Spring Rafting

It has been a while since I have posted a story. Here is another adventure I had as little boy growing up in the Prairies.

One of the best spots was directly on our shortcut to school, due west from our house. We almost always took this route to school as it was direct and quick, across the street, through Barrand’s yard, across the back alley, through Greeve’s property and over their driveway and only one block further, across the empty field. Another great spot was about a block west of my Dad’s grocery store, although it was too visible, and a chance encounter with my Mom was highly probable as she traversed this route routinely on her way to Main Street. And then there was the location next to Butch Dueck’s yard, which was by far the most dangerous and therefore the most exciting and most appealing.
Spring rafting was one of those activities that would never be allowed in today’s world. Certainly parents would ban it, but I am sure there would be municipal, provincial, and federal regulations making it a forbidden sport.
There was a small window of opportunity for rafting every spring, just after the last bank of snow melted and the spring rains were willingly finding the lowest land in town. Being a flat prairie town, the low spots were few and far between, but gravity and the undulations of the prairie did provide for sloughs in the wet years. During my time in Lanigan, there were several very good years for rafting and certainly the memories those times provided were some of the best and scariest.
All three locations were vacant city blocks. The land being too wet for housing, would grow bulrushes and willow trees and was generally good for little else. In the tall grass and reeds beside the roads that surrounded these properties, were well hidden structures made of logs, planks, 2x4’s, and other assorted floating materials. As the years went by and generations of kids recycled these mini arks, they fell further and further into disrepair. Most of the heavy tree branches were recruited for shoring up the platforms and it was often difficult to find a branch long and strong enough to serve as a push pole. It was Saskatchewan, and trees were a rare commodity, especially the ones that had long durable branches.
Spring runoff was a very exciting time of year as it heralded the end of the long bleak winter. There was a smell in the air of new growth and promises of warm weather and summer holidays around the corner. We would test the water content under the shrinking snow drifts that always grew particularly large in the depressions of the land. Each day held a little more promise, and as soon we dared we let our foot go through to the bottom and our boot would fill with water for a certainty. And that was cold water, with semi melted chunks of snow still floating on its surface.
The day would soon come when some brave soul would test the depth and announce that it was indeed deep enough, and then rush off home, with squishing watery sounds coming out of his boots, before hypothermia could set in. The exact location of the raft had to be determined before the water got too deep or it may be stranded where nobody could reach it. If the previous year had been particularly wet and the water deep and widespread, the raft would have beached on the outer reaches of the property and would have to be physically manhandled toward the water. This was almost impossible for us small children because of the shear weight of a bunch of water logged timbers strapped together. Usually the water level would eventually reach the raft and with only a few heaves and grunts the contraption would be pushed to where it would float.
The bigger kids always got the first rides. It was the pecking order. Besides, if the raft held them, it would hold the smaller ones too. Except that there was usually more than one kid on at a time, and that contributed greatly to the instability and the danger. That in turn increased the chance of a dunking, which if in deep water, could result in a drowning or at best a bad cold verging on pneumonia.
And so it was that eventually we were rafting part ways to school. There were usually several rafts on each slough and that meant there was almost always one for coming and one for going. If not, we did the usual walk around the block. There were challenges, however. We were in our ‘school clothes’ and we sometimes had books to carry. The boots were not a problem because we wore boots all spring, regardless. There were no sidewalks or paved roads so there was mud everywhere and boots were the standard for adults and children alike. Getting on and off the raft usually required a leap because the raft was grounded, but on a gentle slope so there was water between the dry land and the wooden platform. The leap was onto a very small, very wet, very slippery landing pad and one had to be careful not to slip off the far end into deep water. The books made it even more difficult. If there was a chance we would be late for school, there would be multiple passengers, making the voyage quite precarious. There was always a lot of pushing and shoving to get to the raft and later on the raft. These water craft were very unstable and an unbalanced load would make them slowly sink down on one end, making it imperative that somebody be shoved very quickly to the end rising above the water. It always made for an exciting trip to and from school and usually a story to tell our farmer friends who only had a bus ride into town that morning.
As exciting as that was for us boys, the best was always saved for Saturdays. I had many chores and responsibilities on Saturdays, but there was usually opportunity sometime during the day to have an adrenaline induced rush at the deepest slough in town. Not only was it the deepest, but there was some bush undercover, and an adjoining pit that was full of water all year long.
