Wilderness Canoe Base

Kneeling on Lifejackets

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Disclaimer: This is not health advice. Nor is it intended to undermine the unique hardship and grief of Covid-19. These are the reflections of a person who believes wholeheartedly in the transformative and lasting influence of canoe trips, and who is trying very hard to make sense of his admittedly very privileged day-to-day experiences with a pandemic. In the words of public intellectual Theodore Zeldin, “this is what I now feel, which I did not feel before.”

Canoe trips help me to come up against the limitations of what I can control. When I’m headed out “on trail” (into the woods for a camping trip), I make lots of lists. Lists of things to buy, things to organize, things to do. My packing lists are so extensive that I usually arrange them by the pack that the listed items will live in over the course of the trip, and sometimes even by the pack-within-the-pack. Here’s an excerpt from last summer’s “Back-up Small Equipment List,” the subcategorized contents of which were stored in a blue 5-liter dry bag that I tucked into the bottom corner of my food pack:

  • matches
  • bottle #3 and lighter #4
  • Ziplock of birch bark strips and petroleum-dipped cotton balls
  • extra compass and extra F-32 map
  • extra duct tape, zip ties, Superglue
  • extra toilet paper, wet wipes, alcohol prep pads
  • extra fishing line and hooks (capped)

I make lists because I like to be prepared. As my co-guides, campers, and fellow canoe-trippers can attest, my tendencies border the line between thoughtful readiness and irrational over-packing. (Some might even say that I’m way over that line!) But I’d rather have too much than too little, to the point where I’m willing to carry things for a whole week that I won’t ever take out my Duluth Pack because I just sleep better knowing that they’re there.

My inclination towards over-preparedness definitely can influence my behavior during a canoe trip. Sometimes, I’m so focused on what I can control that I forget to live into the present moment; to really experience the beautiful messiness of day-to-day life. Several seasons ago, I noticed that I was actually more worried on the calm, cloudless sunny days than I was on the stormy, windy days. I’d started to internalize the goofy, backwards idea that if today’s weather is “good,” tomorrow’s or the next day’s or the day-after-that’s will be “bad.” Lately, I’ve been practicing non-judgement and being present during my trips. Some days, I can lay back and stare up at the wispy “mares’ tails” (cirrus uncinus, for the cloud nerds) that my mom says indicate storms are a-coming in the next 24-48 hours, and not feel worried at all.

Indeed, no matter what gear I bring or how much I worry, I simply don’t have the capacity to account for all possible scenarios of a backcountry wilderness canoe trip. I know that this inability is also true in the rest of my life, but I’m pretty good at the delusion of control when I have indoor HVAC, pressurized potable water, the internet, and a digital calendar at my fingertips. “Off trail,” I get lots of practice making elaborate, long-term work and life plans, but “on trail,” all it takes is one surprise thunderstorm, one wind-bound afternoon, or one unfindable portage to remind me that I’m not in charge at all.

It is in the moments when I come upon an irrefutable challenge to my prep and plans that a good canoe trip really begins. These moments force me to acknowledge that every person, every lake, and every day brings new experiences that I will never be able to completely understand and predict, no matter how many trips I have the opportunity to take. They remind me that I’m living in a wild, unconquered, and—I believe—ultimately incomprehensible world. They humble me; they make me stand still, stop thinking, and look on in awe.

Most important, these moments make me rely on others. They help me to be consistently astounded by the limitless capacity of communal accomplishment, communal bravery, communal care. They make me remember that this “living” is a group activity, a social discipline. Even when I’m sequestered away from everyone else, soaked to the bone and kneeling on a lifejacket to minimize the risk of a lightning strike, unable to see anything through the darkness and pouring rain, I know that the folks on my canoe trip—and others camped on neighboring lakes— are also crouched out there, experiencing the helplessness, discomfort, and absurdity of life alongside me. Somehow, that helps. That, and a loud chorus of some Maria Von Trapp-style yodels from the trip jokester that echo across the bay with the crashes of thunder and make everyone giggle.

I know y’all are out there somewhere, kneeling on your lifejackets. I’m out here too. Don’t forget to yodel. And to giggle. When the sun comes out again (as it always does), I look forward to finding you.

Much love,

Dan Ahrendt, WCB Program Manager

Thank you to all of the healthcare workers, public safety workers, essential business workers, volunteers, and others who continue to labor selflessly to serve their communities in this time of need. Thank you to everyone else who is taking steps, big or small, to stop the spread of disease.