On the Summary of a Life, Particularly a Life of Kayaking

Wabasha, MN--Well, this article came out in the NYT today, and while I can pretend to be nonchalant all I want, the fact is that one's first mention (and photo credit) in the “Journal of Record” is, if not a Big Deal, especially considering that the effort and agency actually required of me in order to achieve such a mention (and photo credit) was not exceptional, kind of really exciting... even if the term “musicologist” makes me squirm a bit (besides the obvious questions--what the fuck musicology have I actually done, and isn't that kind of professional title usually reserved for people with, you know, professional degrees?--it makes me wonder how other people react to their titles; the conflict between the most efficient way of summing up what a person is or “does”--and of course writers have to be efficient--and the full sum of a person, and don't be put off by the phrase, you know what I mean, the myriad things they are and do and so on, and I don't mean just the inane eulogistic phrases e.g. “father, husband, brother, son, yada-fuckin-yada” (Ed.: wow, you're a bit surly this morning), but let's use my example, because it's my blog and as you're all well aware I'm a raging egotist (also, no kidding, I use the word “narcissist” and its synonyms so frequently here that I actually just googled “narcissism thesaurus” because I momentarily couldn't think of a fresh way of putting it): I am, according to the Journal of Record, a “trombonist and musicologist”... well you all know what I'm going to say, that I do other things besides, and maybe my embarrassment at the description owes more to the phonetic ugliness of the word “trombonist” than to any problems of substance. The fact remains that, while I have yet to see my name in print (hint hint to anyone with access to hard copies, and it's on page AR15 of the Sept. 6 paper), I'm still pretty excited.

So. I realized earlier that for all my verbiage I have yet to provide a detailed account of what it's actually like to kayak 20 miles in our 17 ft., 62 lb. (when empty; loaded with food, water, and safety equipment--spare paddle, whistle, etc.-- it's probably approaching 80) “bright red” Prijon Marlin. And aware as my generation is of the limits of writing's ability (and, honestly, pretty much any other medium's ability) to convey experience, I might give it a try over the next few days. For now, because it's fresh in my mind, I'll concentrate on two things: locking through a lock and the efficient application of sunblock (we don't dock, we fight the clock, and we tell knock-knocks about pickpocks) (Ed.: leave the rhymes to the rhymers).

Yesterday we were explaining to Mary Kay the procedure and experience of locking through, and I insisted that the dam I had gone through that day (Lock and Dam #4, which has its very own Wikipedia page; they all do) was a good deal smaller in terms of length and width than #3, which I had gone through a few days before. But later I was reading about the dams and discovered that in fact they are all the same size: 600 ft. long and 110 ft. wide, which leaves just two and a half feet on each side when barges lock through (which is why the barges take so damn long to lock through). They do, however, vary quite wildly by depth--the Upper St. Anthony Falls dam in downtown Minneapolis, the first lock on the river and the source of these pictures, falls probably 25-30 ft., while #4 descended at most 10 ft. It's not too frightening, actually--the people running the locks seem to be, if not happy about it, at the very least resigned to canoes and kayaks locking through, and honestly we're probably kind of a relief from the recreational powerboaters who occupy most of the lock operators' energy and attention--we're too small and slow to be dangerous to other boats, and too vulnerable and sober to be risk-takers, and the powerboaters are generally less brash and jackassish around us, if only because we are a novelty and a tiny minority even this far down the river (I haven't seen a single other canoe or kayak since Minneapolis; I'm not sure if Eve or Mary Kay have).

These days we're heading mostly southeast, never varying past east or south-southwest (I'd use degrees but I'd rather come off as knowingly ignorant than unwittingly ignorant), and so the sun never sees our backs. What it does see, besides the obvious face, neck, and arms, is a triangle of flesh above our left knees. The knees themselves are tucked up against the top of the kayak so that we're locked in place for balance, but the “Kayaker's Triangle” (Ed.: not gonna catch on) is immobile and exposed to the sun all day, occasionally drifting from side to side as the river changes course a few degrees and the sun moves from east to southwest (we start early and finish by early afternoon, which is why it's only on the left leg), and though at this point I barely notice it, it must be quite striking when I wear shorts around town.

So that's about all I have time or energy for now, but over the next few days I intend to publish a more complete description of the practice of Kayaking Down The Mississippi.