The first thing.
The scent of the place
Heady tree pitch, split bark
Cedar and pine's unspoken prayers
Airborne intoxicating remembered
Pungent earth and ripple
Shoot up soft moisture
I am eleven, and at camp on this rocky shore
On Lake-of-Bays for the first time - 1966
Left (to my delight)
Left and free
Free to feel the Canadian Shield press against me
Earthbound
Precambrian rock - folding faulting shifting, scraping bare
Exposed rock now sun baked and smooth
A tactile solid mass tilted lakeward
Heady tree pitch, split bark
Cedar and pine's unspoken prayers
Airborne intoxicating remembered
Pungent earth and ripple
Shoot up soft moisture
I am eleven, and at camp on this rocky shore
On Lake-of-Bays for the first time - 1966
Left (to my delight)
Left and free
Free to feel the Canadian Shield press against me
Earthbound
Precambrian rock - folding faulting shifting, scraping bare
Exposed rock now sun baked and smooth
A tactile solid mass tilted lakeward
Murmuring waters wait as
I pick my way down
Slanting summer warmth
And slowly slip toward shore
Stone and jagged edges
(As it's not all smooth)
Then, water
The lake and nervous waiting
Swim test, a thrash done mostly on my back
With eyes tight shut and guided by the sound of a rowboat companion
Shouting encouraging reminders of the prize -
I pick my way down
Slanting summer warmth
And slowly slip toward shore
Stone and jagged edges
(As it's not all smooth)
Then, water
The lake and nervous waiting
Swim test, a thrash done mostly on my back
With eyes tight shut and guided by the sound of a rowboat companion
Shouting encouraging reminders of the prize -
Canoe Trip! Freedom!
Fresh water fish and algae scent, liquid silk and distant bird sound
again and again
(So achingly beautiful as to break one's heart)
On!
Like the row of sleek red cedar strip canoes (close enough to touch)
Wrapped and shiver in musty towel, dripping hair, teeth chattering breath
The victors stay on the dock to learn waterfront rules
What is expected of us to canoe
Then we pick our way up the rock once more
To the girl's side and pine scented cabin
And warm dry hoodie redolent of home bundled in the bedding
Canoe lessons (and many missteps)
Cedar baked scent and glare
A wash of lake slapping the keel
Balancing
In the bow seat facing the stern, and slowly slowly gliding into its rhythm
I paddle the canoe and unfurl
My first solo passage
(So achingly beautiful as to break one's heart)
On!
Like the row of sleek red cedar strip canoes (close enough to touch)
Wrapped and shiver in musty towel, dripping hair, teeth chattering breath
The victors stay on the dock to learn waterfront rules
What is expected of us to canoe
Then we pick our way up the rock once more
To the girl's side and pine scented cabin
And warm dry hoodie redolent of home bundled in the bedding
Canoe lessons (and many missteps)
Cedar baked scent and glare
A wash of lake slapping the keel
Balancing
In the bow seat facing the stern, and slowly slowly gliding into its rhythm
I paddle the canoe and unfurl
My first solo passage
And then, canoe trip (no longer earthbound)
Canvas packs lashed to gunwales and wannigan
Three times three setting off up the lake
Toward Blueberry Island and beyond
Pin prick then out of sight, we shed our shirts
We paddle away from camp routine - from competition and swimming lessons
And boys
And into our own world of
Whispered paddling chants
Campfire meals and skinny-dip laughter, rock and birch bark
Spruce gummed and charcoaled hands
Sunburn and scrape
Pine needle smoke (a high incomprehensible unless tried)
To sleep under stars
We are eleven
Bare chests - soft skin and downy legs
Ready to climb the exposed cliff
Only to hover
Wanting to leap but screaming doubt
Dangling
Waiting for a sign
The morning's soft holy light
Dew and chill
Damp cotton and spicy earth
I solo out while the rest still sleep
Drift soundlessly into the mist
And out of sight
On
And with stunning clarity I am there
On that lake and in the canoe in the dew scented morning
Aching old knees press hard into cedar ribs
In calloused veined hands, a paddle, the smell of pitch
I am old woman and I am eleven
I am memory - balancing - in the clear first light, prodded then hushed,
I turn to look back
The scent of the place
The last thing.
Canvas packs lashed to gunwales and wannigan
Three times three setting off up the lake
Toward Blueberry Island and beyond
Pin prick then out of sight, we shed our shirts
We paddle away from camp routine - from competition and swimming lessons
And boys
And into our own world of
Whispered paddling chants
Campfire meals and skinny-dip laughter, rock and birch bark
Spruce gummed and charcoaled hands
Sunburn and scrape
Pine needle smoke (a high incomprehensible unless tried)
To sleep under stars
We are eleven
Bare chests - soft skin and downy legs
Ready to climb the exposed cliff
Only to hover
Wanting to leap but screaming doubt
Dangling
Waiting for a sign
The morning's soft holy light
Dew and chill
Damp cotton and spicy earth
I solo out while the rest still sleep
Drift soundlessly into the mist
And out of sight
On
And with stunning clarity I am there
On that lake and in the canoe in the dew scented morning
Aching old knees press hard into cedar ribs
In calloused veined hands, a paddle, the smell of pitch
I am old woman and I am eleven
I am memory - balancing - in the clear first light, prodded then hushed,
I turn to look back
The scent of the place
The last thing.
- Anne Renouf
Summer 2020
This is beautiful, Anne!
ReplyDelete