…is the rubber band. In 1820, in England, Stephen Perry received the first patent to make rubber bands. Defined as a thin circular piece of rubber made elastic and flexible by heating the rubber with sulphur, or vulcanizing, the elastic band is now as un-sung as Stephen Perry. There is no biography of him, not even a photograph. The largest customer for rubber bands is the United States Postal Service, on average, using 1.2 billion rubber bands a year, or roughly 65 miles of material. In comparison, my uses are more modest.
I need organizing. A constant concern on canoe trips are small items to keep dry. A plastic bag to make watertight, clothes to make compact, fishing line to keep from unraveling, marlin to keep coiled. By twisting the neck of a plastic bag tight, then looping it on itself, and securing the twisted loop with a rubber band keeps water out. Make two loops, and it’s twice as safe. Instead of struggling with unruly tent poles, a rubber band keeps them bundled. Instead of marlin, I tie the extra paddle and fishing rod into the canoe with a rubber band. When needed, a tug on the rubber band snaps it easily. I was introduced to rubber bands by Jim Able when we met on the Back River in the 1990s. I asked him why all the rubber bands on his wrist? Did he have that much to remember? He laughed, and showed me, including how a band around your shirt cuffs, and one around your ankles, over your pants, keep black flies from crawling up your arms or legs. I’ve never traveled without them since.
I first used a rubber band (and clothes pins) to hold the playing card on my bike wheel where the stiff card ran across the spokes to make a satisfying sound. There were the battles using rubber bands as paperclip launchers. Today, I see myself as the metaphor of a rubber band, often expressing an intention involving a better version of myself: not to eat sugar, not to drink as much, to loose weight, be more compassionate. I stretch toward my intention only to find, after awhile, I snap back into indulgence, and judgement, saying, ‘I’m only human.’ There used to be my body’s snap back after wild nights that doesn’t snap back as fast these days.
When I first paddled here, I traveled like a bullet. I thought nothing of 20 mile days. It felt good. I wonder now what I missed. Occasionally, I’ve met canoeists on the upper third of the Back. I often suggest going slowly: to savor the upper river that is more intimate than the larger, wider, rougher lower half. A good trip length is to reach the abandoned Buliard cabin on its esker island on Upper Garry Lake. When I suggest slowing down, I see their eyes roll inward to calculate their schedule versus what I suggest. They often look at their watches (I don’t know what a watch has to offer) and then they mumble about keeping to the schedule. After all, it’s a short season. The weather changes in mid-August and the first winter gales could begin as early as mid-September. After all, we’re only human.
