A Canoe Adventure

by Lynne Bittner

As adults, we are preoccupied with living. As a consequence, we see little.

Loren Eiseley, The Star Thrower

For the past year, we have put off the arduous job of painting our kitchen. It was in serious need of cosmetic attention and was increasingly becoming a sore issue in our lives, but because the job involved painting the floor as well, we kept delaying. We had a small window of opportunity the last week in August and on Tuesday, as the week began to slip away from us, Richie took the bull by the horns and began emptying the contents of our kitchen into the living room. I watched from the sidelines eating my breakfast suppressing a growing feeling of resistance as I watched him march in and out of my kitchen with all of my nicknacks and bowls, knowing now there was no turning back.

As the week progressed, a few distractions delayed our progress and by the time Saturday rolled around, I resolved to put my nose down and get the job done with no interruptions. Just as my hand was poised with loaded paintbrush, the phone rang.

“Hey, Whatcha doing?” My friend’s cheerful voice on the line said, “Let’s take a canoe ride down the Battenkill!” Conflict rose in my chest, but, it was such a beautiful day. We were always too busy, and always will be busy, and besides, Richie and I had just recently discovered the pleasures of paddling the Battenkill. Would it really matter in the scheme of things?

We decided upon an abbreviated voyage, and put in over in East Greenwich, carrying our canoes a short way thru back water and over a gravel bar. With a little trepidation, I managed the stern, not ever having been in this part of the river, I didn’t know what to expect but the current was gentle, and without too much trouble we started off.

Soon we were out of range of the homes in East Greenwich, and if it weren’t for the road whine on Route 29, it felt like we could have been far in the wilderness. Ferns, the shaggy white flowers of japanese knot weed, yellow cone flower and several varieties of goldenrod and asters lined the river bank. A great blue heron lifted off several hundred feet down river. Sandpipers skimmed the water’s surface. The chaotic image of my household began to fade as I lost myself in this idyllic afternoon. The blue sky, the river framed with silvery-green willow trees, the high puffy white clouds, and the companionship of my friends were the much needed balm that my frazzled mind needed. The kitchen would be done in its own time.

It was interesting to see the lay of the land in the river valley from this point of view, and the idea that this scenario was a continuum with or without a human to judge it gave me a fresh perspective. The inhabitants of this river - be it a caddis fly larvae attached to a stone in the lee side of its current, or the ebony jewel wing damselflies glittering like black winged jewels amongst the red osiers, or the solitary kingfisher flying swiftly past as if on some urgent business, all shared a private and intimate drama with this river. So much life dependent on it.

I thought of my father and the countless times he paddled this canoe. I could almost hear his voice instructing me how to manage the paddle in the stern as I negotiated the current. I imagined the many wondrous things that he might have observed on this very seat, with his thermos of coffee, in the peace of an early morning. He impressed upon me perhaps more than anything that it was so very important to get outside of yourself and to try and see the world from a point of view beyond the end of your nose.

He would have been proud of his daughter at that moment as I not so skillfully guided our way down the river. We bottomed out on a few gravel bars, and came a little too close to a few overhanging branches. But I was there - at least for a little while - in the moment, cradled by his canoe, his wisdom, and his memory.

Postscript: Jim Sotis (Lynne's father) is currently a resident of The Vermont Veteran’s home.

The Battenkill

Yellow Cone Flower & Joe Pye Weed

Ebony Jewelwing

Jim Sotis on the Battenkill summer, 1988.