My husband holds the canoe steady as I climb in. Then he takes his place in the stern and we push off into the river. The paddle feels light and graceful in my hands as I dip, pull, lift, twist with ease. I can do this all day.
For the first hour, paddling seems effortless and I watch the scenery going by—the steep sandy bluffs topped with white pines, a tangle of cedar trees close to the water, leaning out.
By hour two, I feel some aching in my low back but when I cross my legs a different way, it disappears. Then I cross them another way and another.
When Dick suggests we stop for lunch, I’m eager. We sit on a fallen log to eat our bread, cheese and apple slices—with a thermos of strong coffee.
Back in the canoe, I’m energetic again for awhile and try to ignore my sore back, my sore shoulders. Distract myself by looking for deer, for beaver.
But by hour four I hurt all over and just hope I can make it to the landing without quitting. And I decide in this moment that I want to approach my death the same way.
To try to keep going until I get there.