MISSING THE SOUND OF THE PADDLE
A CANOE TRIP WITH A LITTLE BIT MORE
I DON'T BELIEVE, FOR ONE MINUTE, THAT I WAS THE FIRST, SECOND OR EVEN THIRD CHOICE, TO MAKE UP THE FOURTH PERSON IN A TWO CANOE ADVENTURE TO ALGONQUIN PARK…..THAT LONG AGO AUTUMN SEASON. I FOUND SLIDES FROM THE TRIP THE OTHER DAY, AND REMEMBERED I HADN'T GIVEN THEM BACK TO KEN SILCOX. OOPS. I'M KNOWN FOR DOING THIS KIND OF THING. I DON'T LOSE THE STUFF. I JUST NEVER GIVE IT BACK.
EVEN AT SANDLOT BASEBALL, I EXPECTED TO BE ONE OF THE LAST KIDS PICKED TO JOIN ONE OF TWO TEAMS. IT WASN'T THAT I SUCKED AS AN ATHLETE. QUITE THE CONTRARY. I WAS AN ABOVE AVERAGE PLAYER, BUT I WAS A CROSS BETWEEN A NERD AND "AN INDIVIDUAL," WHICH WAS PROBABLY WORSE. I WAS A CRAPPY TEAM PLAYER. I WAS A GOALIE IN HOCKEY, A CENTRE IN FOOTBALL, AND I PLAYED LEFT FIELD IN BASEBALL. THAT'S WHERE THE COLACH PUT THOSE WHO WERE ON THE TEAM, BUT DIDN'T QUITE FIT IN WITH THE CLUB'S BOISTROUS "KILL 'EM DEAD" PHILOSOPHY. AND YES, NOW THAT YOU'RE THINKING THIS, IT MEANT AN UNBELIEVABLE FREQUENCY OF UNDERWEAR STRETCHING, SOMETIMES WITH PLAYERS FRONT AND BACK. IF YOU DIDN'T MIX, YOU SUFFERED THE CONSEQUENCES. I HATED THE CLUB MENTALITY BUT I LIKED COMPETITION. SO HOW DOES THIS RELATE TO A CANOE TRIP? WELL, I WAS THE LAST GUY THEY CALLED, AND I'M SURE THEY TALKED AMONGST THEMSELVES, "OF COURSE CURRIE WILL GO…..JUST TELL HIM TO KEEP HIS NOTEPAD AT HOME." I GOT THAT A LOT, AS A REPORTER, IN SOCIAL OCCASIONS. I WAS A TELL-ALL COLUMNIST, AND SOMETIMES I TOLD TOO MUCH. MORE THAN A FEW WIVES FOUND OUT THINGS ABOUT THEIR HUSBANDS, THEY DIDN'T KNOW, JUST BY READING MY WEEKLY COLUMN. OBVIOUSLY, MY FRIENDS LIED A LOT TO THEIR PARTNERS. THE WIVES CLUB LOVED ME. THE HUSBANDS? NOT SO MUCH!
HONORED TO BE ASKED NONE THE LESS
When old friend Ken Silcox came to The Herald-Gazette one day, where I was managing editor, it's likely he started looking for paddle-worthy personnel on the bottom floor first, working his way through the building, before coming up to my second floor office. He probably even asked the receptionist if she was free that weekend. There he found me, bored out of my mind, doodling in my notebook. He stuck his head around the door, and yelled something like, '"I've got a canoe paddle with your name on it!" Geez, I was outfitted, with some fishing gear, and sleeping bag long before he officially asked if I wanted to go on a weekend adventure. I was a newlywed, and Suzanne and I needed a little "quiet" time from each other. Cripes, if she reads this I'm dead. Good thing she won't. I hadn't even given Silcox my answer yet, and I was phoning Suzanne to tell her I was going away for the weekend for some male bonding. "As long as it isn't one of those "Deliverance" bonding things, it's okay," (referring to the movie) I thought she'd say, with a little outdoor's sense of humor. Suzanne isn't known for her sense of humor, so it was more like, 'Well, if you feel it's necessary to leave me on my own, during our newlywed year, then go and have a good time." Which meant, "I won't forget this for the rest of our lives together…..and I will use it against you forever and ever." "Hey Ken, she said I could go," I answered my friend at the door, who was engaged with one of our other reporters, who was probably back-up in case I couldn't go. Geez I'd love to be first string just once in my life.
"Should I bring some booze," I asked, looking like a wide-eyed puppy, just offered a begging strip and a pat on the head. As for the booze part, it was still very much a part of my writing career, just as the tavern was a home away from home. This is before Suzanne sobered me up for good. In this instance, however, booze was what kept me from coming home early, on this autumn adventure deep into the Algonquin wilds. It was more medicinal than a couple of ounces for pleasure.
My canoe partner was the good Mr. Silcox, a terrific paddler, and one of Muskoka's well known real estate agents. In the second canoe was teacher Dave Bird, and Ross Traviss of the local grocery industry, both with huge outdoor experience, and many miles traversed through Ontario's wilderness. Unfortunately, both Dave and Ross have since passed away, and the good old world lost two of its finest citizens. Ross died quite a while ago now, and Dave Bird was fatally injured during a logging mishap in the past year. I have wonderful memories of each gentleman, who made this weekend so memorable.
