simple canoe glided over the Katchewanooka. I looked into the murky depths of the lake, overgrown with weeds and water grass, parts of which were so dense and thick that it resembles a nebula of greens. In other parts of the lake, the water was so shallow we seemed to be skirting the ground, ever vigilant of the treacherous rock or boulder that could sink our little vessel.
We skimmed the surface on the lake under my rhythmic movements. Pull, lift, pull, lift, steady as a beating drum, and the canoe rocked forward. In a field of reed we stopped and listened. To the quiet whisper of the winds, the soft flow of water, and the rustling sounds of grass dancing and nodding their heads.
For a moment we seemed to be alone in this great big world. Dark silhouettes of trees crowded the shores around us, and little lily pads floated to softly stroke the side of the canoe. Nothing but wild, raw nature, untamed in its beauty, unmatched in its tranquillity and serenity. We faintly drifted to the sway of the breeze and currents. Until the distant murmur of a roaring motorboat cruelly brought us back to reality.
It was such a simple joy, being there, paddling away, and at times simply drifting away to wherever the currents pleased. A simple joy of doing something so quintessentially Canadian in a little canoe on a big, broad lake.
