Roger Pires May 13, 2010
When he's not offering his take on daily life, Roger Pires spends his days as a computer systems analyst. It's not exactly a glamorous calling but hey, it pays the bills. He enjoys hockey, canoeing, snowshoeing, and spending as much time as he possibly can outdoors. He lives in Udora with his wife and two kids, who are his prime inspiration for Ravenshoe Ramblings.
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Sinkin' in the rain
A rag-tag flotilla had formed along the banks of the river. Canoes and kayaks of every size, colour, and composition clogged the shoreline and spilled out along the margins of Zephyr Road. Normally, a passing car would be headline news along this desolate stretch of rural blacktop. But this was no ordinary morning. A year’s worth of traffic had pulled up to the edges to disgorge its cargo. Tail gates and trunk lids surrendered life jackets, paddles, safety kits, coolers, and other vital paraphernalia needed for a day on the water.
The first Saturday in May inflicts a happy mania on this otherwise drowsy corner of Uxbridge Township. The Udora-Leaskdale Lions hold their annual Canoe River Run down the Pefferlaw Brook. This year the proceeds would go to Precious Minds, an organization our family has been involved with for many years. This local charity servicing north Durham provides support to families with children who have barriers in learning.
The plan was for me to head out solo. Once I completed the first leg – from Zephyr Road to Udora – my daughter would join me and we would tackle the longer stretch to Pefferlaw in tandem. This would involve a minor miracle since the teenage day rarely starts before noon.
A mild, snow-starved winter has its supporters. But the impact is felt beyond simply hanging up the snowshoes in mid-February. The Pefferlaw Brook, its banks usually overflowing from seasonal run-off, resembled a wading pool after the kids had left. The meager trickle allowed only one canoe to be launched at a time. And the low water level turns every fallen sapling into a potential obstacle. I hadn’t travelled the length of a football field when I encountered the first hurdle. Probably urged on by a winter gale, a clump of cedars had dived headlong into the river. I steered my way through the narrow gap between their still-green tops and the muddy bank. This little distraction was soon followed by floating birch. Then a low-hanging spruce. Mobs of driftwood. Several times, the swift current left me parked against an island of fallen timber. The only solution was to pole your way around the floating mass. I was beginning to think a gondola would’ve been a better mode of transportation.
In truth, this marine steeplechase just added to the enjoyment of the event. I love an easy paddle down a calm, turn-your-mind-off-and-let-the-pressures-of-life-just-evaporate stretch of river as much as the next guy. But a whiff of challenge gets the blood rushing; straining muscles and a sweaty back remind the weekend warrior that there’s life beyond the corporate cubicle.
At length, the yards that spill into the river along Nicholson Drive heralded my arrival in Udora. The river opened up and the pace slackened. I completed the first leg of the River Run in a floating Laz-Y-Boy. Despite the earlier obstacles, I touched down just after 10:00. I called home. My wife and daughter were on their way. A small gang of Lions Club volunteers helped me portage my canoe to the next launching point. In the context of the river run, “portage” is a grandiose term for dragging the canoe twenty feet to the pool beyond the sluice gates. In that time, my navigator arrived – fully clothed and semi-conscious. I walked her in the direction of our canoe and propped her up in the front seat. A swollen anvil of rain clouds was heading in our direction. My kid was going to wake up real soon. And she was going to get wet. Real wet.
The newly formed father-daughter expedition shoved off into a light drizzle. Provided with a navigator, I had to recalibrate my strategy. I now had to rely on my cohort for direction and to spot any “deadheads” (this is a nautical term I co-opted to give the illusion I know what I’m talking about). Newfoundland fishermen use the term to describe boulders that lurk just below the ocean’s surface and can tear a hole in your hull and acquaint you with the seabed if you’re not vigilant in your navigation. In the depleted Pefferlaw Brook, the consequences of sightseeing are far less dire. Bumping one of these obstacles may leave your vessel with a few paint chips but not much else.
Even championship teams suffer their share of early hiccups. A winding labyrinth of hairpin turns and floating lumber put our partnership to an early test. Sometimes “right” actually means “left” and when that happens, your fiberglass Kawartha gets tangled in a collage of driftwood. For the first time on the voyage, I had to hop the gunwales and wade into the river. Upon doing so, I experienced another benefit of an early spring: it actually took several seconds before my knees went numb. The drizzle had turned to rain. Within minutes, the skies erupted. The downpour was accompanied by thunder and lightning. Not wishing to become a floating barbeque, we ditched the canoe on the bank and hunkered down in a clearing. My daughter had the foresight to bring snacks, so we waited out the light show munching on peanut butter sandwiches and granola bars. We laughed about Mom’s rules for playing in the rain and swapped stories about life as a teenager. I assured her that, yes, we had electricity back when I was in high school and that, no, my school bus wasn’t pulled by horses.
The tale of the tape: the event raised a chunk of change for a good cause. And helped bridge the generational divide between a teenage daughter and her grey-haired dad.
