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FRESH
YARN PRESENTS:
The
Weight of the Wannigan
Or, the Fear of Wilderness
By
Tucker Lieberman
PAGE
TWO
 Undoubtedly
someone could have a good time characterizing this trip as an exercise
in bourgeois idiocy. Not even nomads pack up their tents every sunrise
and paddle until sunset for no good reason. The Eabamet, the First
Nation tribe who lived in the area, took their joyrides in motorboats
and they looked on our struggling caravan as though we were the
ghosts of their ancestors. We carried a potato sack and caught pike
(a hideous fish full of bones and gnashing teeth that take down
ducklings), but supplemented our diet with a small stash of Snickers
and apricot brandy. To clinch the argument that this was a game
for the idle rich, we each paid our guide two thousand dollars to
take us there.
But I don't think the trip was a form of easy entertainment. Some
of us may have been rich, and we were certainly idle, choosing to
spend the summer paddling ourselves into oblivion. But the experience
wasn't contrived. It wasn't a pre-packaged cruise or Disneyworld
getaway intended to produce sensations, memories, or even revelations.
And our allowances for our own happiness weren't unreasonable: I'm
sure even Lewis and Clark had a nip of brandy in their packs. We
never strayed from the holy center, the river in its supreme power.
At the end of the day, we didn't return to hotels; the river held
us then, too. On portage, I learned to walk bent over like a beast
of burden, my head aligned with my spine, so the cordlike muscles
in my neck weren't crunched or snapped.
What was hardest about living on the river, it turned out, was not
these experiences. What was hardest, were all the things that stayed
the same.
Sleeping arrangements were the first indication that social conventions
would follow us into the wilderness. I saw the guide spend several
troubled hours thinking of where to put his 13-year-old son who
talked about nothing but sex, the 17-year-old son of his close friend,
the 21-year-old with the odd glint in his eye, the 69-year-old professor
who recently left his wife, and the 50-year-old single woman. (I
ended up with the professor, a quantum mathematics genius from Germany
who lived through the bombings in World War II. He was amused that
our guide referred to backpacks as "haversacks," and he
taught me a lively German folk song involving haversacks, which
is what you tie up your Marie inside when she won't dance with you.)
In another lesson about old-fashioned accountability to each other,
my partner in the canoe once asked me to pass him a wannigan, and,
not wanting to admit that it was too heavy, I wound up dropping
it on him and bruising his perfect thigh. I had to burn with that
shame for days as we paddled together. I had to burn with my discomfort
of my own body, too; I was sure that no one around me knew the lifelong
embarrassment I had of every inch of myself, the strength and the
evil glow of that self-hate. Tossing off a wristwatch doesn't change
things like this. We were all still procrastinators, avoiding sawing
and chopping firewood as long as the sun remained high. I was still
introverted and bitten by the writing bug, yet was faced with a
wet, rotted notebook, and no allotment of personal time unless I
chose to give up sleep. We were all faced with the question of unit
cohesion: no relationship knits automatically, and nothing but conscious
effort turns a socially inept person into a team player. We tried
to be as honest with each other as we could. But it still took a
month for a young man to voice a simple existential question, as
the First Nation settlement Fort Hope crested on the horizon: "Wouldn't
this be so much more fun if we had a mission?"
Emptiness echoed. On the river, when you make a fool of yourself,
there's no ritzy sanctuary called "home" to retreat to
at 5 p.m., no place where nobody can laugh at you. There's no television,
computer, radio, or telephone to help clear your mind. There's no
bed, no fridge, no stove, no toilet paper, no books, no privacy.
Our so-called "civilized" toys are invented to help us
cope with our flaws, phobias, hang-ups, and desires. Our fears are
submerged in talk radio, soaked in the leading brand of bottled
water, spritzed with designer cologne, and run over by SUVs. Infinite
consumer choice provides infinite refuge from our problems. At night
we worry which pillow is softer so we don't have to worry about
the real reason our heads hurt.
Despite my passion for the earth, the incomparable feeling of dependence
I get when surrounded by the elements, and the sense of freedom
and wholeness that comes from living closely to an ecosystem, I'd
pause before going on another long expedition. I remember how that
first portage broke my spirit, like a burnt pinecone bursting to
let out the seed. I got better at portage but I remained susceptible
to those self-indulgent voices. I got more comfortable with skinny
dipping but I was always aware of how bare it felt to have eagles
look down upon the same body I spent my life cursing.
It isn't the weight of the wannigan that keeps us away from the
river. It's the weight of ourselves.
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