Gail's First Adventure

Water Trail Keepers

There are no seats at the table, the lights are too bright, and everyone seems to know each other. Reluctantly I squeeze in at the end of the table, my heart racing like a wild mustang, already I’m wondering how soon I can leave. Groups make me uncomfortable, but I miss canoeing. My battered green canoe’s been resting on two sawhorses under an enormous evergreen in my backyard for years. Last fall I glimpsed a golden colored fox sleeping beside it.

Though a blizzard is predicted tonight, I’m coaxed out on this wintry evening by the Water Trail Keepers who are looking for new volunteers. They keep the Des Plaines (DP) River clean and free from snags via canoe. Once upon a time canoeing played a big part in my life. I was a certified canoe instructor, conversant in water rescue, taught classes for the local forest preserve and led canoeing trips on the DP. But over the past twelve years I lost that part of myself, a combination of injury and inertia. So I’ve come to this meeting to reclaim that part. The first step in a new adventure. My personal January thaw.

My former canoeing buddy is chairing the meeting and to be honest her presence is the only thing keeping me firmly planted in my seat. The people gathered around the table are various ages from twenties to well, my age. A robust woman, who looks like she could single handedly portage an 85-pound canoe, thrusts a tin cookie can toward me, “Candy,” she offers. At the thought of eating, my stomach does a flip like a 14-year-old gymnast on a balance beam. I wave her off, hoping I appear gracious. Finally, my friend calls the meeting to order and I surreptitiously push back on my chair as if that will make me invisible.

Why am I putting myself through this social agony of a group meeting? Because the feel of my wooden paddle in my hands guiding my canoe down a stream, across a lake, into a hidden tributary with sun dabbling my skin, the surprise of an otter, the snag of wildflowers, are sensual experiences that pull me out of myself and connect me to the natural world. Then there are the unexpected surprises: the dead deer bobbing in the middle of a river; the naked guy standing on the bank as we canoed past on a summer day. My canoeing buddy and I ended up identifying him in a police six-pack and he was prosecuted for indecent exposure. With canoeing, you just never know what’s around the next river bend.

My friend turns the meeting over to the volunteer coordinator who explains that the Water Trail Stewards go out in threes to clean up the river. “We hauled a crankshaft outta the river once,” he jokes.

“Yeah,” a middle-aged woman pipes in. “That was something else.”

Do I want to haul a crankshaft out of the river? I wonder. I guess the real question is: Am I capable of hauling a crankshaft out of the river? Only one way to find out.

Tentatively I raise my hand. “How soon can we go out on the river?”

My friend exchanges glances with the volunteer coordinator. “April,” she says.

I count the months. Three. That means three more meetings in this stuffy, brightly lit room. But after that, I’ll be on the water. Is it worth it?

After the meeting, I’m the first one out the door. The cold night air feels good against my skin as I walk to my car thinking how I need to check out the river.