Text and photos by Stephen Gorman A trusty canoe, a paddle, and some spare time can be all one needs to escape the hectic pace of modern-day life and find inner peace.

Getting away

couldn't believe how lucky I was to be there on that deserted beach. Instead of feeling like a castaway washed up on inhospitable shores, I was giddy, like a refugee arrived at a safe haven. I felt strong, healthy, and happy.
        Like many others, over the previous months and years I had found that life was accelerating out of control, that all the timesaving communications devices that made the business world turn had robbed me of what the machines promised to gain me: time. Increasingly, I had found my life measured not by the tide's rise and fall or the slow turn of the seasons. Instead, I was living my life by the nanosecond, a unit of time too compressed to be measurable by humans.
        Most people I knew talked of being stressed. They had no time for even simple pleasures. It had been years since many of them had taken time out to watch a flight of geese in the fall, or taken a leisurely walk on a country lane. They complained of working more and relaxing less. Connected by day and night--at home, at their office, even in their car--they had no time to dream. A thousand chores and half-finished projects competed for their free time. Few felt able to focus and do things as well as they wished. Although most were more productive in their jobs and earned more money, they felt dissatisfied. And yet the world kept turning faster and faster like a carousel run amok, and they didn't know how to get off for a brief respite or even if they should try.
        Many sought relief with Prozac, the latest DVD, and visits to the mall. But I knew that adaptation to stressful circumstances through chemistry or consumerism wouldn't work for me. So I searched hard for and eventually discovered a different solution. When the going got rough, I learned that what I needed most was a sturdy hull and six inches of freeboard.
        I got up from the sand and set up my little camp. Soon I had a simple pasta dish prepared, the tent put up, my sleeping bag rolled out. I carried the canoe high above the tide line and turned it over, then tied it by the painter line to a heavy piece of driftwood. After dinner I washed my bowl and spoon, cleaned the pot, and put my kit away. Chores complete, I reclined against the log, letting the deep, subtropical night gather around me.
        It had been a long time since I had experienced such luxury, such freedom, and I felt incredibly rich. Alone on an island, disconnected from the wants and cares of the modern world, out of touch and unreachable, there was little for me to do except relax and enjoy myself. And the fact that I had nothing but more of the same to look forward to as I paddled through this watery wilderness filled me with a deep sense of happiness. I had escaped. I turned and looked at my canoe with real affection.
        

The ideal transport

he Canadian filmmaker Bill Mason has said, "The canoe is the simplest, most functional, yet aesthetically pleasing object ever created." There on the beach I found no quarrel with that assessment. Just over fifteen and a half feet long, sleek, and stable, my canoe was a thing of inexpressible beauty. It was little more than a symmetrical fiberglass shell, deceptively plain in design and appearance, but for years of wilderness tripping it had carried me and my essential equipment with style and grace. Here in the Ten Thousand Islands I had glided through rushing ocean currents and placid freshwater lagoons, past great blue herons wading in the shallows and giant alligators sleeping on the muddy riverbanks.
        On this journey my canoe took me places where no motorized craft could go, where no one could disturb me and I could observe and interact with wildlife in its natural state. An ancient technology, the canoe carried me from the modern world of stress and anxiety to a place of astonishing physical, mental, and spiritual freedom.
        Though I had always lived near water, the benefits of paddling eluded me for years. As I grew up, my attentions were attuned to the baseball diamond and football field. Later, when my team sport days were over, I discovered long-distance running and later still, backpacking and climbing.
        As I developed a passion for and an expertise in wilderness travel, I found being in the outdoors provided the crucial counterbalance to the normal adult stresses that were starting to accrue. But as I cast about for ways to spend more time in the fresh air and sunshine, I dismissed canoeing. My paddling experience had been limited to a few unsatisfactory outings that I didn't care to repeat.
        Deceived by the craft's simplicity, I had assumed what most people assume: that everyone--certainly every American--is a natural-born paddler. Someone gets in the front, someone gets in the back, and you start paddling. End of story. Of course, I spent those miserable afternoons in total frustration, bank-banging down placid streams and zigzagging across lakes and ponds, my canoeing partner and I yelling at each other to "do something."
        My attitude toward canoeing changed just after college, when I was hired by an outdoor education program to lead a group of twelve adjudicated juvenile delinquents on a six-week wilderness expedition in northern Quebec. Bigger than Alaska and just as wild, Quebec is an intricate network of rivers, lakes, and streams. Virtually the only way to access the vast backcountry is by canoe.

