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Early morning mist moving slowly into the forest, moving at the River's pace. Watching mergansers, feeling, seeing, touching, smelling the smoothness of the River's flow. I hadn't been on the St. John for more than 10 years. This time would be my first time running it on my own; to say I was a little apprehensive was an understatement. The AMC New England canoe guide cautions, "This is a very dangerous rapid and several persons have drowned in trying to run it. It should be scouted before running." I also had to consider the weather, which I had been checking for a least a week prior to leaving. It called for showers every day with highs in the 60s. But what about the wind? Canoeing with the wind in your face is difficult. And the black flies and no see 'ems. You can spend an hour getting them out of your tent before you go to sleep. Plus you have to make sure you have all the right food, first-aid equipment, clothes, rope to tie in with, an extra paddle--the list goes on and on. Why would I want to go to all this trouble? WAIT! My plan was to leave Westport, Conn., on Friday, May 12, and drive to St. Francis, Maine, a little over a 12-hour drive. There I would meet Norman, the man who would drive me into Baker Lake on the following day, a 4 1/2 -hour drive on dirt logging roads. I would start paddling mid-day. That was the plan. I arrived at Nixs Hotel ($26 a night) in St. Francis at 9:30 p.m. on the 12th. To make a telephone call, you had to cross Route 161 and use the pay phone at the general store. The mattress was a little soft, the fan in the bathroom was a little noisy, but it was for one night just to rest before my 7 a.m. pick up and the drive to Baker Lake. Norman knocked on the door at 7 a.m. and let me know that Roy, not he, would be driving me. Roy was in his early '70s and had spent most of his life as a logger in the area we were now driving through. He worked in the woods when they used horses to pull the logs out. No chain saws, just "buck" and "cross cut" saws. Those were the days they had cooks at the logging camps; now everyone cooks. Roy and I spend the 4 1/2-hour drive talking about the logging days of the past. I felt a sense of sadness on Roy's part when we passed an abandoned logging camp. The old logging days are over. Too bad. Roy let me know when we were about 10 miles from our destination. I had decisions to make. I found this, making decisions by myself, to be one of the harshest realities of the trip. The first decision I had to make was whether to eat lunch when I arrived at Baker Lake or start paddling and then eat. I was to find out that the decisions were not always mine alone. Baker Lake greeted me with high winds, threatening skies and white caps. Not the most inviting place to have my first lunch of the River. It was going to be difficult and dangerous launching my boat into the wind. Roy allowed me to put my canoe into the River by his cabin, out of the wind. No time for a real picnic lunch. Just a quick PB&J sandwich before I tied my equipment into the canoe and started the journey. I was on my way. Now it was just me, my topographical maps, my canoe and equipment, and the River. When I first get into the canoe, I wiggle around a little to make sure everything is balanced. Nothing should be moving around so when I get to the rapids everything stays put. Now I begin to feel the River--nice, but powerful. I take a look around to wave goodbye, but I'm already too far downstream. I look ahead, and there's the River. I hope I'm ready for what lies ahead. Eighteen miles to go till the confluence of the southwest branch of the St. John and the main course, and my campsite. The River is narrow now. I'm flowing easily, starting to hear the birds, starting to notice the landscape and the absence of soft wood trees. I'm starting to move at the pace of the River rather than trying to move the River at my pace. However, I haven't left doubt behind. It is important to understand where you are on the River. You look at your map and try to place a brook with a bend in the River, a bend in the River with a subtle rise in the landscape. At this point, something very interesting happens. I don't think I'm going the right way. The weeds are bending with the flow of the River, the canoe is moving with the flow of the River, but I'm convinced I made a wrong turn up a small brook that entered from the east. The River doesn't look like it's supposed to. According to whom? According to me, and that's the problem. The River is exactly what it is; I'm trying to change it and it isn't working. For no reason, I become fearful. Finally, the River brings me past a campsite I had camped before. I was on the right River. Relief. The fear was not necessary; the River shows me the way. I start to trust. I store my paddle, make a comfortable arrangement on the floor of the canoe, and float for a while. I begin to feel a change, a sense of peace, even a sense of serenity. The St. John lets me know that if I follow some simple rules, I'll be all right. I paddle about 15 miles and can see about half a mile ahead. Then I see another canoe and feel a sense of relief, yet mild disappointment. Three canoes pulled over on the west bank, stopping for the night. I'm stopping for the night, too. My campsite is on Sunset Island, but there's no sunset tonight; it's cloudy and about to rain. I untie my equipment and set up my tent. Then I open my food bag and eat some sardines and crackers, drink a lot of water, and have my ration of peppermint patties. I snuggle into my sleeping bag and listen to the rain falling on the tent. I feel warm, comfortable and safe. The River has done all right today. I'll do 30 easy miles the next day. It's almost as if the River is letting me get used to it: no difficult set of rapids, the River moving at an even flow. It will be broad at times so the wind might be a factor. But I'm really looking forward to getting into the canoe and starting my day. I can't wait to get on the River. It's a Maine day, brisk but not cold, cloudy but not overcast. White, puffy clouds, a