By Scott Diel
Scott Diel
Bio
Scott’s stories have appeared in outdoor journals like Gray’s Sporting Journal, Sports Afield, Outside, and The Mission (South Africa). He is the author of a half-dozen libretti for contemporary operas staged in London and New York. On occasion, he’s committed journalism that’s appeared in places like The Guardian and praised by The Economist.
A canoeist in Finnish Karelia
Canoeists are mostly harmless. It’s kayakers you have to look out for.
Jussi arrived at our camp in a solo carbon kayak, the perfect watercraft for those who like to move fast and alone. We knew his name because it was emblazoned on his hull in the fashion typically reserved for fighter aircraft and monster trucks. He dragged his boat to shore and addressed us, “Do you snore?”
After receiving an answer in the negative, he stormed from tent platform to tent platform – the ground too rocky to pitch a tent otherwise – inspecting each site, returning to declare, “I know you. You were at Vaajasalo. You don’t snore.”
Once in a lifetime, you may encounter a talkative Finn. This one talked so much that he was likely in danger of losing his citizenship.
“I did 20 kilometres today. How many did you do?”
“I’m not sure. Eight?”
“I did 20 just in the morning.”
“Impressive.” What did he want from us? Speed and distance weren’t our goals. We were after tranquillity. Our canoe was laden with folding chairs, steaks, and enough wine for a garden party. With Jussi, it felt like we had met the Donald Trump of watersports: The crowds at the put-in were huuuge.
“I did 80 kilometres in a day once.”
Forty-some years ago, I did 80 in a week in Boy Scouts. I even had the commemorative patch stitched on my life jacket. But I didn’t think Jussi would be impressed. My girlfriend, Tina, and I remained silent. Eventually, even the most loquacious Finns will get the hint.
Jussi pitched his tent on a platform near us and unpacked his Primus. He made a meal of scallions, potatoes, garlic, and boiled eggs. We’d already eaten, so we sat in our lounge chairs, drank wine, and gazed out over the lake’s glass-like surface. After his soup, Jussi came and sat next to us.
“There’s nothing like a Karelian sunset!” he declared and then released a fart lasting several seconds. I looked at Tina. She looked at me. Jussi looked at the sunset.
Russians and Germans
“The damned Russians took over 35,000 square kilometres from us.” Jussi released another fart. This one travelled out over the still water, echoed off the bluffs and returned to us. “And then they come to Kolovesi, and we have to put instructions in the toilets for them.” This was true. Every toilet in Kolovesi had an illustration with Russian-language text explaining that toilet rings were not for standing on.
“Now it’s the Germans,” he ranted, releasing three staccato farts. “They’re everywhere. I bet you saw some on the water today.” This was true, as well. We’d seen a German at the Kirkkoranta put-in who had canoed a week in his handmade cedar-strip canoe. This kind of canoeist, the one who builds his own boat, exists on a higher plane of humanity and, is worthy of adulation. “I bet you saw that family!” I wondered what Jussi had against families. It was true a German-speaking family had commandeered almost the entire Laajakaarre campground, including the public areas, leaving only one tent platform. Tina and I stopped to look but decided not to stay. We’d not come looking for a Swiss Family Robinson experience.
“Where are you from?” Jussi asked. I was tempted to answer Germany or Russia, but he probably wouldn’t have batted an eye. After all, this was a man with demonstrably few social reservations. Tina and I no longer looked at each other when he farted. In our campsite, it had suddenly become no more unusual than coughing.
“The US,” I answered.
“You’ve come a long way.”
“Indeed.” It was a lot farther than 20 kilometres. If this was a competition, then I was winning this part.
“Well,” Jussi said, “I’m going to turn in. I’m getting up early.” He stood and went to the water’s edge, where he arched his back dramatically with his hands on his hips.
“Do you think he’s going to urinate into the lake?” Tina whispered. Instead, Jussi bent down, quickly washed his dishes, and returned silently to his tent.
