Each year that we run the West Branch of the Penobscot into the big lake, I think, this will be the last time.
Our canoes packed for the four-day trip, we slide into the river at Old Roll Dam and let the current take us down the West Branch, day into night into day into night and finally the river widens into Lake Chesuncook, the third largest lake in Maine. We go watchless and barely dressed. We hide our phones away deep in our wetbags. We fish at each campsite, sleep when it is just dark, and wake when the frogs stop and the birds begin. We paddle hard, swim long, and eat our food like it is holy.
The section of river we ride is smooth and wide, with some quick rocky runs and shallow riffles. This is part of the Penobscot River Corridor, the same water Thoreau dipped his paddle into as he explored the Maine woods. Once cut over, the river banks are once again thick with spruce and balsam. When the river empties into Lake Chesuncook, Mt. Katahdin’s steep shoulders stand tall among the Maine hills.
Our lives have changed since the first time I paddled this river, alone with my sweetheart. He told me that this was the place he felt most himself. We put in at the edge of twilight. The river was a dark, liquid trail that first night as he steered our canoe past moose feeding knee-deep. We stopped at Lone Pine, the first empty campsite, some miles from the Golden Road where we put in. The night was clear and we slept without a rainfly, our tent’s screens open to the stars.
Now, we come summer into summer, bringing our family, my children, our child together, and my husband’s brother and his two girls. We know we are on borrowed time. Our children are growing past the age when we can force them to vacation with us. The girls are 16, 17, and 18 years old. Liam is 15 and David, now 6, made his first trip when he was 3. Time moves like this fluid river, both too quick to steer and so slow at times you have to dig in hard to make progress.
Last summer as we sat around our final campfire on Mouser Island, I joked that one day, the kids would make this trek with their kids. They laughed and said, “No way. Are you crazy? We’re going to do cool things on vacation. Like go to Paris and sleep in real beds.”
But I am convinced that they love this trip. We have our canoe trip rituals and stories that make up our family legend.
Like the time Uncle Jim trolled up a landlocked salmon and he didn’t even know it. That night we camped at Sandy Point, the sun setting, the sky glowing orange and pink and us with fresh salmon to eat. We never ate a better meal. This is a touchstone now, a moment for us to remember what it feels like when life is right and things are good.
The West Branch of the Penobscot River delivers. We see what is still wild in our world. Eagles, moose, bear, and osprey, and we hardly ever see people. We become our own tribe with new names. Carly is Lucky since she always finds four-leaf clovers and Liam is Roller for his wild sleeping style. Our life is simple: nothing comes with us that we don’t need. We eat, paddle, filter water, swim, snack, set up camp, fish, and sleep. The next day we move down river and do it all again.
We seek small treasures as we go. Mementos to carry home with us to remind us, back in the flood of busy lives, that once we were just us. We find rocks shaped like hearts, bits of shiny crystals, and feathers. Along Gero Island we search for old pottery shards and purple glass worn smooth by Lake Chesuncook’s surf. The pottery bits are white with blue rims or floral designs – old plates, cups, and bottles, long ago tossed into the water, when the river and lake were highways and logging camps dotted the edges.
I find the curve of a white and blue cup. Its rough edges are worn smooth. The water changes me, too: rubbing away what I don’t need, smoothing me out. It feels good to just be the curve of me that loves the smell of the water and glide of the canoe.
This is what brings us back to this place, the wash of the river. I hope that even if my children don’t ever come back, a little bit stays inside them.