MCA HUT! Archive

Now, some folks might argue with me on this one, but I firmly believe there is no deeper or more abiding love than the love between a guy and his first canoe. And it surely is a sorrowful thing to inadvertently hurt the one you love.

First loves are always enduring. Betcha you can recall, in every detail, the first crush you ever had in grade school. But recollectin’ the faces, much less comin’ up with the names, of every sweet thing that caught your eye in the intervening years is beyond most folks.

And first loves do have a greater tendency than subsequent ones to be, if not entirely blind, then at least severely and selectively myopic. I mean, back in fourth grade, did you care that she had braces and pretended not to notice you or that his ears stuck out and he tried to drop worms down your dress at recess? No. You were more’n willing to let the frothy tide of infatuation sweep you out to sea and wash away, like sand castles, any flaws or shortcomings that might otherwise stand between you.

It’s the same way with boats. Your first canoe was perfect, wasn’t it? You were more’n willing to overlook the fact that it had three keels and you needed at least a four-acre lake to turn it around in. Or that it was cold and noisy and eventually started turnin’ your hands black by the end of the day’s paddle. Or that it weighed more’n 150 pounds, soakin’ wet. You knew that you were made for each other. Leastwise, the canoe’d been made just for you. And together you’d face danger, journey into the unknown, and generally stick by each other through thick and thin, in sickness and in health, ’til death do you part. It was a perfect union.

Of course, the difference here is that your fourth grade sweetheart moved to Albuquerque thirty years ago and you’ve never heard from her since whereas your first canoe is very likely still hangin’ in your garage or sittin’ on sawhorses in your back yard or quietly returnin’ to the elements behind your summer cabin. You may never use it anymore. But you’ll probably never part with it either. Your second canoe you bought because it was sleeker, faster, more maneuverable. But you sold it as soon as something better came along. And let’s face it, that kayak you just bought and refitted as a C1, that’s a trophy bride and it’ll never last. You’ll trade it in as soon as something sexier comes along. But that first canoe, that first best, oldest love, that one’s got stayin’ power.

That doesn’t necessarily mean that you’ve been seein’ much of each other these days, you and your old boat. Old canoes, like time itself, can sometimes be easy to lose track of. Oh, not so much for those of us who live in tight, urban confines and have to pack our boats in the garage like sardines in a can. We may loan out our old boat to junior family members who start an infatuation of their own and figure (incorrectly) that we’ll never miss that beat-up, old boat. But at least we (generally) remember where the aged object of our affections was bestowed. Those of us who live in the exurbs or right out in the country have a bigger problem. We could absentmindedly leave the old boat on the back forty after fishin’ in the pond or something and honestly forget for a time where we put it.

Well, losin’ stuff is seldom good. And losin’ track of your canoe, even if just temporarily, can only lead to trouble, as my old buddy, Roger, discovered many long years ago.

I met up with Roger when we were in school together up in Bemidji. Whenever we shucked the books and sneaked off to the surrounding waterways, Roger was usually with us. He was highly sought after as a paddling partner, in part by virtue of having unlimited access to his dad’s canoe.

That canoe was a dinged-up, oxidized, old Grumman. It’d been around for so long, it mighta been one of the first ones they’d ever made, for all we knew. It was already a high-mileage boat before Roger ever got his hands on it. It was wrapped in layer on layer of fond memories of youthful adventure, like a lovingly preserved mummy. His dad never used it himself anymore, his time bein’ far too occupied with farming. But that canoe was always set respectfully up offa the ground on spare chunks of stove wood somewhere around the back of the lot, patiently waiting for the next generation to rescue it from oblivion.

Now, canoeing was about the farthest thing from our minds when Roger suggested I come out to the farm with him for amusement one otherwise dull mid-winter Saturday afternoon. Lakes and streams had long since been frozen up, solid and silent. Woods, fields, and pastures had all been blended into an endless expanse of deep and drifting snow. Their back yard had been unrecognizably reconfigured into an endlessly shifting, formless drift of wind-sculpted snow. And back then we weren’t yet too old to enjoy it.

But Roger had something else in mind first. He had the loan of his dad’s old hunting rifle for the afternoon. So we dragged a couple of bales of hay outta the barn and set some old cans on top of ‘em for targets. We were even thoughtful enough fellas to align our temporary target range so that the fired bullets would go flyin’ off across the back end of the yard to spend themselves harmlessly in the snowdrifts of the woodlot. We generously figured that’d be far preferable to us firin’ toward the cow pasture or house or something vital like that.

That old gun was something of a family treasure. It’d been Roger’s granddad’s and probably hadn’t been new then. A venerable Winchester .22 pump rifle with an octagonal barrel, its wooden stock had been stained a dark brown and its metal parts worn a shiny grey by repeated use at the hands of several generations of hunters. We felt the weight of history and tradition in our hands as we took turns firin’ round after round at the inoffensive cans and tried to get used to the sights. Sometimes we were lucky. Sometimes the cans were. In the end, I think it was a draw.

Eventually, we returned the rifle to its case and moved on to an afternoon of snow wrestling. And we never gave our marksmanship another thought the rest of the winter.

Come spring, though, when a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of canoeing, we had a grim reminder. We’d driven out to the farm to pick up the canoe and head for the river. Roger’s dad even came out to help load the boat. It was still sittin’ in the back of the yard at the edge of the wood lot where it had patiently been waitin’ for its enveloping shroud of snow to melt. But when we pulled off the tarp, we were faced with what looked like a mortally wounded boat. The hull was riddled, from one end to the other, with holes suspiciously similar in size to those made by long bullets from a Winchester .22 pump rifle. It was a sickening site, especially for those of us suddenly and unexpectedly caught up in pangs of irremediable guilt.

As for Roger’s dad, well, it was painful to see a grown man cry like that. But such is a man’s devotion to his first canoe that he and Roger spent countless hours patchin’ the thing back up again with aluminum rivets and whatnot. First loves die hard. Eventually, their labor of love made that boat seaworthy again. In fact, I do believe it was eventually handed down to Roger who taught his kids to paddle in it. But I’m willing to bet he was a lot more careful about where he taught ‘em to shoot.

Well, ‘til next time, remember where your boat is. And keep in touch. Drop me a line c/o Rich Furman and Morgan MacBain, 901 East Geranium Avenue, St. Paul MN 55106 or editor@canoe-kayak.org. Let me know how your first canoe love has fared over the years. 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 NRA.