bright sun and a smooth and sparkling River. I ease my canoe into the flow, do my wiggle, everything is in order. I take my first stroke, and I'm with the St. John. The River and I are moving along together. After paddling for about 45 minutes, I stop, assume my position on the floor of the canoe, and marvel at my surroundings. Flowing gently on an ice-smooth River, no breeze, no noise except for an occasional duck taking off or an occasional ripple in the flow of the River. The River turns me in a circle slowly so I can see in all four directions. All were different, but ultimately all meshed into one. It is simply magnificent. Peaceful simplicity. That's the way the River allowed me to spend the day: paddling, floating, paddling, floating. A gust of wind would break the routine. But it was a day spent with quiet moments. Just spending time on the River, getting used to my maps, getting into a rhythm of paddling, ending at Nine Mile Bridge. (There is no longer a bridge. Ice took it out in the early '70s. Helen Hamlin published a book about the scene in 1945, Nine Mile Bridge.) It's 2 o'clock. I set up my tent, set up my stove, have a little snack, and decide what I am going to have for dinner: pasta and tomato sauce. I made time today, not good time or bad time, just time. Now I have a couple of hours just to sit. I get out my collapsible chair, find a comfortable place to put it, and spend the rest of the afternoon listening but mostly watching how the sun sparkles on the River, how the ducks take off into the wind, hoping (not really) to see another canoe. I know that tomorrow is going to be a different kind of paddle. The River gets a little rougher today: two sets of supposedly difficult rapids. I have to decide on wet suit or no wet suit, and if a wet suit, when to put it on. Wet suits are not comfortable to paddle in. I knew I'd have about nine miles of easy paddling before I had to make that decision. So I pack my canoe, do my morning dance, and I'm on my way. The River takes on a little different form today. According to the AMC New England canoe guide, "This section of the River is long, with no way to return to civilization except to go downstream." The St. John keeps you on your toes no matter what you are doing. Today it is preparing me for Priestly Rapids and Big Black Rapids. On my way, I'm filled with anticipation, not fear, but I can't help but wonder if I'll be up to it. In the water ahead I spot a loon. My thoughts stray to the wonder of a loon, called a marvel of the wilderness. The River keeps flowing through my thoughts of the loon and anticipation of the rapids. I am aware of thinking about the River as something other than just a river. I'm getting close to Simmons Farm. The River floats me by an important period in American history. In the 1920s, '30s, '40s and early '50s, this area of the River, Seven Islands, was a thriving community. They say that 300 to 500 people farmed on the River bringing their produce to the loggers upstream. One old building is left with the remains of some old farm machinery. It is time for lunch, and I decide to put the wet suit on. Priestly Rapids is five miles ahead and another four miles to Big Black. My mood changes. Now the River suggests that I concentrate on it. I look at my map to try to know exactly where I am. I don't want the rapids to take me by surprise. I stop paddling and listen. Can I hear the rapids approaching? If the wind is right, you can hear the roar of the rapids a mile away. I look ahead--do I see any white water jumping? Priestly Rapids--I'm ready and able. I do them the way they're supposed to be done: following the River's guide, moving left when I need to, staying on the outside of the bend to get the deepest water, and moving back toward the center at the end. I do it without much effort. BUT--the River quickly lets me know that I have to remain humble: Big Black is going to be different. Now I'm really beginning to pay attention to the River. I have to scout, pull the canoe over on the left bank, walk downstream to see if I can pick out a possible channel to get through this very powerful set of rapids, with three- to five-foot standing waves. An uncovered canoe can be easily swamped. I have to make sure that I know where I'm going. I don't want to tip here. Big Black starts as the River turns from East to North. I'm looking and looking for the path to scout. TOO LATE. I'm in the rapids. I'm overwhelmed by the power of the River. The water is flowing 10 to 15 miles per hour. I get myself together. The waves are HUGE. I have to get over to the right side of the River, but the current is not letting me. I'm broadside to the current--not the way you want to be. The waves are only 30 yards away. I'm going in. I jam my paddle in on the left side, take as hard a backwater as I can. The canoe straightens out, and I miss the big ones. I take a deep breath. There is more to do. I DO IT! I let out several screams of YES, SIR! YES, SIR! I begin to cry with relief and joy and head to my campsite at the meeting of Big Black River and the St. John. What a day. What a moment. What a River. And I still have tomorrow. Last day on the River, about 32 miles to go. I want to do the 32 miles, but I don't want to leave the River. I have Schoolhouse Rapids and Long Rapids. I pass the remnants of Castonia Farm and Ouellette Farm, and the day and trip ends with Big Rapids, a 2 1/2-mile set with huge waves and a powerful flow. I'm just beginning to feel as if I belong here. I have my packing and unpacking in reasonable order. I'm depending on my relationship with my maps and the River. Each campsite has become my temporary home. I'm feeling strong, healthy, humble, and confident. I ease my canoe into the St. John for the last time this trip. I do my dance, and take a sip from the River, thanking it for allowing me my journey. I float, I paddle, I cry, I get through Big Rapids, I scream. My trip on the St. John River is over. I thank my equipment, especially my canoe. I pack my car, look back at the River, and know that I have been touched.
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