Minnesota Canoe Association: Adventures With Uncle Wally (Paddle) (a84)



Paddlesports, like most other endeavors, have their own, unique set of circumstances which must be observed in order to be successful. Paddle is the operative word here: ya gotta paddle if ya wanna get anywhere.


Now, most years, come October, Charlie and I like to go huntin’ together. We put Charlie’s old Tripper on some wandery little swamp river up north and while away the hours driftin’ downstream, freezing our fingers and other promontory pieces of anatomy, and jump-shootin’ ducks. We always take the canoe. It’s a good excuse for gettin’ the boat out one more time before the waterways all clot up with ice. Besides, is there really any other way to travel?


We like huntin’ ducks this way. We’ve done it for years and we’re pretty good at it. Course, the ducks have been out perfecting evasive maneuvers for generations. So we don’t always come home with a duck dinner. But it’s the process that counts, after all. And if you’re gonna play by the rules, ya gotta allow that gatherin’ isn’t always a natural consequence to huntin’.


This trip started out like most others. It had been clear and cold the night before. As the early sun started fingerin’ its way through the trees, it touched on billowing mists smoking up off the water into the quiet air. It was the kind of day where the damp seems bent on drawing out every scrap of color left in the world before the black-and-white of winter sets in. Kinda pretty, if you like that sort of thing.


Charlie was up in the bow. It was his job to peer through those mists for any legal quarry downriver and get off a fast shot as soon as the ducks got wind of our arrival. It was my job to maneuver the boat along all the meanderings of the river and not get excited by the hunt and blow my bow partner’s head off. The sternman rarely gets a shot in edgewise on these ventures, for reasons that should be obvious, if you think about it a minute.


I had my hands full, anyway. For a river that was in no hurry to get to wherever it was goin’, windin’ as it did in exaggerated oxbows that circled the compass, it sure was pushy. It took all of my attention to keep from bouncin’ the boat offa the sedges on the outside of bends or gettin’ sucked into those deceptively calm looking eddies on the inside. And I had to keep quiet about it, too, or we’d scare off the ducks. We did see ducks, lots of ‘em, but nothin’ to shoot at. We’d see whole flocks of mergansers leavin’ a flutter of feathers in the air in their hurry to be elsewhere. Or mud hens would swim stodgily and stoically downstream ahead of us. Or black ducks. But nothin’ to fix your sights on.


I guess we got a little lax and inattentive in all the sameness of seem’ only non-game birds at every bend. ‘Cause we were taken completely by surprise by the explosion of wings which suddenly erupted right next to our boat. A pair of mallards jumped right beside us, breaking their heretofore flawless cover and hightailin’ it back upstream as fast as their frantic wings could carry ‘em.


Charlie imediately grabbed his gun and let fly at the fleeing ducks. It took me a fraction of a second longer to realize I was uniquely situated to give him a hand. The ducks were beside, not in front of, us. So I could actually get off a shot or two without risking catching my paddling partner in the crossfire. So I did. With fervor.


Well, at that point in the day, the ducks were sharper than we were. They were safely back outta range in the demilitarized zone upstream and around the bend by the time the river bounced us offa the sedges on the outside of the next oxbow.
As paddler in charge of general navigation on this trip, I quickly put down my gun and reached for my paddle... and uttered mild imprecations on the general hot-headedness of hunters everywhere, present company included. My paddle wasn’t there. I had dropped it overboard in my general haste to put an untimely end to the indigenous waterfowl.


I politely suggested to Charlie that he backpaddle to keep us from driftin’ any further from our primary means of propulsion. But I got nothin’ but a blank look. Charlie rightly viewed himself as bein’ in charge of shootin’ fast and straight, where he was, I might point out, batting only about .500 today. He had shot fast. And in so doing, he had managed to drop his paddle over the side as well. And it had to be the one time we weren’t carryin’ a spare. Talk about your bein’ up a creek without a paddle! I thought these sorta situations were supposed to be purely metaphorical!


Grabbin’ ahold of a felicitous alder branch, I quickly scanned the river upstream and down for any sign of our errant paddles. But no sign was given. They couldn’ta passed us. They had to be hung up somewhere back upstream. We waited patiently for several long minutes for the current to bring ‘em back down to us. But it didn’t. There was nothin’ else for it; we were gonna hafta somehow work our way back upstream with no paddles.


Now, nobody was gonna be interested in gettin’ out and linin’ the boat back upstream through water that was holdin’ a nightly debate about whether to stay in a liquid state or go solid. So we were gonna hafta make do with what we had. We’d dropped our paddles in favor of our guns, so we were just gonna hafta stick with guns a little while longer. Think of it as a 12 gauge, bent shaft, Greenland style, canoe paddle. Well, it beat a blank.


Then, of course, there was the dicey proposition of turnin’ around to head back upstream. The river was too narrow turn the Tripper around in, even if we’da had a decent means of propulsion. And Charlie and I are both above average guys when it comes to age and girth. Plus, we were both heavily fortified against the cold with multiple layers of thick clothing. So turnin’ us around inside the boat so we could paddle it stern-first upstream provided some entertaining moments and energetic conversation.


But eventually we did it. Plying our shotguns by the barrels, we enthusiastically swung the gunstocks through the water and moved slowly back upstream. It was slightly more efficient than hand paddling. And a heck of a lot warmer.
It didn’t take us too long to relocate the paddles. Charlie’s favorite Mitchell was wedged in the bulrushes along the right bank and my old Grey Owl beavertail was hung up in an alder tangle on the left. It was a happy reunion.
So anyway, next time you’re out, take a friendly piece of advice from ol’ Uncle Wally. Remenber the paddle in paddlesports: don’t drop yours.


Well, ‘til next time, keep your paddle wet and keep it in your hands! 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 been caught empty-handed out on the water. 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 your friendly, neighborhood conservation officer.

Minnesota Canoe Association

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