Silence

The quiet song of rain on the roof might be soothing, but when sound seems to stop altogether and the world suddenly becomes silent it can be more disturbing than storm rattling the window panes. The silence I am talking about is not the kind that comes after a summer rain, the splash of an occasional droplet like an afterthought. No, if silence comes after a rain on an October night I will go to the patio door in the kitchen and switch on the outside light to see if my suspicion is confirmed, not surprised at all if it is so. Silence now might mean snow. 

Oh, it was a light, fluffy snow, a gentle whiteness that started to descend on the world the night before last, and it took a while before it started to accumulate on the still-green grass. By the evening there were maybe two centimeters – not much, and certainly not too much to go away as quickly as it came. Still, something important has happened: the illusion of the world glowing on and on in its autumn beauty is gone. Winter has knocked on the door. 

The garden has not yet been put to rest completely. Cucumbers, of course, are long gone, their vines and tender leaves dried up before the first real frost hit last week when the temperature went down to -3 and the following night to -5 Celsius. Tomatoes – more than I’ve ever harvested – are continuing to ripen in boxes in the house, picked in time to escape the grim reaper. A few days ago I dug the last remaining row of potatoes, and when the forecast called for snow, followed by even colder temperatures at night, I decided to bring in at least one row of carrots as well. They probably would have been safe under the mass of sweet pea vines covering them, the supporting fence too low to contain this tangle. Sadly, the frost put an end to the never-ending supply of beautifully scented bouquets which we had been enjoying longer than most years. Sunflowers, too, hang their heads, and zinnias and dill and the seven feet high corn stalks rustle their song of loneliness stirred up by the wind. 

Yesterday, snow accumulating slowly, I looked around to see what might not withstand the cold. Five heads of red cabbage and an armful of beets – forgotten, too, under the sweet pea vines and thus grown to the size of a small child’s head – are now waiting to be processed, piled on the wheelbarrow in the shop. Only the steadfast leeks are still standing at attention, as always  the last to be harvested.

And yet, many of the golden poplar leaves still shiver in the cool breeze, and there are the reds and oranges of dogwood and high bush cranberry, the creamy salmon of the wild raspberry, the pale yellow of the hazel. How much longer until they, too, will stand bare?

If the forecast can be trusted it will warm up on the weekend, and I will likely have a chance to clean up a bit more in the garden, even though it seems hard to believe when the ground is firm, the soil a bit crunchy after a day below zero, and I removed sheets of ice a couple of centimeters thick from the horses’ trough this afternoon. I trust that this was just a reminder of what will expect us eventually, and not yet the real thing – winter will be long enough even if it starts a month or six weeks from now!

Canoeing in autumn

The rain has slowed to a whisper on the roof after the squalls pounding at the windows yesterday afternoon. It is the first rain in almost a month, and while it is welcome after weeks of dust it unmistakably bears the message of fall. As always, this message is bitter-sweet: this is the most beautiful time of year when Mother Nature generously pours out her gifts, but all this abundance can come to an abrupt halt at any time. 

The best thing to do, then, is to enjoy it while we can, and that’s exactly what we did on the weekend. Once more the river called us, tame now, water levels dropped from the high mark weeks ago. The forecast was for fine autumn weather for the weekend, temperatures around 15 or 16 Celsius, close to freezing at night.

We decide on the Athabasca, starting at Blue Ridge, about a two hour's drive northwest of us, getting out at Fort Assiniboine. It is a 60 kilometer stretch, quite manageable in a day and a half with some paddling. This time there are only three canoes with seven people, mostly our family, and with so few people and only one overnight camp there is much less to prepare than in the summer. 

Leaving one vehicle at the Mouth of the Freeman campsite near Fort Assiniboine we head for the bridge close to Blue Ridge, a thirty-five minute drive through mostly forested area, with some pastureland and a few fields strewn in. Surprised, we note that many trees have shed their leaves already; at home, fall colours are at their most beautiful, some trees even still quite green. Here, the first frost must have happened a while ago, and been harsher. It is often colder close to the river, and we are about 100 km northwest of home, after all. Still, we hadn’t expected this. 

Getting ready to push off at the bridge at Blue Ridge

Canoes unloaded and supplies stowed, cars parked in the parking lot, we are ready to go at 1:30 on Saturday afternoon. This will leave us several hours of daylight until we have to start looking for a spot to pitch our tents for the night. The afternoon sun is warm on our faces. This time, tank tops and shorts have been replaced with sweat shirts and long pants, and jackets, even long underwear, toques and gloves are part of our packs. Most of us have remembered to bring some rain gear, too, although there has been no mention of rain in the forecast. Surprise, surprise: we haven’t been on the river more than twenty minutes when the clouds at our back pull together even closer and start pelting us with a thin drizzle. Why now, after weeks and weeks of beautiful weather?! It doesn’t feel cold, however, and is not very heavy, so we decide to keep going. It actually looks quite beautiful when the tiny silvery rain drops hit the surface of the dark river, like so many pearls poured out on velvet. Not long and it is over, and here and there a hint of blue shows through the thinning clouds. 