The cadence of paddling induces steady, measured breathing, which in turn relaxes the body and releases the mind, freeing it to wander at will.

        At the staff training session, the canoe skills instructor introduced me to the basic strokes. I learned that by using the magical J-stroke, I no longer had to keep switching sides to keep the canoe heading in a straight line. And with a pry here and a draw there, I was able to change directions and steer precisely where I wanted to go. Instead of battling my clumsy efforts, the canoe responded swiftly to the merest flick of the paddle. It was astonishing. I felt like a bronco buster who had just tamed a wild horse. By the time we left for Canada, I had built a solid foundation of essential canoeing skills and was eager to put them to the test in the wild.
        That summer, over the course of several hundred miles, I learned that paddling was much more than merely a means of getting from point to point: it was a healthy, harmonious way of life. If stress is a condition of mental, physical, and emotional tension, then the state one achieves through canoeing is the exact opposite.

Mastering the stroke

he Chinese poet and philosopher Lao-tzu wrote about attaining a state of grace by "going with the flow," and that's literally what the paddler does. When a finely crafted canoe is under way, it slices through the water with little or no resistance, supported by the very medium through which it travels. Before long the paddler feels connected to his boat, that it is part of him, and that it will respond swiftly, like an extension of his body, to his every whim.
        The rhythmic canoe stroke, repeated thousands of times during a long day of paddling, induces a relaxed, almost trancelike state. When performed correctly using the large back, shoulder, and stomach muscles instead of the much-smaller arm muscles, the canoe stroke is not only excellent and healthy exercise, but it can be done hour after hour, day after day. The cadence induces steady, measured breathing, which in turn relaxes the body and releases the mind, freeing it to wander at will. With a little practice it is possible to paddle all day long and not tire. French Canadian voyageurs in the service of the Hudson Bay and Northwest Companies paddled their birch-bark canoes sixteen to eighteen hours per day for months on end.
        In calm weather, the canoe seems to fly across the water. On bright days the surface mirrors the sky, and it feels as if you are flying through the heavens. When the water is either shallow or very clear--lakes and rivers with limestone beds are especially transparent--you feel the elation of being suspended between earth and sky.
        Not all days are clear and calm, however, and every canoeist faces his share of storms and head winds. On blustery days an experienced paddler uses his mind and muscle in concert to outwit the elements by quartering into the wind rather than attacking it head on. He seeks out and takes advantage of whatever shelter he can find, altering his course to paddle in the lee of islands and points that block the wind. Canoeing on stormy days requires sharp strategy, good planning, and solid execution. Ironically, paddling in inclement weather may offer the greatest relief from everyday cares, for when thrusting and parrying with the wind and waves, fighting for every yard, you are immersed in the here and now. There is no room for thought save for the task at hand.
        Rapids also offer immediate detachment from tension and anxiety. The sensation of quick, light motion on swift-moving water is exhilarating. You feel weightlessness, free fall, and flight. In rapids, time literally seems to stand still as the skilled and gutsy paddler concentrates with a laser-like focus, negotiating one tricky maneuver after another. There is no greater sense of accomplishment than catching your breath in a calm eddy at the bottom of a successful whitewater run, looking back up at the rapids, and reliving each delicious moment of the wild descent.
        But just as important as the physical and mental benefits of paddling is the spiritual benefit of being free to wander and explore wherever your imagination leads you. Using only essential and timeless paddling and camping skills, a canoeist has unlimited freedom and range. Following ancient wilderness waterways leading away from the stresses of modern life, the canoeist enters a natural realm where time is measured not by the clock but by the sun's slow transit across the sky, where the slow pace of human-powered motion makes the world seem larger and more astonishing, where communication is face-to-face rather than via E-mail or recorded message.
        Back at camp in the Ten Thousand Islands, I marveled at my good fortune. The soft sand, the bright stars, and the cool night air were extravagant luxuries. I felt rich beyond belief. And the fatigue that overcame me after a long day on the water was pure euphoria. My sleeping bag felt wonderful, and no troublesome thoughts kept sleep at bay that night.