A.Y. Jackson. |
The first time I ever saw the Aurora Borealis
was many years ago. My buddy and I were going to Algonquin Park.
Somewhere
north of Huntsville, Ontario, we pulled over briefly at three a.m. for a call
of nature.
“Whoa! Look at that, Willy!”
“What is it?” he asked.
It took a minute to click in, as he’d never seen it before.
This was a full-color array. It was surprising how fast the
darting swirls of bluish-green, yellow and red light started up, moved around,
and faded. We’ve all seen pictures, but the speed of it was impressive—the way
the bands of light seemed to dance to some music of the cosmos, heard only by
themselves.
Now, the first night paddle we did, we set up a flashing
yellow light on the beach at the south end of Opeongo Island. This is in the
north arm of Algonquin Park’s Opeongo
Lake. We paddled due south, with a diaphanous, ghostly-white moon ahead.
The water was flat, with little lacy bits of froth, from all
the soap people use; the south shore clearly visible in the moonlight. It was
easy to navigate. Never losing sight of the beacon, after an hour’s circuit, we
safely returned, flushed with a unique experience. On another occasion, Willy
and I went for a night paddle on Cedar Lake, also in Algonquin Park. With a few
drinks, overcast skies, warm night, exhaustion, and the gentle swell, the floating
sensation; Willy became disoriented, and said he had nausea, or vertigo. So we went
back to shore.
Years later, my brother and I went up to Aura Lee
Lake, connected to the west end of Cedar Lake. I often go down to the
shore, away from the fire at night. It’s worth it; I once saw the most awesome
meteor at four bloody a.m., and my brother was snoring in the tent! No one to
tell it to…anyhow, this time I was completely stunned by what I saw.
So I nipped back to the fire, grabbed up my lifejacket and
smokes.
I suggested a night paddle, and he jumped at it. My brother had
never seen anything like that in his entire life. It’s impossible to describe,
there were beams shooting up out of the horizon. Quite narrow at the base, they
were veritable sword points in the heavens. And they slid around the horizon,
left and right, even as swirls, whorls, and vortexes floated around in the
centre of the sky. Throw in a few stars, Jupiter and Mars, a tiny sliver of the
moon down low in the west.
It was pretty sublime, maybe even surreal, to drift around
looking up at it. There was even a meteor or two for good measure. Sometimes it
seems like God is talking to you.
I haven’t been up there in a few years. Once we pretty much
had our fill, but still one night all paid up. My brother talked me into going
to Wendigo
Lake. This is a long, skinny lake oriented cross-wise to the generally
prevailing summer winds. We motored about some, with my 1.2 horse-power motor
on the back of the canoe and then went south down the lake to find a campsite.
A ‘Wendigo’ is a person
possessed by demons in ancient Algonquian folklore. The demon often possesses
them in a dream. Once taken over, they become obsessed with eating human flesh.
The best-known way to get rid of the demon was to perform the wiindogookaanzhimowin, which was a
highly-satirical dance which involved wearing a hideous-hilarious mask and
dancing about the drum backwards.
People who understood that they were possessed would often
request that they be put to death before they could do harm to others,
including their own families and friends.
True Wendigoes were gaunt, emaciated creatures, with their
pallid skin tightly-stretched over their bones, sunken eyes and an ‘ash-grey’
complexion. It was believed that those who had consumed human flesh were in
danger of becoming Wendigoes themselves.
This taboo is perfectly understandable in terms of any
hunter-gatherer culture where seasonal famine was all too well known. The
Wendigo myth is like all stories of its kind, a sort of moral lesson, where symbolism takes the place of factual,
historical material.
Speaking of the consumption of human flesh and blood; as we
cooked and gathered firewood, it became clear we were in a bad mosquito zone.
The smoke from the fire didn’t help. The breeze died at sunset. We used all our
repellent. About ten o’clock at night the zipper on the tent broke after a dash
to the bushes for a nature break..
We were in trouble. It was truly amazing. There were hundreds
of mosquitoes on us, maybe thousands. It was bad. I don’t know how the couriers
de bois did it, or how early peoples could stand it. We tore down the tent,
chucked everything in the boat and paddled out a hundred yards.
It was really dark. Overcast. No lights anywhere on shore,
the perimeter of the lake pitch black. The water was crystal clear, surface
almost invisible, as I held the flashlight.
Steve got the motor on the mount, fueled it, and luckily for
us, it ran first pop.
It was disorienting. He put his little light on the floor
ahead of him. I held my light over the side, pointing down and ahead in the
water—sometimes in the middle of the lake a submerged rock rises up within
inches of the surface. And I didn’t want to sit on one all night, holding on to
a broken boat, and wait for an early fisherman. Over time, our eyes adjusted,
but only the overcast had any lightness of color.
The car was across the lake, and north two or three kilometers.
After twenty minutes we found the opposite side and followed the pale glimmer
of the boulders on shore.
“Go dead slow,” I told Steve. “Keep your feet in the center
of the boat, relax your hips, don’t grab the gunwales under any circumstances…look
straight ahead, focus on the rocks along the shore.”
After a trip of about an hour, it seemed forever, my light
picked out a reflector from a vehicle. The boat launch! Thank God. And my
navigation. It’s always an adventure to travel in Algonquin Park. It has its
allure—its dangers can be seductive. The decision to go to Wendigo Lake was
made in haste. The tent door was ripped in haste. Jumping in the boat was done
in haste. In a situation like that, have your life jacket fastened tightly.
The key is to relax, and think about what you’re doing.
Know your limitations. And don’t do anything stupid.
Night paddling is for experienced paddlers using proper equipment and not under the influence of alcohol.
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