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Recollections of Mini Yo We



Traces of Mini Yo We hang

And drag behind me

Wood smoke nostalgia

Tantalizing my sense of well

When I slow enough to

Smell and remember free

From urgent winds that brook

No such indignities



Haliburton skies at night

So clear, to this day I’ve never again

Sailed vicariously upon a Milky Way

Able to pinpoint satellites

And hear the rustle of Canadian

Whispers in pine birch and hemlock

… swish, eh?



A slide down rock face so straight and shiny

The need for speed has remained tied among

Other memorabilia, wrapped around the mirth

Of the ungodly squeal caused when drying off

The bottom of that northern mammoth slide

As some unsuspecting friend discovered the

Real meaning of friction and the value of

Canvass swim trunks to cover your assets.



The canoe trips; one week of preparation

And then a glorious week following the still moist trails

Of Metis, voyageur d’bois and Lewis and Clark and any

Others you’d care to remember.  To paddle down river and

Across lake; to revel when the wind set just right would allow

A makeshift sail of paddles and ground sheets and that

Feeling of having conquered nature while a twinge of guilt

Coursed through for not having actually paddled as we ought



Lessons in nature, not always pleasant, but necessary as the

Need for toilet paper brought skills in identifying flora and

Foliage and the danger of a rash mistake was never more real.

Chuckling while one brave soul went back in the bush with spade

“Digging for wood elves.”  Luxuriating in the identification of that

Most perfect tree remnant with a perfect indentation known as the

Dump Stump, a universally revered and enjoyed commodity.



Dehydrated trail food, reflection ovens and other such luxuries

Wracked havoc on digestion, providing ample use for that wonderful

Soft corncob dragged behind a racing canoe.  Who knew there were

Fish reporters?  To this day I believe that carp caught on that most

Unconventional tackle and unlikely bait was routing for a story.



Before the days of sunscreen, to discover why water sprinkled on

Hot skin may work in the short term but there’s a price to pay.

A night in hell correspondingly hot and cold to awake to blisters,

Fever and the need for friends to carry pack and canoe as I

Sought simply to survive, or so it felt in those halcyon days past.



To learn what friendship is.  The pulling of a paddle, portages with contest

After to see who had the most mosquito bites.   I “won” once with forty-seven,

Take that, Red Cross.  To this day I remember the names Andy, Louis, David, Greg

And do it without the struggle to remember the names of some I may have just met.

Visions of pulling up at a dock and hitting the water with paddles while

Chanting “Go Leafs Go” until the marvelous revelation of that most wonderful

Of Canadiana, a retired Hockey Player and knowing no other group could

Be happier than we were then talking with a living legend, George Armstrong of the Leafs.



Memories that grow in the telling,

Reflected in lines spilling over

Stretching and taking on life

Of their own.



My memories

And no one else’s.



©  2000 Bart Breen