The "Lotus Born" Trip

You know how certain music sometimes brings back memories of specific incidents from your past. The nerds have a phrase for it “Music-evoked Autobiographical Memory” or MEAM (pronounced “Me-Am”). So I experienced a MEAM recently. It was a very strong MEAM. The M that E’d the AM was a song from a band called “Tibet to Timbuctu”. The story of this band (which fuses musical instruments and influences from Japan, Tibet, India, the Middle East, Turkey, Spain, Sudan & West Africa) is way more interesting than my little story here and it shows in the interesting fusion music that they have produced. Anyway, I was listening to the track “Lotus Born” while driving in the car the other day. The number is all instrumental and humming with the odd Tibetan lyric. It slowly builds up tempo and climaxes in an incredible crescendo of explosive trumpet, fast tabla, West African guitar, Indian flute and Tibetan lute. That crescendo has always been magic for me and never fails to transport me back to a moment in Canada, many moons ago when I was belting along a country highway in northern Muskoka, Ontario, a 14 ft sea kayak tied to the roof and camping equipment strewn in the back seat. I was thumping the steering wheel in musical ecstasy as the car windows shook and the cheap American car plastic vibrated from the blasting stereo.

I had always thought of Canada as a rugged place ripe with exploration potential and had longed to travel through it one day. When I got the opportunity to base myself in Muskoka, central Ontario for a few months, I jumped at it. I could hardly believe the extent of forests and lakes in this amazing countryside. Did you know that Canada contains 20% of the world’s fresh water? You wouldn’t be surprised to hear that if you took a flight over central Ontario. It is a land of endless forests broken profusely with gleaming lakes and winding rivers. I was enchanted with it immediately, for it is an enchanting land. And a BIG land! Big water, big trees, big animals, big spaces, big forests. Every weekend I was out, with a kayak or a mountain bike or just walking through the many forest areas. Swimming in the rivers and camping under the magnificent pines. My first trip was kayaking down the Gibson river which flowed into the Great Lake Huron. I headed north-west along the Trans Canadian Hwy, which as it’s name suggests, crosses Canada East to West.

I accessed the river through a reservation for the Wahta Mohawk native people. 
I travelled through a few such reservations of aboriginal people through Canada and most of them didn’t differ visually from normal crown land though aboriginal people in Canada have many challenges just like in many places around the world. Apparently the native people on such reservations have quite substantial autonomy to run their own affairs and I found it interesting to travel through and stop in the reservations, meeting locals.

There was no-one in sight where I parked the car so I left it there and carried my kayak and gear through the forest to the water’s edge. I packed my gear into the kayak’s storage hatch, floated the kayak and began my journey. As I paddled lazily downstream, I closed my eyes and said a little prayer to the Manitou (local spirits). I always pray to the local spirits of the land at the start of any journey, in any country, done by any means. But Canada is especially rich in spirit. Throughout my stay and travels in its forests and waters, I could feel the incredible power and presence of the spirits. For me, it is the land of the Manitou.

The Gibson river is about a kilometre wide here with thick pine forests covering both banks and glassy smooth water. It was spring in Canada, the weather was pleasant and the forests were alive with the noise of billions of insects. One thing they forget to mention in the Canadian tourist brochures is the number, size and intensity of the bloody mosquitoes here. Hew-fucken-mungous and per-fucken-sistent fuckers they are! Canadian summers are short and the mozzies go about their blood sucking business with the intensity of a dying man ticking things off a bucket list.

But out in the middle of the river, they leave you alone. And its bliss. I paddle lazily, enjoying the rhythm and serenity. After an hour or so, I came onto a small island and spied, what looked to me like, a tree house. Intrigued, I parked up the kayak and started exploring. Climbing up a tree, I discovered a comprehensive but empty tree house built across 3 big Pine trees. It had 2 small rooms and could easily sleep 5-6 people. It was a bit spooky but I was quite impressed and would’ve loved to spend a night in here. But it was way to early to call it a day and there was much ground (water!) to cover today.

