On the 'Che-Mun'

“The movement of a canoe is like a reed in the wind. Silence is part of it and the sounds of lapping water, bird songs, and wind in the trees. It is part of the medium through which it floats, the sky, the water, the shores. . . . There is magic in the feel of a paddle and the movement of a canoe, a magic compounded of distance, adventure, solitude, and peace. The way of a canoe is the way of the wilderness , and of a freedom almost forgotten. It is an antidote to insecurity, the open door to waterways of ages past and a way of life with profound and abiding satisfactions. When a man is part of his canoe, he is part of all that canoes have ever known."

                                                                                                            Sigurd Olson

The First Peoples of North America made technological marvels from scratch: the tipi, the stone tomahawk, the papoose and, greatest of all these, the canoe. It puzzles me that we use their original word for the first three, whereas ‘canoe’ comes from a Spanish word, in turn derived from the Haitian word for dugout boat – which is very different and hugely inferior to a birchbark canoe when it comes to wilderness travel. The Ojibway – the people who perfected the canoe - called it ‘Che-mun’.

The canoe is a magic carpet – it opens up places inaccessible to others. No other boat can be so easily carried from lake to lake. It will take you places that even Argocats and good hill boots cannot. Freedom and independence are built into the very thwarts and gunwhales – it is no great thing to carry a month of supplies. The man who has set out with a rucksack on his back feels the exhilaration of knowing he can be utterly self-reliant for the next few days, using only his outfit and what he can wring from nature by skill. The paddler can multiply that feeling by eight.

The 'Che-mun' opens up the best places to bivouac. Many of our lochs have islands within them - some are relics of iron-age crannogs, but many are natural. And although the surrounding country is heather moorland, these islands are refuges of Caledonian forest, wooded with ancient Scots pines that have been thankfully uneconomical to cut down. They are tiny pieces of the land as it looked before man came. Wilderness, if you like.

When seeking wilderness, we are looking for places where the hand of man is not apparent. It’s difficult, especially in this crowded island. Years ago, I realised that the only way is to make a lot of effort. Lonely, beautiful places are always protected by distance. If they weren’t they would no longer be lonely and beautiful.

A while ago I was paddling on the sea loch Loch Hourn, returning from Knoydart – romantically and erroneously referred to as ‘Europe’s last wilderness’. It’s not, but it is nevertheless a stunning place, and somewhat inaccessible. There are no roads in or out. The only way in is by six miles of boot on rock, or in my case, six miles of maple through saltwater.

The wind and tide were in my favour, and I was making six knots with little effort. I overtook a party of mountain bikers, who were finding the path on the southern shore unpleasantly arduous. It’s bad enough on foot, and I did not envy them.

I pulled into a bay, dragging the boat through greasy seaweed. I had planned to make a brew, but a loud ‘plop’ and the sight of concentric ripples made me reach for the rod rather than the kettle. For the first time in my life, my first cast was successful, and yielded a bonny sea-trout, or sewin, as they are sometimes called.

I looked up and saw the mountain bikers had caught up and were watching from the opposite shore. Another cast. Another fish.

I know when to quit. I laid the silvery fish on the bow seat and pushed off.