“Hold what ya got.” How could I possibly do anything else, I thought, as I balanced in wet Chacos®, on a slippery log, trying with all my muscle to shove the bow of our loaded canoe over yet another fallen tree.

I’m sure it was nostalgia, work from home boredom, or in reflection, poor recall, that made me agree to recreate our maiden voyage down the upper portion of Alabama’s Escatawpa River. It had been 16 years since the epic journey. This time, a tropical storm delayed our departure by two weeks, initially leaving the water too dangerous for paddling but now, looking just right for a weekend of adventure and solitude.

As the saying goes, looks can be deceiving.

Travel by canoe can be much like car camping, following the reasoning, “if there’s room for the gear, you can take it with you.” We’re seasoned enough campers to know we could run into multiple obstacles and mindfully made the decision to pack light.

Our daughter Genna, now 22, dropped us at the put-in point, delighted to drive her dad’s new pick-up but bemoaning the fact she had work to do and couldn’t accompany us. In hindsight, she was one lucky girl. After snapping the send-off photo, we launched the canoe in the tannin stained water and readied ourselves for miles of unspoiled wilderness.

As with our initial trip years earlier, the obstacles came early. We paddled just 100 feet before encountering a freshly, downed tree across the river. Still in high spirits, we hauled the boat across, thankful we’d left the large ice chest at home, and shrugged it off as the price of seeking scenery worthy of a postcard. Back in the boat, the river seemed oddly low, as if the water was falling quickly or the gage reading we’d relied on for navigation was incorrect.

Another hundred feet – another tree. This was the scene repeated over and over for the next 10 hours, in which time we traveled a mere four miles. Nature had thrown us a doozy. If a fallen water oak or pine didn’t block our way, the water was so low it exposed an obstacle course of bald cypress knees stretching from one river bank to the other. Unlike our trip years ago, we couldn’t simply navigate between them but rather had to pick our way through on foot. Turning around meant not only dragging the boat back over the same obstructions but also paddling against the current. The next take-out point was seven miles downriver. Forward was the only way out.

Low water exposed bald cypress knees stretching from bank to bank on the Escatawpa.

 

In my head, I switched to yoga’s warrior pose, and the oft repeated expression, “sometimes life is just hard.” At times, when it seemed we couldn’t face another obstacle, I laughed at the absurdity of the situation, (which was a relief to Lynn who noted other middle-age women might not think it funny). Exhausted, I abandoned any clinging notion this trip would be like the first one. The concept of vairagya or non-attachment allowed me to concentrate on the present, accept the situation, and lower my expectations that the river’s next bend might offer something better. Standing on that log, “hold what ya got” became both literal and philosophical.

Just before dark, we found a beautiful campsite where we were lulled to sleep by the gurgling sounds of tiny rapids. A reward for a hard day’s work. Day one’s adventure offered nothing close to a lazy paddle, but it did remind me when life gets hard, take it one fallen tree at a time.