This was the scary end of town for me. The people who lived here were on the wild side, except for Butch and his family. There was Jimmy Schmidt, the alcoholic teenager, and the Vernard family, who nobody knew or hardly ever saw, and Jim Hill whose dad was my hockey coach but there never seemed to be a mom around anywhere. But the scariest family was the Hunt clan who lived within sight of the deep water that drew us kids like a magnet. Dennis was a year or two older than me but had already lived a lifetime. He rarely showed up for school, always had money, and his aunt lived with him and his dad. At least I think it was his aunt. She was an epileptic and I remember seeing her have a seizure in my Dad’s store one day. It was one of the most frightening things I had seen until that time and I remember thinking she would die right there in front of me. It took an hour to clean up the chocolate bars scattered all over the floor as a result of her thrashing. After a while, she recovered and headed out of the store, back to her home, forgetting her groceries in a brown paper bag beside the door. She had some really bad burns on her hands and face, the result of a seizure at home, happening a little too close to the wood stove.
Jimmy and Dennis were friends in a loose sort of way. They enjoyed guns and knives a little too much and it was scary being anywhere near them when they were in the mood for fun. One afternoon, Butch and I were pulling his little red wagon to the well to get drinking water for his mom when we heard hysterical laughter coming from Jimmy’s yard. As we passed the front of the house, we saw what the cause of all the gaiety was. Jimmy and Dennis were standing 50 ft. apart, taking turns shooting each other with a BB gun. The biggest round of laughter came when Jimmy’s front tooth came flying out of his mouth. Moments later, Dennis lifted his shirt and had to dig a BB out of his skin from just beside his belly button, with the hunting knife he always had tucked in his belt. We just could not bring ourselves to stay for any more of the fun and games and headed for the well at a brisk trot. I knew they were crazy and it was confirmed when Butch told me about the night his Dad was out to walk the dog and Jimmy shot at him and his dog with a .303 from out his upstairs bedroom window. We pushed the little red wagon the long way home that day.
The big deep water by the Hunt house was always off limits when Dennis was anywhere nearby, but there were a few occasions when the coast was clear and we got to experience the most dangerous place in town. I had a very healthy respect for water, indeed, a fear of it. The best rafts in town were in the deepest waters and if you knew where to look, you could actually find a push pole long enough to reach the bottom, that is, the bottom in most parts of the swamp. I had a fear of getting in so deep that my pole would not reach the bottom and I would have no way of getting back to shore. There was a back up plan and that was to tear off a plank from the raft and use it as a paddle. The trouble with that plan was that the planks were usually nailed on with spikes and were impossible to budge.
I had a bad feeling from the start, partly because I knew that if my Mom had any idea where I was and what I was doing, she would ground me for most of the rest of my childhood. If we stayed in the deepest part of the slough where the trees were, Butch’s Mom would not see us out of her kitchen window and we would be just fine. We did not have much time so we decided that we would get on the raft together instead of taking turns. I got on first, without incident, and then Butch jumped on. But the combined weight settled the raft down on the reedy bank and we were stuck. He jumped back off and after pushing me out a little way, he made a leap for the raft. He miscalculated and hit the edge, not only shoving the raft farther out, but he never gained a footing and went straight into the water. He floundered and I panicked. I pushed my pole down to get back to shore to help him, but the pole just went down, down and did not touch. With cries of “help” at my back, I got on my knees and reached down as far as I could to get a purchase on the bottom so I could shove the raft back. With my hand down in the water, I managed to touch bottom and with all my strength, pushed. Imperceptibly at first, the raft leisurely made its way back in the direction it had come. If not from the cold, then from sheer terror, Butch lunged for the raft and hung on as if his life depended on it. And it did. I would have preferred that he lunged toward shore, but this was not the time for that particular discussion. His body was between the raft and dear sweet land, and that was a dilemma. Now that we were both thoroughly panicked, I simply followed my instincts and jumped in, grabbed Butch, and together we waded to shore. The cold was numbing and almost instantly I lost feeling in my feet and legs. I was only wet to my waist but Butch was soaked from his brush cut to his gum boots.
We struggled to a dry spot and sat in the grass and emptied our boots. It was a sunny day, but early in spring, when there was still a chill in the air, and I knew we had to get to shelter soon. I eyed the Hunt house, only a hundred yards away, probably with the cook stove stoked and burning, but, on the other hand, Aunt Esther might be on the stove burning too. That, plus the prospect of Dennis taking aim at us with his BB gun, drove me in the other direction, straight to Butch’s house and sure trouble, but of a lesser variety. We made it and had a laugh after, but only because his Mom was not home and we had a chance to dry off almost completely.
Conversation at the supper table that evening was routine. Naturally, I did not let on about my adventure. I wanted to tell someone, but I would have to be satisfied that only Butch and I knew. I was thinking about the danger I had put myself in and how lucky I had been that it turned out OK. Then my Dad mentioned that he had heard that Dennis Hunt was in the hospital in Regina. He had got himself into a knife fight and was hurt quite badly. It made my little bit of danger seem like child’s play. We never did see Dennis after that, but regardless, I stayed away from the deep water at the Hunt house.