Pot-Hole Gorge

March 25 2015

In whitewater
where we stopped to play.

Where the river quickens

and walls of rock pinch in.

Where the sound of falling water

is ominous, and loud,

but also oddly comforting.

Where we watched from the eddy
as friends ferried and swerved
shredded and surfed
endered on standing waves.
Spun, like window-shades
barely catching a breath,

danced on the edge of control.
Or were sucked into holes

and wrecked.

Legs wedged
in impervious skirts
in sturdy plastic boats.
That look like colourful toys,
bobbing about in the sparkling surf
topsy-turvy, and rolled.

On shore
deep pot-holes have worn
in the ancient rock.
Through countless millennia
of turbulent water
freeze and thaw,
the action of hard smooth stones
caught
in a small depression.
An immensity of time

the constancy of rock
we cannot comprehend.

Our daring play, and festive boats
are nothing, compared to this.
A mere blink, in geological time,
when we presume to rule the world
claim this place as ours.

Rivers pulse,

settling, surging
running in random bursts.
So the pot-holes submerge, and swamp;
stagnant water
hot, in summer sun,
cloudy, and algae-filled.
Or after a downpour
warming pools.

We'd never have noticed
if we hadn't stopped
to play.
All day, at the pot-hole gorge
we knew each rock and ledge
hole, and eddy
crest, and trough.

Because you must stop
and play
and observe,
or the current will take you
eyes fixed downstream.
To the flat pool
where water barely moves.
The placid lake
too far from shore to see.


I spent many years as a dedicated whitewater kayaker. And only now just realized that I've never written about it. The pot-hole gorge was our go-to place: not too far; reliable flow, even in low water months; lots of features; and the safety of a big downstream pool.

All you need to know about this recreational sport is that the operative word is "play". Some people prefer descents; others racing. What we mostly did is called "rodeo": staying in one spot on the river, working out of eddies, and finding sanding waves and hydraulics to pull off (show off?) moves like surfing and endering and whatever other stunts we could come up with.

I focus on the pot-holes not only because they're a relatively unique geological feaure, but because they're all about observation, taking time, mindfulness. That is, I think I got as much enjoyment out of being in nature as I did from the actual activity: it was rejuvenating being in the water in warm summer sun out in the wilderness. (If only the best paddling wasn't in freezing early spring!) So I suppose this is essentially a "stop and smell the roses" poem, if not quite so clichéd.

And the final stanza also serves as a kind of metaphor for my approach to poetry: which is a celebration of the small things; a practice grounded in microcosm and close observation. The poem adjures you to stop/ and play/ and observe; to be present, instead of always having your eyes fixed downstream.

I love the language of whitewater kayaking. Even though specialized language can be an obstacle for readers, this stuff is intuitive and colourful: from dancing and shredding and enders, to window-shading and wrecking.

The actual river is called "Kaministiquia". Clearly, it would take a greater poet than me to shoehorn that into a poem! (Although we invariably call it "The Kam".) The pot-hole gorge is he best spot. Further downstream are the falls: a beautiful tourist attraction, but hardly a place for safe kayaking!