Jason pushes us off from one of the rocks we found ourselves stuck on as we made our way down the river. Bill Snyder photo
Independence Day dawned clear and warm, the blazing sun a fitting precursor to the fireworks to come that evening. It was a beautiful day, save for the heat, so when some friends invited my boyfriend and I for a canoe trip down the cool waters of the Pigeon River, yes was an easy answer.
I should first make it clear that while I enjoy paddling, I’m not a paddler. Hiking is more my thing—partially because I love it and partially because it’s an activity with a delightfully low barrier to entry. You can spend oodles of cash on fancy, specialized equipment, but you can also just grab the old sneakers and dilapidated backpack lurking in the corners of your closet and be on your way.
Paddling, on the other hand, requires some investment. A boat, obviously. Paddles. Lifejackets. A vehicle capable of hauling all of the above to some riverside destination or another. There’s a bit more complication involved than what I’ve so far been able to find the motivation to overcome.
As a result, paddling is a thing I do when somebody else invites me to go and offers to supply all the necessary equipment. Over the years, I’ve acquired a basic proficiency with steering and maneuvering various canoes and kayaks, but my skill is still far from intuitive.
And also, let’s be honest—spatial relations are not my gift. You know those IQ test questions where they show you a 3D shape and you have to pick a rotated version of the same one? Yeah, I can’t do those. It’s like my brain just won’t bend that way. So while, for instance, I know that to go left I have to paddle to the right of the boat, that knowledge has never become instinctive. I have to think it through every time, meaning that my reaction to whatever’s happening on the water is consistently delayed.
My boyfriend Jason, meanwhile, was apparently laboring under the delusion that I am the reigning expert on all things outdoors, which meant that I ended up starting the trip in the front of the canoe. That made it my job to scout rocks and rapids, decide which route to take when the going got rough and call out steering instructions.
However, whatever illusions Jason may have had regarding my paddling prowess as we began the trip quickly evaporated as the adventure got underway. When you add my aforementioned spatial difficulties to the fact that I’m apparently forgetful about communicating what I’m seeing up front, you have a scenario where more than once the poor guy—who, by the way, is quite gifted when it comes to the spatial stuff—found himself frustrated by our less-than-ideal trajectory toward some minor rapid or another.
“I thought you knew how to paddle?” he said at one point, sounding perplexed.
“I do know how to paddle,” I replied. “But I never said I was good at it.”
Our companions, who this year celebrated their 35th wedding anniversary, couldn’t help but laugh.
“It’s a test,” they said. “If you can paddle together without breaking up, then it’s probably meant to be.”
Depending on how tightly you define “paddle a canoe,” it seems we had success. Sure, on more than one occasion we found ourselves stuck on a rock lurking just below the surface of the water, sometimes having to actually exit the boat to get free. And, yes, we did once have to turn the entire canoe upside down to drain it after it tanked down from one of the rapids with enough force that water poured in to fill it from the sides.
But to be honest, all that cold water felt pretty good on what was really a baking-hot kind of day. I’d say that spending an afternoon on the water, exploring some of the natural beauty that makes this great country so great, is a passable way to spend any Independence Day. When said exploration ends with a canoe takeout at BearWaters Brewing, where delicious beer and juicy burgers offer the perfect exclamation point to the day, it ceases to be passable and becomes perfection.
Oh, and by the way, it appears our friends were right about that whole if-you-can-paddle-a-canoe-it’s-meant-to-be thing—as I write this, Jason is no longer my boyfriend. He’s my husband.
Though, to be honest, I’m thinking that next time we might pass on the canoe and go for a couple kayaks instead. Just because we can doesn’t mean we should, you know?