A river runs past it.

We’ve been down the river lots, but only in the winter by dogsled.  Until last weekend, we had never tried to explore it in any other season.  Almost a month and a half ago, I bought a canoe: it’s a nicely cared for, seldom used, fifteen-and-a-half foot long, fiberglass  Abitibi.  There was some spare time last weekend, so we decided to pile into the newly aquired boat and see what the river had to offer. 

Jenn carried the paddles and lifejackets, I carried the canoe and Hunter, who was in charge of the food for the trip, carried the bag of three marshmallows.  We were set.  We struck out across our lower field, all acre and a half of it, toward the trail and the river.   It seemed sort of strange, carrying that canoe over a meadow and it made me wonder if it wasn’t something like this that prompted the Voyageurs come up with the name Portage La Prarie: “Tabernac!  We’ve run out of water!”

“Uh, the river’s over this way.  I think.”  Curse those Voyageurs and their jaunty touques.

The chicken pock princess, clutching what amounted to our entire food ration for the whole trip. 

Before I get too carried away, I should mention that Hunter was in the midst of a wicked case of Chicken Pox.  She’d been sent home from school that day – her last day – and was told that we wouldn’t be able to go visit her grandparents, either, a trip she was really looking forward to.  Through it all, Hunter was doing a great job of not scratching – and I don’t know how she has managed - even though she was pretty itchy.  Bearing in mind the Chicken Pox, I will continue:

We got to the trail that leads to the river.  I had made the trail two winters ago and it was only meant to get the dogteam to the river.  It was not meant to be used as a summer trail so to say it was overgrown is putting things mildly.  Jenn was kind enough to walk ahead of me and break a trail that I could follow, my vision being somewhat restricted by the canoe over my head.

It was a real jungle in there.  We nearly lost the kid.

It is not an overly long trail; perhaps seventy feet to the river but for some reason, I swung out and passed Jenn and Hunter.  I was busy wading through chest-high vegetation in my shorts and sandals – something I never do, preferring instead to wear pants in the bush – and I noticed that Jenn and Hunter had fallen behind.  I also, at this point, noticed an incredible burning on my legs.  Serious burning.  A ”cut them off, I don’t need them” burning.  I look around and see that I am standing in a waist-high patch of stinging nettle.  I have just walked through three or four similar patches.  “Don’t come this way!” I call back to Jenn.  “It’s full of stinging nettle!” 

“Oh.  Is that what that is?” she calls back.  “Hunter’s just walked through some.”

Putting the canoe down feet from the river, I walk back through the nettle to Jenn and Hunter.   We make our way back to the house to wash off the nettle and its little bristles with soap and water.  Walking back to the house, it felt like my legs were engulfed in a forest fire.   Welts and hives arose like those bubbles that grow and pop in hot magma – if Hollywood is to be believed.  Hunter never said a word.

Washed off and determined, I decided I’d fix those nettles.  I’d show ‘em.  I brought down my brush saw, revved it up and started in.  Now, here, gentle reader, you may be inclined to get ahead of me; you may think you see the path this story is taking but you’d be wrong.  I did wear pants and boots while working the brush saw and I did slow down when I came to the nettle patches because I have run a brush saw, line trimmer and all manner of vegetation controlling equipment enough to know that debris can fly and hit the operator.   So, in this instance, I was smart.

With the path neatly brushed out, we climbed into the canoe and pushed off.  We headed up river, since we’ve already explored down river and paddled as as best we could against the current in the shallow water.  The shallow water made it difficult to paddle over the little dams made by hung-up tree branches that would get caught on the sandbars and submerged rocks so we had to wade the canoe over some of these obstructions.  Although we didn’t see any animals, we saw lots of animal tracks where they’d come to the water to drink and catch frogs and crayfish. 

Paddling under the CNR Bridge just beyond our property line.

Our upstream trip was soon blocked by what must be a pretty impressive set of rapids in the spring when the water is high: a sloping grade of medium-sized boulders and water cascading down and around them and falling into the pool below.  We pulled our canoe up onto the rocks and picked our way over them for a ways before deciding that we should come back with a rope for the canoe so that we could line our boat up the narrow channels of water, the rocks being too far apart to jump from one to the other with a canoe on one’s head.

Hunter stands on the rocks.  Imagine what this must look like during the spring melt.

After exploring the rocks a bit more, we re-launched the canoe and headed back down the river, and back to the house.

In a lot of fishing books, they say that fish like bass live in ‘tea-stained water’.  This is more like ‘tea that has sat in the pot for weeks stained’ water and the river hid its own collection of miscellanies, but most incongruous was this bike that Jenn captured.   Caked with mud that the sun has dried and bleached, it looked like a skeleton emerging from the river bank.

Even more kids.

“Hey.  What’s going on in there?”  Lisa looks in at the activity in the barn.

The other day, as I was settling into one of my many projects, Jenn came up from the goat pen at a fast jog.  Nutmeg, our other female goat, had just kidded an hour or so earlier: “Everything all right?” I asked. 

“No.” Jenn said breathlessly, running past me and into the house.  ”She’s having trouble with a second one.”

“Do you need my help?” I offered, in that way that people do when they are certain the answer will be “no.”

“Yes.” Jenn said, disappearing into the house. 

Not knowing what to expect, but also having some idea of what I might be in for, I went in the house and washed my hands.  Hands dry, I dashed out of the house and headed toward the goat pen.  Jenn had beat me there so when I arrived it was to the sight of her up to her forearm in goat:

“I have to push his head back in – his legs are stuck!”  she offered by way of explanation.  Then, looking off into the middle distance as though picturing what she could not see, she tried to find the little buckling’s legs.  “I’ve got one!” she said.  A few more seconds of searching  ”And… there’s… the… other one!”   Both legs were now outside of Nutmeg, along with the head which was making its second appearance of the morning.  Jenn helped Nutmeg with the rest of the delivery, cleaned off the little gaffer and made sure he was nursing properly, which he wasn’t.

And it is thus that Swirly – yeah, that’s right: “Swirly” – entered the world.  He’s just now, two days later, figured out how to nurse from Nutmeg.  Up until now we’ve been feeding him with a syringe.

Jenn and Nutmeg caring for a seconds old billygoat.

Nutmeg has been slow to recover – it’s likely that she has a septic uterus now because of the difficult delivery and some retained afterbirth.   Her temperature rose two degrees overnight, which for a goat is apparently significant.  Today we had no choice but to medicate her.  But with what?  We don’t have anything here and a vet call to the house would be astronomically expensive, being a Sunday and all.  So, Jenn did the next best thing: she called a lady who was selling goats in the local Bargain Hunter magazine.  She was very kind and gave Jenn not only some good advice but sold us a shot that would help Nutmeg out until the vet can come to the house tomorrow.  I went and picked up the medication – Liquimycin – and the needle and syringe.  After having the shot, Nutmeg began to perk up a bit, so things look promising.  Perhaps all she’ll need now is a uterine flush.

Hunter was able to name the babies again.  This here is the little female, now known as ‘Locks’.  When we suggested to Hunter that maybe ‘Goldilocks’ was a bit far fetched (being that there is no yellow, much less gold, on the baby) she conceded to clip the name to a more generic one.  

Nutmeg, Locks and Swirly.

Gaa-aah! More kids!

There isn’t much to say about these newest additons, because I wasn’t there when they arrived so, it’s just pictures for now.

Hunter has named this one Maxwell, which, for Hunter, is a surprisingly good name.  No more Bedtime Story, Triangle, or Princess Milkshake for us! 

This one is Gilbert, with Mom Lisa in the background.

Again, Gilbert.  Who knows where Hunter got the names.