Cedar-ribbed canoes, rounded with teenage angst. Two boys
at the middle thwart and bow, as I steer this sullen cargo
across the swamp. Wilderness wanders for hostile urban lads:
head-bubbling anger, occasional calm stretches, somewhat
like the grey days on these remote seething waters.
Pulpy topo-maps and compass guide our small flotilla. I read
our route across lakes, by trees. Paper later plots my life:
university degrees, employment in distant lands. That summer,
we camped on isolated shores, far from cottages, watercraft,
or roads. The only trails, portage routes along rivers, dim paths
through Jack Pine, White Pine, branches bounced by occasional moose.
No wild creatures at our rough campsite near a collapsed log cabin.
Location mentioned by Grey Owl, crafter of his persona, words floating
over land and water. Archie, with your beaked nose and braided hair,
now disrobed of Indian identity, similar to these paddling boys, who pose
as wanna-be adults, as tough, as untouched by rough-handed familiars,
as unconcerned by social workers’ reports documenting neglect. How
to paddle my way to these boys during a canoe trip? How to counter
months, often years of gritty policy failures grinding down our youth?