It feels different to be on the river now. In the summer, the water sparkles, and days seem endless. Now, even when it is sunny the atmosphere seems more muted, the water a shimmering sheet of pewter crinkled by the wind. Birches still glow in full autumn regalia, their golden-bronze foliage lighting up the hillsides like so many torches, or pouring out a warm glow into the waters of the Athabasca. White poplars, too, still have their leaves for the most part, but black poplars reach empty branches toward the sky, their grey trunks like an assembly of monks standing reverently, in silence. 

Soon we see the first bald eagle, a bit unsure at first because we miss the clear white on tail and head. It must be a juvenile, its feathers still a mottled dark brown and beige – the size doesn’t allow for any other conclusion. It is the first of many we will see before the end of the trip, as always a source of joy when they slowly draw their circles, seemingly never in a hurry, their long wings outstretched. Once we watch as two of them soar over the tree tops, then are suddenly joined by a smaller black bird: a crow, upset with them for some reason, flying round after round of attack. We can’t figure out what the eagles might have done to cause the crow to behave like that, but they seem bothered or, more likely, annoyed enough by the constant battering to move on.    

                                                                                            

Soon after we push off Leon sees the first moose, a large dark shape disappearing between the trees. Moose are in rut, less cautious than they would usually be, and find their way even into suburban areas from time to time. Here, in their natural habitat, there is a good chance we will see more than in the summer. And indeed: partway through the afternoon, Magnus and Courtney, in the canoe in front of us, turn around and mouth “moose”, pointing to the right bank. It is a young bull, its beautiful sleek coat almost black, lifting its antlered head to look us over. No longer paddling, we let the river carry us closer, making no sound. Still, the animal is suspicious now and starts walking away along the bank. This soon becomes difficult because of a steep cliff and very little room to walk right close to the water, and the moose chooses the other escape route: without undue haste he walks into the water and starts swimming across, looking over his shoulder from time to time to check on our progress. He stops for a moment on the left bank, looks at us one more time, and disappears into the forest, leaving a wide wet trail where water dripped off his massive body onto the sandy bank. Never before have I watched a moose swim, and I am thrilled!

Fortunately, Magnus had his camera ready to capture the crossing

Evening comes much sooner than at the beginning of August, and around five we start keeping our eyes open for a good camping spot. We stop several times, hoping for a nice place on an island, but have not much luck. Often it looks promising from further away, a pile-up of driftwood at the tip of an island suggesting an abundance of firewood – one of the necessities – but upon closer inspection we find that it will not work. Sometimes there is no flat, brush-free area to put up our tents, even if there are only four this time, sometimes what had looked like sandy beach turns out to be slippery mud or rounded rocks, shoulder to shoulder, sometimes there is no place to make a fire. 

It is almost 6:30, the sun quite low already, when we finally pull up our canoes at a suitable spot. There is a grassy area with some big cottonwood trees and a few birches to set up our tents, and a sandy spot with a nice big log inviting us to use it as back rest when we sit around the fire. We find enough driftwood for cooking and to keep us warm, and more logs we can drag to the fire pit for seats. 

Even before we erect the tents the fire is started. First of all we are hungry, and will need embers to cook potatoes, pork chops, and corn, but just as importantly we will soon appreciate the warmth. As soon as the sun goes down it will cool off considerably. The corn cobs are soaked ahead of roasting; they taste wonderful even though they are a bit past their prime already. Is it just due to the circumstances, or should we always cook them over a fire instead of boiling them? We might have to try that out. 

We sit around the fire, talk, drink wine, and watch the full moon slowly emerge from the bed of clouds. Here and there a star is showing, once the greater part of the Big Dipper is visible, but the sky still retains some cloud cover by the time we go to bed around eleven. 

Autumn morning on the river

The hoarse voices of a group of geese wake me up around 6:30. A bit reluctantly I leave the cozy warmth of the sleeping bag, but I can’t resist: I need to get up and greet the morning. Now, many stars are out.  The full moon is slowly sinking toward the western horizon, its reflection quivering in the quietly moving river, a shimmering path of light spilling out from it across the water. I watch and listen for a little while, then crawl back into the tent for another hour. 

At 7:45 the moon is on the verge of disappearing behind the trees on the other side of the river, while behind us the red-golden sun is just peeking above the edge of the world. Like a teeter-totter they are perfectly balanced for a moment before the sun has broken free: another glorious day has begun. The river is calling us, and we will soon be on our way.