Country Views - Secrets of the rock painters

By Tim King

Long ago, on warm August Sunday afternoons, we would tie the canoe to the top of the tan Volkswagen. Then we would drive around Shagawa Lake and go west down the Echo Trail.

It was quiet when we turned off the car engine and stood under the tall Norway Pines at the beginning of the trail to Hegman Lake. There may have been one other vehicle in the tiny parking area but its owner had already been absorbed into the forest’s vast green warmth.

There were no blueberries on that trail but under the great limbs of the pines, nestled in a soft brown bed of needles, were sometimes a few Wintergreen. The shiny dark leaves of this tiny evergreen hugged the pine needled surface. Secretly, under the leaves, might be hidden two or three surprising red berries. You wondered if they were left over from Christmas, or if some of the red squirrels that populated the trail were planning an early celebration. Savored on the tip of the tongue, the berries had the refreshing flavor of . . . well . . . wintergreen.

But Wintergreen berries, with their snow white inside, were just one of our delights on those glorious Sundays. 

There are actually two Hegman Lakes—North and South. As I recall, the portage leading from the parking area to South Hegman starts off flat among the pines and then drops gently down through spruce and balsam. It’s not short nor is it long, just a pleasant walk through the forest, which does cross a rivulet that may muddy your boots. The South Hegman Lake trail is one of those that passes through the cool shadows of the forest and suddenly throws open its doors to the sparkling vista and warmth of the lake lapping at its shore.

The welcoming smile at the end of a portage should be enough beauty for one day and we do pause to bask in it. But we are greedy and slip the canoe, with wooden paddles, into the water.

Canoes and still water are made for each other and they fuse in a way that allows the canoe to slide silently across the surface while leaving a conservative wake that dissipates noiselessly. The secret to that fusion is silent but firmly applied paddles. In unison, the bow and stern paddlers slip the tip of their paddles into the water and apply forward force. There is a slight pause, allowing the stern paddler to make subtle directional adjustments. Then, feathering their paddles horizontally as they break the water’s surface at the end of  their back stroke, the two paddlers return their paddles to the beginning of the forward stroke.

Feathering is the key to paddling silently and effortlessly. As you finish your back stroke, turn the edge of your paddle skyward so that the edge, not the wide part of the blade, emerges silently from the water. As your paddle edge slips out of the water, turn it horizontal and keep it close to the water’s surface so there is no splash, not even the sound of water dripping from the blade.

A bow and stern paddler in unison like this is a beautiful dance, a ballet as old as canoes and paddles themselves.

I like to imagine the rock painters of North Hegman sliding across the water like this with the wake of their canoe spreading out into calm water and dissipating hundreds of years ago. As the bow paddler dips the blade into the water and then pulls hard, down and back, the canoe lifts up like it wants to leave the water. Dip, down and back, feather, out of the water, pause to make slight directional adjustments, dip . . . and repeat.

Who are these two paddlers with the muscular backs that give their canoe wings as they veritably fly toward the high granite cliff hanging out into the water on the west side of the lake? Are they women or men? Where have they come from? What do the mysterious paintings tell us?

Perhaps there are actually three canoes, not one. That’s what somebody painted, along with a moose and a dog-like creature, on the rock long ago.

The paintings have lasted all these years because they are on a sheer rock cliff that hangs over, and into, 20 feet of water. They are protected from rain and direct sun light. The gallery site was well chosen.

When we paddle up to the vast wall looming over us, the paintings are just above our heads. Water laps gently against the rock as it has for thousands of years. Our canoe rises and falls with the gentle Sunday afternoon surf. We wonder, lazily, why the rock doesn’t fall. Who put their art and story on the wall?

But we are not allowed to relax for long. There are giant fishing spiders crawling on the rock’s face. Perhaps they keep the secrets of the rock painters. We choose to leave, rather than ask.