Oh black water

River water is mottled green and black. It reflects the granite rock, the thickly forested banks and the shadows in between as it meanders through the landscape. It only becomes blue when it widens into a lake. Even then, the blue sparkles in the sunlight so it becomes nearly more gold than blue. Our boat cuts through the current, rarely moving faster than 10 km. We often encounter other vessels, but the overall feeling is that we are insulated from the world. It is astonishing to realize that just beyond that bridge or that road, is actual civilization; although the shores are dotted with cottages of every shape and size, it doesn't actually feel like a people-place. It is the river and it is itself alone.

Our journey is one that were we to drive would take us two and a half hours to complete. Instead, we will reach Bobcaygeon on our fourth night of travel and return to Penatanguishene on Sunday night. Along the way, we stay overnight at the locks. Often we are the one of a few boats. We talk to the people we meet; sharing our destinations and plans. We stock up when we reach the towns along the way; trading our shiny coins for goods and food. I find myself appreciating the determination it took the native people and the European interlopers that followed them in navigating these waters. Grant and I have charts and GPS to find our way along this natural river and man-made canal system. We have helpful government employees to help us through the many locks and lift systems we encounter. I try to imagine making this trek without those things; not knowing what is around each river bend; portaging my canoe and all my supplies past the waterfalls and rapids; battling the mosquitoes without the benefit of Deet. The mind boggles.

We have beautiful weather, for the most part. In Fenelon Falls, we are surprised by a thunder shower that sweeps its way across the lake faster than we expect. We are drenched as we struggle to put up our canvas covers in the wind. While crossing the largest of the lakes we meet, the waves pound across our bow and we are soaked again. We lose a canvas bag holding a hundred dollar electric cord that hangs from our bow, and nearly lose one of our kayaks before making the decision to turn into a haven from the waves. We are shaken, but have learned from the experience.

Our trip takes a shorter time than we expect, and we return to familiar waters for the second week of our holiday. But the river has caught our imagination now, and we will follow her again-- perhaps to her end.