Paddler News Feed

 

•	Hotline
•	Paddle Tales

< November December 2006
	Paddle Tales
Setting Boundaries What Not to Bring on a Boundary Waters Canoe Trip Marit Alanen

I remember why I thought a cockatiel would make an engaging pet: I saw someone at college walking around with one on his shoulder, a well-behaved female bird that stayed where he wanted and didn’t cause too much fuss. Or at least so it seemed during the 10 minutes I talked to him. I was smitten immediately. Forget about getting a dog. I wanted a creature that could travel with me anywhere through thick and thin and poop on my shoulder—I wanted a cockatiel.

I hadn’t met the owners of Hungry Jack Outfitters, a canoe outfitter on the Boundary Waters Gunflint Trail. I’d had only brief phone conversations with them, and yet they hired me sight unseen. Dave and Nancy weren’t sure what to expect when I pulled up late one night, least of all a woman sporting a small tropical bird on her shoulder. I’m sure they began to second-guess their decision. It didn’t help matters when a week later I announced I was going to canoe to Duncan Lake, with Loki as my trusty companion.

The trip began well enough. Loki played with seeds in the bottom of the boat while I taught myself the J-stroke and cross-bow draw. Then, we reached the first portage. Apparently, I hadn’t fully fleshed out the “solo-canoe-trip-with-a-tropical-bird” plan, so I was baffled when faced with carrying a Duluth pack, canoe and bird. To complicate matters, I couldn’t shoulder the canoe while holding the bird in one hand, and I couldn’t put him on my shoulder since that’s where my gear would be landing. After various trials of bird/pack/canoe combinations, I resigned myself to carrying the pack and canoe separately, with Loki perched smugly on my hand.

By the time Loki and I were loaded up on the other side of the portage, other wilderness travelers—sans tropical birds—were sneaking glances my way, all keeping a respectful distance around the “Crazy Bird Lady” (a title that haunted me the rest of the summer and beyond). For my part, I pretended it was completely natural to bring a cockatiel on a canoe trip. I saw lots of birds in the woods, what difference did it make if one of them was brightly colored and pooping on my shoulder?

Another portage later, Loki and I set up camp on Duncan Lake. After an evening stroll to a waterfall, we ate dinner and got ready for bed. This is when I realized the next challenge: I’d brought a box for Loki to sleep in, but hadn’t accounted for his tail. When he loudly complained about his quarters, the only option was to let him sleep outside of the box, which meant perched on my head. I’d doze off and roll over, and Loki would startle me awake by walking over my face and squawking.

After exactly 2 minutes and 32 seconds of sleep, I woke up refreshed and ready to start back. A nap minus a cockatiel on my head was calling. But as I pushed off, I noticed it was no longer the beautiful early summer day it was when I left. I made it only a few yards before the skies opened. In a frenzy, I threw Loki underneath my seat and paddled toward the portage.

I must have heard his plaintive squawk, but I paddled farther before checking on him. I looked under the seat. I looked around the Duluth pack. I even looked in the front of the boat to see if he was playing with his seeds. It wasn’t until I couldn’t locate him in the canoe that I dared to look back at the water.

It’s fortunate most birds have hollow bones. If Loki had solid bones like a loon, he’d have sunk like a rock. Of course, if he’d been a loon, he’d have had no trouble swimming, but that’s beside the point. In any case, I suddenly found myself in the water, too, fully clothed, hiking-booted, raingear bedecked, with camera, keys, wallet and change in my pockets. I’m not sure why the idea of paddling backward didn’t occur to me—I just remember somehow getting to Loki and swimming to shore. I was soaked and sobbing that I’d killed my bird—and that I’d probably be next, as soon as the hypothermia set in. Visions of the funeral with a bird-sized coffin next to mine floated through my mind. Certain death was just around the corner, never mind that the sun was now peeking through the drizzle.

Obviously, we made it back. Drenched and be-snotted, with subdued wet cockatiel in hand, I arrived at Hungry Jack’s dock where Dave was there to greet me. Stories of the “Crazy Bird Lady” had already made it up and down the Gunflint Trail, during which Dave would turn away and mumble something about needing to patch tents or something. I hear Hungry Jack now has a no pet policy. None of any kind—especially cockatiels. —Marit Alanen