“You cannot step into the same river twice”
Crystal River painting by Ted Peterson
By Paul Sutherland
Op-ed for the Sun
As a 13-year-old boy, it took a while to save up to buy the $59.97 canoe kit advertised in Boys Life. I sold Petoskey stones under the name Petoskey Pete in front of our home down towards the lake, from what is now Boons, babysat for my brothers and sister and Mrs. Bach’s kids and scraped together birthday money from Aunts and Grandma to get the $59.97. I rounded up to $60 as I worried the coins would rip the envelope, filled in the form with my best handwriting, recounted the stack of mostly “ones,” and mailed it with two stamps to the address in the magazine. I didn’t tell my siblings, friends, or parents because I thought they would try to talk me out of it. A few weeks later, a package came with some boards, canvas, nails, and a “How to” manual. The last step was painting the canoe, which sealed the canvas. Paint was not included; thankfully, Mom and Dad let me use some white house paint that was in the shed.
I loved that canoe. It was only 11 feet long and was a one-person masterpiece. A bit lopsided, as the frame’s board did not bend evenly. But it floated. Grandpa Tom, who had taught me to canoe in his slick aluminum canoe, gave me a paddle, and I was soon down at the Crystal River. My cousin Tommy would sometimes walk the bank as I would dodge fallen trees and spikes from the mills’ dams that had been abandoned many years earlier. Mostly I would just paddle up and down the river from where it bends in Glen Arbor to what is now The Mill. I would fish sometimes, but I do not remember ever catching a fish. I do remember sitting in awe as a mother duck would paddle by with six ducklings lined up behind her. I would stick my paddle out, and they would jump over it like it was a piece of driftwood. Tommy would sometimes call out to tell me he found beaver signs, or we would find claw marks and imagine that it was a black bear bigger than either of our dads. Both Dad and Grandpa would have me listen hard to the river so I could know how to navigate its currents and shallows. My Grandpa taught me how to paddle without switching from side to side, to watch the currents, stick to the side of the river going upstream to stay in the soft water, and stay in the middle to catch the big flow downstream, always making sure I was going faster than the current so I could navigate. I learned to listen to the currents, watch the critters, and listen to the sounds. Grandpa, along with my dad, taught me to listen to the birds and identify them by their song. Dad and I would practice whistling to make the bird sounds. The quiet along the river was only there between the slap of a beaver tail, a squirrel looking for acorns, or the birds’ calling to keep me from disturbing their nests.
I rarely saw a person back then; no plastic kayaks were to be found, and few people thought the Crystal was worth the bumps, shallow spots, and logs completely across the river requiring carry. For me, it was magic.
The Crystal was not easy on my cloth-covered canoe or my feet. Rocks, downed trees, pointy sticks, and old nails sticking out of posts that used to be dams caused my canoe to die by 1,000 cuts, and bloodied my feet from the canoe carries. Mom took me to Empire after one bloody episode for a tetanus shot and skin repair. Unlike me, my canoe would not make it through the winter. I did not have the heart to give it a proper burial. I put it in the back of the house and let its white paint slowly turn grey from mold, as nails bled rust and the chipmunks nested under the piece of plywood I placed there for my feet. Plywood that was not included in the kit either.
Today, after living with my family in Suttons Bay, Traverse City, Hawaii, Uganda, Nicaragua, and South Africa, I once again live in Glen Arbor but this time on the Crystal. I love the Crystal River. But it is not the river of my childhood. Heraclitus says, “You cannot step into the same river twice.” Now the river I used to step into is enjoyed many days by hundreds of people in kayaks, canoes, and paddle boards. I enjoy watching them paddle in front of our home. I love hearing the chatter, and the tired kids saying, “Are we done yet?” Most respect the river. But some don’t. On my end of the river near Glen Arbor, I no longer see beaver or even the occasional otter anymore. I have only seen one duck and cranes this year on our end, where even a few years ago ducks and even loons were in abundance. But no more. I had an inkling of why, but science and a sign placed often in National Parks in South Africa brought the reason into my sight: noise.
Today, noise from evening live music blasted at 90 decibles, is sometimes able to be heard nearly one mile upriver. Noise from power washers, leaf blowers, and piped-in music has replaced bird songs and beaver tail slaps with country western music and ballads about relationships and nostalgia. Hundreds of years ago, the animals were displaced by loggers, hunting, and the noise of mills; thankfully, the critters came back. Through community activism, laws, or local ordinances, the quiet will be here once again, and the beaver will be sighted at dawn or dusk; They will come back. I know this because change is the only constant and people are good. I am on the river nearly every day. Today, I put on my black water shoes, climb in my yellow plastic kayak, listen, and push into the river I love. I have been looking at canoe plans, not to make a fancy canoe for show, but one I can slide into and paddle down the river that is not the same river of my 13-year-old self.
Paul Sutherland lives with his family on the Crystal River and in Gqeberha, Eastern Cape, South Africa, where he is an education professor at Nelson Mandela University. He loves to listen to the quiet, write books, kayak, hike, explore, read, bike, and be on, in, or by water. Paul also enjoys telling stories that inspire and are mostly truthful.
