The canoe, loaded to the brim with bags and gear, glides gently across the dark water, almost silently, as if unwilling to disturb the ancient silence enveloping the lake. The canoe glides confidently, like a natural extension of the body and breath. Though laden, its line remains firm. The cedar and walnut frame, sheathed in canvas and varnish, withstands it without flinching. This is not a fragile boat: supple in the chop, but true to its form. A boat born of heritage, barely a generation after those of bark and cedar of the First Peoples.
Around us, a light mist floats on the surfaceβa warm breath, suspended between night and day. Everything is calm, muted, as if the land were holding its breath. We can barely make out the outlines of the shore, but the dark silhouette of the spruce trees guides us. Long, straight shadows stand like sentinels, their reflections lost in the layer of vapor.
We pass a narrow point where the forest seems to slope over the water. A scent of wet moss and bark rises from the lake, mingling with the more subtle scent of the warm canvas of our canoe and the leather of our straps. Before us, the lake closes in on a barrier of dense firs and twisted birches. The end of the world. Or almost.
Over there, deep down, somewhere between the trunks, the old portage trail hides. It doesn't announce itself. You have to earn it with your eyes, read it in the folds of the land, in a break in the green, a nuance in the horizontality of the shore. Nathalie raises her hand, points with her chin. She thinks she's seen something. A lighter bend of shadow, perhaps. We paddle a few more strokes, in unison, silent.
Each movement brings us closer to our inner territory. The one where maps blur, where ancestral memory takes over. The canoe is our connection to the water. Our shoulders, our knees, our breath, will soon be our connection to the earth.
The portage awaits us. And behind it, everything else
Around us, a light mist floats on the surfaceβa warm breath, suspended between night and day. Everything is calm, muted, as if the land were holding its breath. We can barely make out the outlines of the shore, but the dark silhouette of the spruce trees guides us. Long, straight shadows stand like sentinels, their reflections lost in the layer of vapor.
We pass a narrow point where the forest seems to slope over the water. A scent of wet moss and bark rises from the lake, mingling with the more subtle scent of the warm canvas of our canoe and the leather of our straps. Before us, the lake closes in on a barrier of dense firs and twisted birches. The end of the world. Or almost.
Over there, deep down, somewhere between the trunks, the old portage trail hides. It doesn't announce itself. You have to earn it with your eyes, read it in the folds of the land, in a break in the green, a nuance in the horizontality of the shore. Nathalie raises her hand, points with her chin. She thinks she's seen something. A lighter bend of shadow, perhaps. We paddle a few more strokes, in unison, silent.
Each movement brings us closer to our inner territory. The one where maps blur, where ancestral memory takes over. The canoe is our connection to the water. Our shoulders, our knees, our breath, will soon be our connection to the earth.
The portage awaits us. And behind it, everything else
