MCA HUT! Archive

Opposites always attract, if you’re a magnet. But human magnetism is a lot more mysterious and harder to predict.

When you’re talkin’ about personalities, polar opposites just don’t stick together all that well. Just ask any marriage counselor. People are far more likely to be drawn to folks with a mind set similar to their own. We like people who are like us. It simplifies things, takes some of the mystery out of life.

We in the watersports community really aren’t all that different from other folks in this regard. I mean, how often do you see creek boaters hangin’ around with the wood and canvas crowd? And these are guys who have some fundamental affinity for each other. Just imagine the gulf between, say, sea kayakers and jet skiers. Or anybody and jet skiers, for that matter.

Even in that select subgroup of humanity that indulges in wilderness canoe tripping there are factions that just can’t see eye to eye. On the one hand you’ve got your high-tech whiz kids with their Kevlar boats, carbon fiber paddles, and a whole wardrobe of nifty, outdoor outfits that have all somehow been distilled from fossil fuels. On the other hand, you’ve got your dyed-in-the-wool traditionalists with their wood and canvas boats, beavertail paddles, and natural fiber clothing that could almost bleat on its own. Some folks like to travel in large, garrulous, gregarious groups. Others are solitude-loving loners for whom even two can be a crowd. Gourmet cooks square off against the boil-it-in-the-bag, fast food fans. Some folks like camp stoves. Others insist you haven’t done the necessary backwoods penance unless you cook only over an open fire. The list is almost endless.

We can be pretty tolerant of each other’s quirks when we’re just rubbin’ elbows with each other in the outfitters store or at the canoe expo. And most of us mix and mingle our paddling prejudices to the point we can sometimes even see the other guy’s point of view, even if we still think he’s an idiot. But mix together opposing factions for a week or two out in the wilderness, and there’s bound to be friction of some kind. Even in that ephemeral relationship of passing another party on the water or on a portage, there’s apt to be a certain amount of snobbish disdain expressed for those poor, benighted souls who have never evolved beyond the dark ages of canoeing or those spendy gear heads who have sold out to the whims of fashion and industry. We resent the racket made by that big, boisterous group. And we wonder what sorta antisocial traits that taciturn solo boater must have that kept him from findin’ a paddling partner in the first place.

Well, I guess we’re just hard to please. But you never can tell. Sometimes there are mysterious and unpredictable forces at work that can bring together even these contrary camps, if only temporarily.

Not all that long ago, I found myself fallin’ in with one of those large, rowdy groups we all love to hate. There were sixteen of us, guys and gals of assorted ages, all of us out for two weeks of Canadian canoeing adventure. It was a convivial crowd. There was seldom a lack of lively conversation or banter between boats. And when there was, the lack was usually filled with old, French-Canadian paddling songs, in harmony, from folks who (unlike me) could actually carry a tune. Our chances of seein’ wildlife dropped close to nil. But we could at least always count on our compatriots for anything from a kind word on a hard day to a cooling water fight on a hot one.

And I hafta admit it was kinda fun for a change. My own leanings are more toward the solitary, traditionalist style. But I can enjoy a good dose of frivolity now and then, as long as I understand what I’m gettin’ in for to begin with.

There were some real free spirits in our crowd, too, the sort who didn’t think twice about coolin’ off after a long, hot portage by goin’ for a swim in nothin’ but what God gave ‘em. I myself tend to be very particular about who I get naked with and under what circumstances. So I also tend to keep my shirt (and pants) on, just like folks keep tellin’ me to do. But I do try to keep an open mind about other people’s proclivities.

After all, there is something of a tradition of clothing-optional travel in these northern waters, goin’ all the way back to the Voyageurs. Those hardy souls travelled pretty light, at least in the wardrobe department. And when it rained, I hear they shucked their precious clothes to keep ‘em dry for later and paddled in the altogether. Besides, seein’ as how many of our aforementioned naturists were rather lovely young ladies, it was in my own, enlightened self interest to be tolerant and broad-minded.

It bein’ a pretty hot, sunny August, these portage-end swims came with predictable frequency after mid-morning. It did slow us down some. But why be in a big hurry to get to somewhere else when you’re enjoyin’ yourself right where you are?

So, anyway, we were out there livenin’ up the great outdoors in any number of small ways which might not be entirely appreciated, even in passing, by more sober and serious parties of paddlers. Fortunately, we weren’t crossin’ paths with just too many of those. I woulda hated, for example, to have our ladies out there givin’ an advanced education to some unwary troop of Boy Scouts or something. I don’t think there’d even be a merit badge in it for ‘em.

Of course, odds were that sooner or later we’d offend someone. And we did. There were just too many of us to ever be hurried across a portage, so I guess it was no wonder that these two guys eventually caught up to us. They were goin’ our way and travellin’ fast, these neo-Voyageurs. Where we’d take two, maybe even three, trips to get all our gear across a portage, they’d do it in just one. One of ‘em carried a pack and the canoe and the other one carried two packs. That was all they had; no loose or extraneous gear. They wedged their paddles strategically into the boat in lieu of a portage yoke, which they seemed to view as an unnecessary extravagance. And they carried their packs by tumpline only, pack straps bein’ for sissies.

They were two of a kind, these rugged, wool and flannel clad individualists, steeped from their boot soles to their hat brims in the time-honored traditions of Canadian canoeing. And they were men of few words, preferring the expansive, canoe-country silences, I guess. They couldn’ta been just any too pleased with runnin’ into such a loud band of rowdies from south of the border. But they managed to meet us with a resigned and reserved equanimity.

They were pickin’ their way through the yard-sale array of gear we’d left strewn across the upper portage landing when about a half dozen of us came sauntering out of the woods to pick up our last portage loads. They graciously accepted our apologies for blockin’ access to the portage that way. But when our Margie, bubbling with her usual enthusiasm, invited them to join the rest of our group for lunch at the other end of the portage, they politely extended their regrets. The look they exchanged suggested they thought such blatant portage-hogging to be a serious breach of canoe country etiquette. Not that they were gonna mention it. They just seemed tacitly agreed on breaking through our ragged ranks at portage end, hitting the water posthaste, and bein’ miles downstream before we’d even reloaded our boats.

Signs that the usual portage-end pool party was already in progress came wafting up to greet us long before we even cleared the trees. Sounds of whoops and hollers, laughter and splashing drifted up from the waterside. Our two chance companions shared a quizzical look before one of ‘em suggested, "Must be a party, eh?"

"Just coolin’ off after a hot portage," I told ‘em, figurin’ that these two just wouldn’t understand.

But turns out, I was sellin’ ‘em short. Our coureur de bois experienced revelation and enlightenment, not to mention a change of heart, at portage end. They dropped their loads and looked up to see our naiads cavorting in the plunge pool of a small waterfall, like the Lorelei on the Rhine. "Hey! It is a party," they realized. And suddenly, havin’ lunch with the enemy didn’t seem like such bad idea to ‘em any more. They put aside their differences and sat down to join us.

Well, even the Voyageurs enjoyed a good party any chance they got. And maybe human magnetism, while still mysterious, isn’t all that unpredictable after all.

Well, ‘til next time, keep your paddle wet and your shirt on. And keep in touch. Drop me a line c/o Rich Furman and Morgan MacBain, 901 East Geranium Ave., St. Paul MN 55106 or editor@canoe-kayak.org. Let me know if you’ve ever gotten caught with your pants down while in canoe country. Remember, Uncle Wally promises to 1) tell the truth so no one would ever believe it anyway and 2) never reveal your true identity to anyone, not even the vice squad.