Boreal Summer

I watch him, a curious-looking fellow crouched on the edge of the dock in Trout Lake Park. Located in the urban heart of East Vancouver, the park is a small oasis of green with a centerpiece pond not more than 200 feet across. Frequented by dog walkers, old men on benches and tai chi devotees, it’s not the typical training ground for an extended wilderness excursion.

The guy in question is in a canoe tied to the dock, yanking away at the water with his paddle, with an effort that looks like he’s trying to tear the dock from its mooring. I stroll toward him. He sees me and flicks his hand in acknowledgement between strokes, barely missing a beat as he continues to labor away on a makeshift canoeing treadmill. His name is Taku Hokoyama, and he will be my partner for a 3,100-kilometer canoe journey through the heart of Canada’s boreal forest. Every day for a month, he has run three miles from his home to paddle the dock for four hours—two hours on each side—in an attempt to get ready for the rigors of his first canoe trip. Taku is concerned about how he will perform. I am not. Taku is a good friend whom I’ve spent a lot of time backcountry skiing with in the Coast Mountains. I chose him for the mission because of his “personal intangibles.” Anyone can learn to canoe, but compatibility, spirit and toughness to see through a 75-day journey are rare and valuable commodities. He also writes one hell of a haiku.

City liquidates
Paddles and current push us
To new horizons

Crossing a busy intersection, I almost get nailed by a minivan. I glance over at the driver. The woman looks perplexed for a moment and then laughs at me. I carry our red Royalex craft across the road to the safety of the sidewalk. Winnipeg’s lunchtime crowd chokes the way ahead but parts like the Red Sea in the face of the oncoming canoe. Taku chugs along beside me with two packs. Apparently, the canoe is out of context enough in Canada’s seventh largest city to bring dozens of people to a complete, hysterical stop. One-line zingers like “Where’s the water, buddy?” and “You’re going the wrong way, dude!” fly at us from all directions. We’ve carried our load from Mountain Equipment Co-op, an outdoor retailer kind enough to store our gear until we arrived from Vancouver. We negotiate our way 3 kilometers through the downtown core along the aptly named Portage Avenue until we arrive at the Red River.

The turbid river is high with spring rain, snaking north through the muddy lowlands of Manitoba into Lake Winnipeg. A quick pack and we shove off for the summer—the canoe as our office, the tent our home, and pushing on our job.