Seliga, splitting the water, slipping over its surface. Se-li-ga. Three syllables sliding off the tongue: Se—sibilant and schwa; Lee—light-hearted, quick, cascading into the primitive finale of Ga. That would be Joe Seliga, specifically, a maker of canoes—of craft—for the water.
A wood-canvas canoe, generically. The shape familiar: the sides rising from the water, seventeen feet long, tapering at the ends, a subtle arch from tip to tail. The inside surprises: With its glowing cedar planks and ribs, the wood-canvas canoe’s exposed skeleton distinguishes it from cheap variations. Fifty-four curved ribs set the form; then the planks, their grain running perpendicular to the ribs, solidify the hull. Outside of that, the taut canvas, painted smooth, makes it seaworthy. Perched above the hull are two seats of oak and cane, two mahogany thwarts, and a yoke, framed by gunwales of spruce and mahogany. Sleek and radiant, my Seliga.
As a girl barely old enough to babysit I set out for YMCA Camp Widjiwagan near the Boundary Waters, into the woods for a weeklong canoe trip. The well-mannered middle child of Southern parents, I knew guilt and care-taking well, so I quickly absorbed the camp’s doctrine: Canoe before self. Widjiwagan has more than a hundred wood-canvas canoes, and bears the responsibility for them proudly. Paddling these beautiful wood-canvas artifacts was a privilege, and we took great care never to allow their bellies to touch (let alone scrape) the unhallowed ground. Hands, fine. Water, perfect! But if contact with anything harder was imminent, we used our life jackets and even our bodies to intervene. Years later, in a mishap, I would throw myself under a falling canoe as a buffer—the lessons inculcated early on bearing plump, bruised fruit.
Despite the epiphany that my ribs might be more important than the canoe’s, my veneration for these vessels has gone far beyond the simple camp ethic. The wood-canvas canoe is so perfect because it is the blending of form and function, an embodiment of history and craftsmanship that is most beautiful when in use. Se—smooth on the water, a slender wake cascading from either side of the hull, straight in the wind, steadied by the keel. Lee—the wood gleaming, sunlight encapsulated, warm, rich, and earthy, sweeping me away from the busy world into serenity. Ga—merging with the environment, the happy juncture where sky settles into wood sitting on water, and myself, a part of it, embraced by its gentle rocking.
Joe Seliga is but one maker of these masterpieces. He spent more than sixty-five years building them in Ely, Minnesota, until his death last December. Now collectors’ items, they sold even before he died for thousands of dollars—a price I could never afford. But as an heir of the Widjiwagan tradition, I have access to their Seligas; so for a slip of time each summer, one becomes my own.
The wood-canvas canoe took shape in the 1700s when French fur traders used sailors’ materials to transform the Native Americans’ delicate birch bark vessels into sturdy war-horses of international trade. Until the 1960s, companies like Penobscot and Chestnut were manufacturing recreational wood-canvas canoes, but today they are always built by hand, primarily by individuals like Joe.
Other paddlers, tossing about their Kevlar We-no-nahs and hauling their Royalex Mad Rivers on land, scoff at my antiquated Seliga. They ask derisively why I paddle such a beast, and more to the point, why I portage it. Old and waterlogged, it easily weighs 120 pounds. These travelers, I see, are too lazy and ignorant to appreciate the splendor of my Seliga. In fact, I like it old and heavy, just to keep out their kind of riff-raff. I am content to leave them prancing about with their garish boats, far away from my loyal companion.
Because companionship is really what the wood-canvas canoe provides. Traveling with me, accompanying every paddle stroke, it supports me effortlessly and brings me joy. It tells its own stories: Here are the scratches from paddling the river in low water; these are the new gunwales, which had to be replaced after spending ten summers’ worth of nights on the wet ground. Unlike synthetic factory boats, wood-canvas canoes bear these scars proudly, a testament to the value of creating and tending equipment by hand. It may be heavy and out-of-date, but I know that before me and after me the wood-canvas canoe has and will endure, beautiful and familiar, a slim streak on the lake as it glides ever onward.
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