Canoes, too, are unobtrusive; they don't storm the natural world or ride over it, but drift in upon it as a part of its own silence. As you either care about what the land is or not so do you like or dislike quiet things--sailboats, or rainy green mornings in foreign places, or a grazing herd, or the ruins of old monasteries in the mountains... Chances for being quiet nowadays are limited.
John Graves
With the canoe, dogs, and gear packed for five days, my aunt and I set out in search of the quiet of which Graves writes. That limited quiet that is becoming more and more difficult to find in this world.
You see, Wisdom, my 12 year old Golden Retriever goes into full blown, upsetting panic attacks from loud noises. So each July 4th, she and I take to the wilderness to walk or paddle away from the noise. Everything we need is on our backs or in our boat, but mostly, it's around us. We eat lunch under the whistling pines, have supper by the lake. The only sounds are those of nature and our dinner plates. This year we shared our annual excursion with my beagle puppy and my aunt, and we were banking on Sparks Lake.
We arrived at the lake with just about everyone else in Oregon it seemed and launched our boats as quickly as possible. As we paddled away, two Sandhill Cranes worked the reeds by the crowded boat launch oblivious to the torrent of people and different water toys or maybe in spite of it. What other choice do they have, I suppose? Do any of us have? I wish you well, I thought, and returned my focus to my excited puppy bouncing around the bow of the canoe. Swimming wasn't high on my list of things to do at the moment. The lake was busy and we needed to find a spot to call home for a few days. Paddling down a quiet arm, we found it. A place to claim that had everything we were looking for- a sandy beach, flat terrain, a place for the stove, privacy, and a view. These things mean something in the wilderness.
Wiz settles into camp as the moon rises over Mt. Bachelor in the background.
We set up camp and ate dinner, but the chilly night and ban on campfires for the duration of this year's wildfire season pushed us into our tents early. I heard the Sandhill Cranes somewhere behind my tent also preparing for the night ahead just as they had for the last nine million years. Their call, rolling through the trees and the millennia, sang me to sleep.
My beagle took no heed to their ways and abruptly woke me the next morning with a grumble and a paw to the face at six am. Six am! There is no business being up and out of the tent at six am, but try telling that to a beagle pup on only her second camping trip.
So, on a cold morning with everything covered in frost and the sun barely awake itself, Ruthy and I started our day. Which is to say, we sat cuddled in a camp chair, shivering, waiting for the earth to warm.
And warm it did.
We had a beautiful day in camp and on the lake.
"The mountains are calling," shouts Ruthy from the captain's seat, "Let's go!"
Thanks for paddling us all the way out here to see the mountains, but now we want to go over there!
Ruthy, making herself useful
And just like that, July 3rd comes to a close.
Or so I believed. Late into the night, long after I'd fallen asleep, I woke to the sound of boats. Just the soft bump of a canoe coming onto the beach or maybe a paddle knocking the side of a kayak. I couldn't really tell. Wisdom was sleeping with my aunt in her tent and Ruthy was stuffed at the bottom of my sleeping bag in mine. Neither woke and I decided, even though there was no wind, the wind must have blown our boats together creating the little thump that I heard. I don't like to scare myself or let my mind wander when I'm in the woods by myself, so I accepted that and went back to sleep. Sometime later, minutes, an hour? I woke again to something entering our camp. Footsteps. A deer most likely. Both dogs remained quiet and asleep. I listened closely in case it was something bigger than a deer. Shit, I thought. That's not a deer. That's a human.