The cave paintings at Ukonvuori
We were on the water the next day before Jussi was out of bed. Tina and I were bound for the cave paintings at Ukonvuori, a 5,000-year-old pictograph from the early Pit-Comb Ware culture. We’d only been able to find a poor-quality, downloadable map of Kolovesi National Park, so we weren’t sure exactly how far away it was. But the weather was nice, and many day trippers were in the park. After an hour of paddling, we could see they were all converging on Ukonvuori.
Just like Jussi predicted, the place was full of Germans. We could hear them before we saw them. We secured our canoe to a tree and headed up the cliff face, where we encountered a young German pair on the way down.
“Were they spectacular?”
“I’m not sure we saw them,” the girl answered. “You have to use your imagination.” Tina and I hiked the rest of the way up and stood on an observation platform, squinting.
“Do you see them?”
“I’m not sure,” she answered. “It kind of looks like someone rubbed berry juice on that rock.”Of course, the cave paintings were unremarkable. Any human creation would pale before the nature of Karelia, the cliffs of granite and gneiss, the forests of pine and birch, the water that is clean enough to drink. Were the cave paintings perhaps proof that the people of 3,000 years ago were every bit as desperate to make their presence known as modern man? Perhaps their juvenile delinquents tagged quartz mines, while ours tag concrete bridges. The insatiable human desire to say I was here.
Perhaps we, as humans, had not really evolved. Here we were, paddlers, the most evolved of all 21st-century humankind, dividing ourselves into nation-states when we are all, in fact, members of an elite tribe. (Kayakers a lesser tribe, of course.)
Kalevi the SUP rider
If canoeists are the highest form of paddler and kayakers the next, then SUP riders occupy a position that is even beneath the inflatable pool raft. Kalevi was a SUP rider, and he arrived in Lapinniemi with his gear in black garbage bags lashed fore and aft. He’d strapped three long sticks on his gunwales if SUPs can have them.
Having such a low opinion of SUP riders – a hipster hobby if there ever was one – he caught me off guard. Anyone willing to paddle ten kilometres in (or rather on) one of the slowest watercraft ever invented could not, at heart, be a bad person. Tina and I had passed him earlier in the day near Kirkkoranta, where he was chugging along like the Little Engine That Could, heading toward some unknown destination. Which turned out to be our camp.
I knew his name not because it was painted in large print on his board for all to see but because it was written discreetly on his paddle, which I noticed when he asked my assistance in lifting his laden board from the water. He thanked me for my help and then went about unpacking the 50-gallon bags strapped to his board. He pitched his tent and looked for the firepit without inquiring about our sleeping habits. It was nowhere to be found.
“I think they removed it from this campsite,” I offered. “There’s a sign on the woodshed about a lack of resources.” I offered him the use of my camping stove and gas, explaining that any man who’ll paddle a fully loaded SUP ten kilometres to this campsite is a friend of mine.
Kalevi scratched his beard. “For me, the wood fire was the most important part of the experience. I may have to go elsewhere.” The three wood sticks lashed to his board formed a tripod for cooking.
“Where elsewhere?” I asked. He named a campsite at least eight kilometres away.
Kalevi pondered his situation only a few minutes before he struck his tent. It took him a good half hour to refill his garbage bags and lash them to his board. It was already eight in the evening. The sun would set long before he arrived at camp.
Uncompromising individuals
But in that half hour, my faith in humanity was restored. While my opinion of SUP riders did not change, I was pleased to know that some, like Kalevi, are out there, uncompromising individuals who will go to any lengths for the experience they seek. I knew that Kalevi would never make a cave painting. He was far too self-assured to require it.
Tina and I brought our chairs to the water’s edge as Kalevi shoved off, wishing him luck. As he exited the bay with the sun behind him, he raised his paddle in salute. We raised our arms in reply. A breeze rustled the pines in camp, and I took note that, fittingly, the wind would be at Kalevi’s back.