I paddled on through a set of small rapids then stopped for a bit to observe a couple of small turtles frolicking in the water. 

After a few hours of paddling through fairly static water, the flow of the water picked up pace and a dull roar became audible. I was obviously getting close to a big drop in the river, which is always exciting in a kayak! I guessed I was nearing what my map called the “3 rock chute”. I paddled to the rocky shore and went ahead on foot to scout. 

It was a grand sight. The whole river dropped 10M through a narrow, bouldery passage. For a few seconds I imagined what it would be like to run the fall in the kayak. Then images of my crushed and dismembered body floating downstream quickly dispelled any such silliness. I portaged my kayak downstream through the forest and went about exploring the waterfall. Swam for a bit then ate a salami sandwich I’d packed in the morning. It was a magnificent spot and I decided to camp right there in the lee of the waterfall.

My pants decided to fall off just as the timer clicked, hence my hand trying to hold them up!

There was no-one for miles and I felt completely relaxed and at peace. I didn’t have a watch but the days were long so I walked a bit in the forest and then lazed on the rocks at the riverbank. A previous camper had thoughtfully built a rock fireplace with an iron grille to cook food. I collected some wood, started a fire and grilled the salted meat and bread I’d brought with me. The wood smoke lifted gracefully into the darkening sky and I had a moment of clarity that this, right here, was as good as life gets. I savoured the moment till a mozzie big as a flying cockroach landed on my nose and snapped my daze.

After dinner I went through a typical Canadian camping ritual. Hanging your food up a tree, away from your campsite. This is done to avoid a hungry bear gnawing your willy in the middle of the night, mistaking it for a rank but edible sausage. You don’t want to take anything inside your tent that smells even remotely of food. While there aren’t any Grizzlies in this part of Canada, Black bears are common and can be very ferocious. To avoid the racial argument completely, I’d say regardless of what colour it is, don’t get caught between a hungry bear and food! To better explain this to Australians – Don’t get caught between a Crocodile and the water! Same Same, but different.

Black Bears can't Jump!

I packed all my food into a plastic bag, tied it with some rope and then hung it up a branch on a high tree about 5M off the ground. As I lay in my sleeping bag, the suspense was unbearable (hehe) but I ended up having a sound and restful sleep. In the morning I went back to retrieve the bag and it was as I’d left it, just hanging around. After a quick breakfast of muesli, I packed the kayak and headed further down the Gibson. After a couple of hours I hit a couple of small rapids and then the river started widening. 

In the afternoon I was amazed to see a log-hut on the bank of the river. I couldn’t believe there was human habitation here, in the middle of nowhere. But Canadians are like that, I’ve learnt through experience. They love their log cabins in the bush and retreat into them periodically. There was no sign of anyone as I paddled past but after a while I saw some more, even more comprehensive houses. I realized the Gibson River was nearing its mouth and emptying itself into Lake Huron. And the houses must be holiday cottages accessible only by boat from the Lake. Now when I say “Lake” Huron, it’s really a huge bloody Sea! Americans are renowned for hyperbole and when I first heard of the “Great” lakes I rolled my eyes thinking here we go again. Bloody americans adding “Greatness” to another ordinary natural feature. But the reality is that calling these humungous bodies of water “lakes” smacks of British understatement rather than American exaggeration. I was hugely impressed by the size and beauty of Lake Huron, especially around the Georgian Bay area.

I setup camp under the pines on the shores of the lake and just sat watching a magical sunset fire up the western sky. The manitou were out in force on this beautiful night. Writing this 5 years on, I can still feel their presence on the lake shore that night.

The next day I paddled back up river, which sounds harder than it was as the Gibson river is mostly flat except for the drops, which you portage around. I stopped again at the magnificent "3 Rock Chute" then continued on back to where the journey had started. It was a long, tiring but very fulfilling day of paddling. As I packed the car up and took off, I switched the music to “Lotus Born” again and reflected on my journey. Since then the Gibson River is forever etched in my memory with an inseparable link to the “Lotus Born” song. I cannot think of one without automatically being drawn to the other.

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