I have walked from California to Washington, camped in snow six feet deep by myself, surprised both myself and a black bear on the side of a trail just a couple feet in front of me, gotten lost in a forest that looked deep and the same in every direction, yet never have I felt fear in the backcountry like I did that night laying in my sleeping bag listening to someone walk around our camp. At one point, the footsteps stopped and I didn't know where he was. Was he right outside my tent? My heart beat so fast my chest hurt. Somehow Ruthy, the dog who barks at everything, remained sleeping. I was thankful for this small miracle because I wanted to hear what was happening or what was going to happen. Finally, what I heard, was paddling. Quiet paddling, and this part is important, away. I just lay there breathing. Breathing and listening. Listening and breathing. Ruthy finally woke up and popped out of the sleeping bag emitting the lamest and most belated of growls. I was still scared, but felt whoever was there had left. Had he left with our boats? I didn't hear any more movement or sounds, so I fumbled around for my headlamp, leashed Roo, and left my tent. Camp was quiet. Ruthy, for whatever barometer she was worth, appeared calm and at ease. We walked down to the beach. Both boats were as we left them- turned over with our life jackets and paddles stowed beneath. What the heck?
Back in the tent, I looked at my watch- 1:15 am. What was someone doing in our camp at one o'clock in the morning? And why did they leave? I was still rattled, but eventually reasoned that some friends got a wild hair late that night and decided to head out to the lake to camp and were looking for a spot. For the second time that night, I accepted a line of thought that kept me calm. I burrowed down into my sleeping bag and tried to go back to sleep.
Two hours later, the world and Wisdom's brain exploded. Kerboom, boom, boom! went the gunpowder and whatever other explosive chemicals go into the fireworks that shake your bones. Poor Wiz lost it- panting, pacing, crying. My aunt had to let her out of the tent or else she would have torn it down trying to escape. All while the frost moved across the tent, the cold crept into your pajamas, the moon shone brightly over Bachelor. It's strange sometimes how so many different things can happen to you at the same time. Eventually Wiz calmed down and we all returned to our tents. I didn't mention anything about our earlier intruder.
Six thirty and guess who's awake!
I'm a puppy and I'm so excited for Saturday!
I'm 47 and I'm so excited for this cup of coffee.
And this one too!
July 4th passed much the same as July 3rd. I paddled the dogs around the lake, we explored the woods behind our camp, swam, ate, and enjoyed our afternoon. The previous night was behind us and we hadn't heard so much as a sparkler all day long. At one point, a man with a lot of hair and a friendly face came over and apologized for coming into our camp last night. "The GPS my friends gave me brought me to your site. I'm really sorry," he said. I told him he scared the crap out of me and that I appreciated him coming over to say something. "I'm just glad I didn't get shot," he said. "Yeah, me too," I responded with all sincerity. Because that's the world we live in these days. But life is still good and so are most people.
We all tucked into bed that night feeling hopeful. We hadn't heard a single firework all day or evening. Wiz was going to have a good night, I remember thinking. And mostly, she did. There were some distant fireworks from about 10:15-11, but we got through it pretty well. My Aunt was so kind to Wiz and helped so much.
It was the morning of July 6th that sucked. Our last morning. At 5 am, some fuckers set off fireworks. Yes, at 5 am in the morning, yes on July 6. And yes, you are a fucker if you set fireworks off at 5 am, and then again at 6, in the middle of a National Forest on July 6th during a fire ban. You are not even allowed to smoke out there right now. So fireworks? Yeah, you suck.
So, out into the cold we trekked again, Wiz in another full blown panic attack. There was nothing to do to calm her down. We just had to wait it out. It was so early and so cold. I would've been surprised if it were warmer than 30 degrees. Pretty quickly, I went back to the tent to get my sleeping bag and Ruthy's dog bed. Someone was happy about that and it wasn't Ruthy.
Poor Wiz. Next year we're going to Canada, I tell her.
As it does, time went on. The sun came up and warmed our bodies and our hearts. "Probably just people with nowhere to go and nothing to do," we said. Still jerks, I thought, but with a little less oomph. We're going through a bad time right now, all of us, and who knows how people are handling it. My aunt showed me one way- with kindness and grace. That morning, she gave the dogs some loving words and moved our chairs and them to the sun. I put the coffee on and the four of us sat there, together, ready for the next boom or the call of a Sandhill Crane or even a wayward paddler looking for his friends. Maybe even a little quiet if we can find it.
The time came to go. It always does. No matter what, I thank you, Sparks Lake. You kept it memorable, and I'm already looking forward to next time.