It was a little later in the fall season and the weather was bloody cold, windy, overcast most of the time, and snowing when it wasn't raining. Hell I wasn't complaining. I was just excited about doing something with pals, that didn't involve a sticky bar-room table, a jug of skunky draft beer, and a stripper who may or may not have tossed me her boa…..into my beer. And the trip was going so well, even the long bumpy trip into Algonquin Park's Rain Lake. Outside of having to pee like two race horses, I was thrilled to arrive at that beautiful Algonquin oasis. "Currie, we take the canoes off the truck before we hit the washroom," was what I think they were yelling at me….but sorry, I've got a bladder the size of a thimble. The plan was to paddle and portage our way to Big Misty, but I think because of the adverse weather, we only made it to Little Misty.
About two minutes of paddle, with the bow of our canoe (where I was) breaking through the waves coming right at us, I answered Ken's question, "how are you doing up there," with a simple response; "Isn't this the life?" The second I opened my mouth, it was like the devil himself, took a red hot six inch nail, from his forge, and pounded that sucker into the centre of my molar. The cold wind hitting me in the face triggered the most explosive toothache I've ever had, and it was as if my head was going to explode. My heart-beat was in my mouth. Every time I inhaled, the cold Algonquin air hit that tooth like its nerve on an anvil. Suzanne had saved the trip without knowing it. She had packed some aspirin, expecting that I would wake up with a hangover on at least one of the two mornings at the campsite. Bless her heart. But for that lengthy crossing of the lake, I cussed like a longshoreman. I said things that made my soul cringe. I would have bit the head of an Irishman, I was so mad that this was happening, on the first leg of our three day canoe trip. It wasn't fair, and I let God know as much. I think he may have retaliated, by making it just a little worse, and the wind a little stronger and colder.
At the first portage, I put two tablets against the tooth…..one on the side, and one clenched between upper and lower teeth, that were all resonating like an Orangeman's bass drum on the 12th of July. The pain was so bad, at this point, my decision making capability had clearly been affected. I had hastily placed a plastic bag of chili Ross's wife had prepared for our lunch, on the end of a paddle, while Ken portaged the canoe. When we got to the next portage, and decided to have a lunch break, well, the chili was gone. So were the dozen buttered rolls in the same bag. It seems a rogue branch had relieved us of the chili and buns. I was still in so much pain at this point, the chili wouldn't have gone down well anyway. Good news though. On our return trip, we found the chili hanging from the same branch, and because it was cold enough outside, to keep it from spoiling, we had the lunch before we re-loaded the canoes on the trucks.
Once we arrived at our elevated campsite, overlooking the beautiful expanse of Algonquin lake, Ken knew I was suffering from something. "It's my tooth Ken," I answered with the garble of a man chewing aspirins, with a pounding ache in the jaw. "I can't stand the pain. How are you at pulling teeth," I asked. That's when the beautiful man handed me a bottle of peppermint schnapps, from his backpack. "It's what we brush our teeth with out here, but it'll fix up a toothache." "Take a couple of shots, and then go and sit by the fire," he said. I may have taken a little bit more than I should have, because I was singing sea shanties at just over two ounces of the good stuff. I had the freshest breath that whole weekend. Actually, if it hadn't been for the schnapps, I would have had to leave, the pain was so severe. I thought about extracting the tooth myself, with any kind of primitive implement, but then I thought about the Bracebridge doctor, who bled to death, after removing his own tonsils. Historians know a lot of neat stuff like this.
After a good portion of that bottle, I lost all feeling in that radioactive tooth, and in fact, I couldn't feel my face at all. The booze bought me some time that's for sure. I was able to enjoy three days in Algonquin because of schnapps, so let's give credit where it's due. I sang like a opera star all the way across Rain Lake. All I was missing were the viking horns on a tin helmet. No you're right. I shouldn't have been paddling under the influence. But honestly, I wouldn't have been paddling at all without that liquid courage. I really enjoyed the trip, and spent hours writing stories, sitting around the campfire, listening to the tall tales and Algonquin lore as told by Mr. Silcox, Mr. Bird and Mr. Traviss. I apparently learned to yodel during that trip but I don't know who taught me how.
When it gets to this time of the year, I get a little toothy pang, to head into the Algonquin lakeland, for a little respite. I think about those guys and of course peppermint schnapps. But I also had a great opportunity to write about our amazing province, that has continued to influence me to this day. My notes were kind of hard to read but the inspiration was clear, even without words of explanation. I'm glad these buddies invited me on this autumn canoe trip. I'm really glad they brought the medication too…..because, as history reminds, it saved the entire trip. And I had a second trip to add on to the first.
Ken Silcox recently sold his Bracebridge house, and took a chance on Western Canada, as a good place to invest for the future. Suzanne and I were sorry to see him go, because for many years, and many, many circumstances, our paths routinely crossed, and they were always remarkable, insightful meetings, of old friends, who could and would finish each other's sentences……but only if necessary.
I never told Ken this story, so if he's checking the internet, he can read about it now. After he sold us our house on Golden Beach Road (the haunted one), in Bracebridge, he gave us a huge turkey he had raised on his rural property. How big was it? We had to take it to my parents' apartment, because we couldn't fit it into the one at our house. Suzanne was expecting son Robert to pop out any day, and the hustling residence to residence with the turkey in tow, back to our house, and then back for other supplies we forgot, got her so agitated…..thinking it wasn't going to be a perfect Thanksgiving spread in our new house, that she went into labour a short time later. I was eating leftover turkey for two weeks. So were my parents. I never properly thanked Ken for giving us this monster turkey, that may have induced labor, for son Robert……who by the way loves turkey.
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