Travel & Tone

College Composition                     

Tone, Travel

I slid my fingers into the inky water and watched the little whirlpools I created slip by.  On my left was Canada, on my right, the U.S.  Underneath me was a green canoe sitting on top of the St. Croix River.  Eric waved to get my attention from a canoe in front of me, and pointed up to the top of a pine tree.  There was a bald eagle with her nest, striking and bold against the azure sky.  

The wildness of the river would often silence our conversation.  Rarely in our civilized lives do we see sky-scraping trees on the banks of swiftly running water, or a family of river otters merely watching curiously as we pass, or a bald eagle that refuses to show anything but pride at its nest.

We talked some, but the danger of conversation was that we might silence the river or scare off wildlife.  Our senses were heightened by the wilderness, and we had only been out for three days.  No wonder the American Indians were described as having extraordinary senses – they lived out here.

Our ears pricked up at an unfamiliar sound - country music and obnoxious laughter.  We rounded a bend and were practically on top of a group of drunken partiers in canoes.  The sounds of birds chirping had vanished, every beautiful sound drowned out by this group.  I avoided eye-contact as drunk men leered at me and whispered to each other, grinning and snorting.  One called out and asked where we were camping for the night.  I silently prayed that Paul wouldn’t tell them.  He gave a false statement about how we weren’t sure and I sighed in relief.  They shouted back the name of the campsite they planned on staying at and invited us to come over that night.  They assured us that they had plenty of booze and they had even brought fireworks.  Paul smiled, indulging them, and said that we would have to see.  

We passed them as quickly as we could, giving them a wide berth.  Sure, they can waste their lives, they can party all they like.  But why can’t they contain that kind of waste to civilization?  Why do they have to frighten birds, scare off moose, and pollute the river with their garbage?  Some people are especially good at wasting things.  But it’s pretty selfish to waste an entire waterway.

It takes a while for the sounds of the river to return, but steadily they do.  We rafted up together and float lazily downriver, caring little for time.  I love how time disappears in the wilderness.  My canoe was next to Paul, the leader, and he showed me the map of where we were.  Our campsite wasn’t too far, but we were making a stop along the way.

This wasn’t my first time on the St. Croix River, it was my third.  But I had never stopped at ‘Baby’s Grave.’  That was where we eddied up next.  As if in answer to the chilling name, the sun hid behind the clouds and when we stepped out into the shallow water by the shore there was nothing to dry or warm us.  Even though it was June, we all shivered a little.  It was darker without the sun, and when we tied off our canoes and forged into the woods, the trees shaded even more light from us.

Once we had all gathered around the picnic table, Paul began to tell his story.  This campsite was named Baby’s Grave because in the mid eighteen-hundreds, a dead child washed ashore on these very banks.  The Baby was never claimed, so it was buried right here.  We walked along a little path and came to the grave.  It was a small grave, with a headstone whose writing had almost worn off.  There was some conversation of how the Baby died.  Apparently a train used to run across the river a long time ago, and the child was probably thrown into the river from the train.  Perhaps the child was already dead, or sick, or maybe it was unwanted.  A breeze picked up, chilling our wet bodies and foretelling rain.  

After a brief discussion, we left Baby’s Grave.  Maybe it was a fun story to tell in warm daylight, but today it only provoked solemnity. The wilderness isn’t always beauty and majesty.  Memories of trying to set up camp during a savage electrical storm haunt my dreams.  We all lived through it, but my nightmares beg to differ.  Nature has a way of telling us that we’re not in charge.  You never really “conquer” a river, a river simply allows you to share its waters for a time.