A Place Called Home

Gone Ricin’

            “What do you think?”

            “Bear to the right. It’s thicker there.”

            I ease the paddle into the water and the canoe glides to the right. Another stroke and the skreaking begins; the unforgettable sound of wild rice stalks scraping against the aluminum hull of the canoe.

            My wife, Claire, sitting before me and half-hidden beneath a floppy straw hat, reaches out with her right hand, in which she holds a feather-light cedar stick. She pulls a sheaf of stalks toward the canoe, bends it gently over the gunwale, and taps it with the stick in her other hand. A shower of rice kernels spatters into the canoe. She releases the stalks and they spring back upright, some of them still festooned with rice that’s not quite ripe. Harvesting wild rice is a delicate business. If you’re patient, there’ll be more to get another day.

            We work our way through the green-gold forest, the top of which stands a yard or more above the canoe. Sunshine spangles the occasional patch of open water. Sora rails spring skyward ahead of us, launching themselves like little helicopters, their tiny legs hanging rearward as they fly. We hear the sudden whop-whop-whop of wood ducks taking flight and watch as they arrow ahead a few hundred yards and then settle back on the water.

            A trickle of sweat worms its way down my back as I switch the paddle from one side to the other. We’re into the rhythm now, rice sticks swinging from right to left, right to left, then left to right, left to right. I propel us forward at a steady crawl. Out here on the rice bog, patience pays.

            A frog dives off its lily-pad raft, perturbed by our intrusion. Spiders fall through the golden air and land on the growing cushion of rice on the floor of the canoe. A thousand little flea-like bugs do acrobatics above the mound of rice. I close my eyes and savor the sounds; the skreak of stalks, the patter of rice, the clack of sticks, the burble of water against the hull.

            The sun beats down upon our necks. When we come to an open patch of water, we rest. Claire leans to the side so I can see our haul. The mound of rice looks fuzzy, in need of a shave. She plucks a kernel from the pile and shows me the hair that protrudes from one end. The jiggle of movement has tipped the hairs upright, causing a beard to form.

            Later, heading back toward shore through lengthening shadows, we marvel together at the way the blues and pinks of the sky merge with the surface of the lake. If it’s true that the word “Minnesota” means the land of sky-tinted waters, our state has been aptly named. Nowhere is this clearer than on a wild rice pond.

            By the time we beach the canoe, we’ve had enough for one day. We transfer our harvest onto a blanket, ball it up, and hoist it into the trunk of the car. A skein of mallards winds above the far shore, outlined against the setting sun. The air is already cooler and gives promise of a pleasant night’s sleep. We stuff the paddles and rice sticks under the thwarts, push the cushions under the seat, and turn the canoe upside down.

            “Glad we came?” I ask, as we walk back to the car.

            Claire smiles. “You betcha.”