CHAPTER 7 - Upside Down in the Yukon River
Paddling had started for me quite by happenstance, so many years ago crossing that lake in Iowa to explore a seemingly very distant island with my cousin Brian. A few summers later, Brian’s father, my Uncle Bob, perhaps sensing a flicker of adventure in me, invited me to join him and Brian on a canoe trip to the Boundary Waters.
“Can I Mom? Can I?” I pleaded.
To which she responded, “How are the grades gonna be this year? If they’re good, you’re good.”
This presented a bit of a problem. When it came to school, motivation had always been a problem. Since my parents’ divorce a few years earlier, even more so. Motivation in much of anything seemed a struggle. The invite by Uncle Bob, surprisingly, as I was far from adventurous in anything at the time, lit me up a bit. Ah, but what about Mom’s inquiry into the state of my studies? That posed a bit of a dilemma. I was flunking biology—and not by just a little bit—and we were deep into the semester. There was no salvaging it. That would most likely be a deal killer for the Boundary Waters. I was at least above water in my other classes, but a true report of what would most likely be four Cs and an F, would not cut it. I made a decision then that I am now not proud of. I chose “beg for forgiveness later” over “tell the truth and hope for the best.”
Memories of that trip, nearly forty years ago, remain with me still. Crystal clear waters. The kind of clarity that would allow an awestruck twelve-year-old from the city to recover a pair of RayBan sunglasses in four feet of water, lost presumably by a paddler that preceded us in this wild place. Uncle Bob taught me how to handle a fishing pole. Young northern pike, abundant in numbers and as naive as this young caster, were all too eager to take the bait offered. Each strike sent waves of excitement through me, and I could sense Uncle Bob’s delight in it. Later in life, Uncle Bob shared with me that he had thought of me as a “punk kid” who would never amount to much. But on that trip, the punk kid had a look in his eyes that perhaps Uncle Bob recognized from time spent with his son Brian or even as a kid himself. Perhaps it took him back to a time that he saw these same Boundary Waters for the first time. I’m eternally grateful he took a chance on me. You never know what may be sleeping inside a kid’s soul.
Returning home, I was certain payment would be due. While I was gone, Mom surely would have received my grades in the mail. Whatever the punishment, I was at peace with it. No amount of punishment could undo or erase the memories of the trip. Returning to Fort Dodge, the family reunion was in full swing at Aunt Barbara’s family farm. Maybe Mom had enjoyed a drink or two or maybe she saw the glimmer in my eye and was just so happy to see her son genuinely happy.
Whatever the case, she said with a bit of a mischievous smile after a few stories, “So glad you had a wonderful trip... We’ll discuss the report card a bit later.”
Moms are the best. It would be some time until my next big adventure, and many more poor decisions would be made in my young life. However, a seed had been watered that would never go entirely dormant.
Decades later, I’d return to the water, clumsily attempting to keep pace with much more seasoned paddlers during our first adventure race. The goal at that time was simple: become a better paddler so as not to be left in our fellow racers’ wakes. Eventually, doing so allowed me to see the possibility of becoming more than just a proficient paddler. What I could be was being revealed one step, or in this case, one kayak stroke, at a time. I wanted to go further and see what was out there, both physically and adventurously. I began spending more and more of my available training hours alone on the lakes and rivers of Iowa. Each stroke, unknowingly, was leading me north, to a land far, far away. I was in the flow, adrift, being pulled by a river current yet unknown.
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#dreamBIGdreams,
Steve
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