The Melancholy Warmth of A Wooden Canoe Paddle

 I experience melancholy moments sometimes. Usually on a rainy day, but sometimes not. Often when one of those days disrupts my day, I begin to recall times past spent outdoors with old friends some of whom have passed on now. I miss those days. Even though I now have pretty much all the time I need to pursue such things, for one reason or another, I'm not always able to do so, I suppose that situation contributes to such melancholy moments. Even so, when such days happen and those old memories come back to life, they serve as a reset option to those old desires and pursuits that have lain dormant for too long, and that is a good thing.

One of the many pine covered tall bluffs on the Buffalo River

Just the other day, I picked up an old wooden canoe paddle, one I had not used for many years. In more recent times when I am able to get out with my canoe I employ the use of a newer, more efficient, wooden paddle with a beaver tail blade, but once that old one was in hand, its feel and even its aroma transported me back many years when I and my old friends made numerous fishing trips or float trips, each one an adventure, and in some cases misadventure, in their own right. I suppose the misadventure ones generated the most memorable moments. It was during a time when my photography was limited to using disposable 35mm film cameras. Oddly enough, they did a pretty good job and I am thankful for having them for they captured many special moments spent afield with my friends.

That old paddle is so tattered and weathered, it looks as though it belongs in a museum really. The  laminated strips that run the length of the blade began to split apart a long time ago. They were sort of repaired with glue and heavy duty staples to hold it together. It worked. It's been sanded and varnished so many times the wood has darkened and there are cracks, dents, scars, scuffs, and other assorted wounds across its length, every one a story unto itself. Oddly enough, I find it reassuring to revisit the stories from such scars. Just holding that old paddle and feeling the lumps and bumps it gathered over the years brings them to life again. 

I remember the largest smallmouth bass I ever caught while floating Arkansas's Buffalo River using that paddle. We made numerous multi day floats on that river and that old paddle came along on most all of them. Good times they were. Drifting here and there on crystal clear waters flowing beneath towering, pine accented bluffs and the surrounding woodlands accented with the white bark of river birch trees, well, it just don't get much better. 

Deep within the Buffalo River watershed

We'd drift on the winding currents, cut across and through a set of rapids, then cast into the deep blue hole just below, searching for that elusive big smallmouth bass. Sometimes we'd just stop to stretch our legs or kick back and simply enjoy the view.

My friend Rocky in his vintage Old Town Canoe

Setting up camp at days end on a gravel bar, the subsequent meal cooked over a campfire with its accompanying aroma of smoke and flame, took us toward the evening with a satisfied feeling. In spite of being worn out, we'd sit up late into the star studded night recalling and retelling the finer and more humorous details of past misadventures. 

The canoes would be pulled up on the gravel bank a few yards away...and that old paddle would be leaning against mine, it's handle extending toward the ebony of the night. With a bit of luck we'd see a shooting star silently rush across the night sky. Before long the days adventures would remind us of how tired we were. Even so, we were reluctant to crawl into our respective tents, but it felt good to stretch out a stiff back against something solid.

Best campsite on river: Skull Bluff

The next morning we'd stir into groggy activity, sipping and enjoying the flavor of that first cup of coffee around the morning fire. Often a light fog might be hovering over the waters. What a way to start the day. 

We'd purposefully move slowly on those mornings. To hurry was counter to the feeling. Not a great deal of talking took place. Instead we would simply absorb the sounds of the morning and the aroma of the fresh air. Those were some of the fondest moments when the sleepiness from the night before struggled to move out of the way. Not far off, the chatter of a Kingfisher might crack the calm of the morning stillness followed shortly by a splash when he dove to catch his breakfast. Although the water was moving, its surface was smooth and every small ripple and blip bubble from a rising fish would add a small measure of texture across its flat plain. Those are the sights blended within the sounds of nostalgic moments that simply cannot be forgotten.

Eventually, each morning on the river, we'd gather our gear, pack it away inside the canoes, shove off...and I'd take that old weathered paddle in hand...In spite of the cool morning air and the dampness dripping the length of its handle, the feel of that old wooden paddle possessed a warmth to it, but maybe not in the way you might figure.

Rocky taking a break

 

The warmth came from the moment when purpose and place converged to generate one of those special memories, the kind of memory that can only be stored deep within those harbored places of the heart, where they can best be kept...then, recalled...on a melancholy day.