Paul Smit - Magazine Feature: Kayaking in the Land of the Stork

Witold has absolutely nothing to do with kayaking. Nevertheless, this jaunt through Masuria, the land of the 3300 lakes, starts with him. He is the lining of insanity that surrounds every trip to Poland. A silver lining, mind you, and the reason to make many more trips east.

Gdansk is one of the most beautiful cities in Poland. The tourist information office has just closed when we arrive for our one-night stopover. On the door a poster is affixed, warning against people on the street recommending accommodations.

"Gutenabend!" we hear behind us, "I bet you are looking for a room." A man in an ill-fitting suit looks at us belligerently. "I have one to rent, several even, but only one is still available." He introduces himself as Witold. Our eyes nervously go from him to the poster. He takes a ring binder from his worn-out shoulder bag and opens it to a picture of a house that shows virtually nothing. Then he reads us a letter from a very satisfied customer. "We'd rather look around a bit more," I say. "Don't take too long, there's competition," he responds. With mounting amazement, we watch him wait until two backpackers have read the warning poster before approaching them. "Can you believe that?" he asks of us, as the two suspiciously move away from him, "A beautiful room, dirt cheap by western standards, and probably the last one available tonight!" His eyes don't look the least disappointed, sooner taunting. "Come, I will walk with you to where your car was."

"WAS?"

"Ah, I can tell you do not know Gdansk well. A beautiful city, by all accounts, but a car full of luggage will disappear in fifteen minutes. Russian Mafia you know, and the Poles are quite helpful." Quickly we walk back. Witold sees our relief at sighting the car. "That white one there? You are lucky! I will take you to my house, where you can park your car safely, even with all the stuff in it."

Travel buddy Mick, half Polish by birth, sees my growing distrust and whispers, "Don't worry, this is a typical Polish character like I've been telling you about, there's no harm in it." His fascination for the man wins over my suspicions. Besides, we want to still go out in Gdansk this evening.

We enter his house. A guy in a shiny gym suit looks us over. "My son, nice guy! He works at a car junkyard." He shows us the room. Actually very neat, good beds. We agree to it.

Before we leave for town, Witold approaches us again. "Are you leaving the car here? No? Oh, then I will tell you exactly where to leave it, across the road from a friend of mine, he can keep an eye on it." I am burning with suspicion and feel like running away. Then he pulls out two free tram tickets for us. "I can tell, you don't like the thought of your car alone in the city. You know what, you can put it in the garage!" His son comes over and opens the garage door. Again we are about to leave when Witold asks, "Surely you're not going to take all that photography equipment with you? It is almost dark. You can leave it in the room, no worries. And put your wallet, credit card and passport under the mattress, just take the money you'll need this evening. There are so many pickpockets!"

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We get onto the tram with photography equipment and wallet. The scene is not set for a relaxed dinner and we are back early. I check out the garage immediately. The car is still there, not even the victim of a quick paint job. Witold welcomes us heartily. "Back already? I don't understand! Gdansk is such a happening city. But of course, with all that equipment you can't go dancing." His eyes are twinkling. In theory I should now want to throttle the man, but I am starting to like Witold. He just can't resist scaring the bejeesus out of the nervous, heavily packed holiday goers that visit his city. When we are leaving, after what became a successful two-day visit, Witold sees us off, "Watch out in Masuria, there are Russian markets all over in the east, and..." "Bye, Witold, it was memorable! We'll send you a nice letter for in your ring binder."

Titanic

The canoe rental man in Masuria is another typical Pole. Where a West European businessman would aim to please his clients, this one says, upon seeing all our luggage: "It's going to be the Titanic in miniature, you're going to sink like a brick!" "The bane of a photographer," I sigh. "Ah? Did you know they have Plexiglas cases nowadays? Good for underwater photography!" A heavily dented ramshackle bus of Russian make rides us from Kamien to Spychowo, five days upstream along the Krutynia river. The two kayaks bounce around in the luggage hold, prows sticking out the open door. Once on the water I am not surprised to feel some moisture. "Titanic, sure," I say to Mick, who shrugs.

Every lunch break becomes unavoidably protracted: the kayak has to be emptied and dried. This makes the trip along the Krutynia even more relaxed than it already is. This is the most beautiful river of Masuria, the land of 3300 lakes. It links a generous dozen of them together, mostly lying within protected landscape parks and two wild nature reserves. That is the most impressive part of our journey.

The kayaking is pleasant, also outside of the nature reserves where the Krutynia river meanders through the fields. Straight away, at the PTTK station of Spychowo, where we launch, the landscape looks like Norfolk fifty years ago. We can hear the clattering of stork beaks, and a moment later we see the nest, on the roof of a farm. We also come across storks in the damp meadows next to the river. In a woodsy stretch we see a kingfisher darting across the water. Water that is so clear that you can see the water plants on the riverbed and the fish between the reeds.

When we come to a former dam we have to carry the kayaks across. On the other side the water is higher. That can't be right: we were going down the Krutynia. This means either the sign at Spychowo was pointing in the wrong direction, or the abbreviation R didn't signify Ruciane-Nida, our final destination. Mick shrugs, with a look I have become familiar with now, 'this is Poland…' and back we go.

We reach the gorgeous Sdruznomeer, surrounded by forest, with an island in the middle. The sun is standing low, golden light sheers over the water, the temperature is summery; this is perfect for wild camping. The island has a fireplace but no camp site. On shore, thirty metres behind the reeds and between the trees, we find a spot with a view of the water. Soon the tent is up and two orange suns are shining on our prattling pot of ragout. What a spot!

The suns approach each on the lake's horizon and disappear. The idyll leaves with them: suddenly a cloud of mosquitoes rises. Quickly we get on long pants and sleeves, but it doesn't help. Into the tent it is, awning drawn shut. We spoon up our meal in the dark. Doing number one in the open air the next morning, usually a meditative moment with such a beautiful view, is no fun at all. The white flesh works like a red flag on the still present mosquitoes. What a spot!

As quick as we can, we throw the half-disassembled tent into the kayaks and race onto the lake. Not one mosquito to be found out here. The moral: do not camp wild in the forest, but on marked camp sites. These are in open spaces and mosquitoes don't like that.

A breeze plays across the lake. We experiment with what is faster, following the twisting banks, out of the wind, or going straight across the lake to the other side? The wind has more influence than the distance, and Mick makes it to the sklep, the shop, first. With our dark dinner of the other night in mind, he got some candles. Candles? Actually more like burnt down stumps and half a pack of tea lights. I expect Mick to shrug again - this is Poland - but this time it's a different tale. The shop did not sell candles, but the shop lady gave him her own personal stash. That too is Poland: amazing hospitality.

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We apply the stick-to-the-banks-out-of-the-wind technique again on an enormous lake, the Jezloro Mokre. Large bodies of water are the most beautiful along the edges in any case. You can sense your own movement, hear the birds rustle in the reeds, and beyond that we see a group of deer move between the trees on the hill, ignoring the bright orange tree trunks drifting by. This is where landscape park Mazurski Krajobrazowy begins, which has various designated spots for wild camping despite being a nature reserve.

When the lake leads us to the next river we are once again caught by the current and make our way to the first nature reserve inside the park. The next morning we decide to loop back over the same route, first against the current, which takes four times as long, then back again. Left and right, trees have fallen into the water and manoeuvring around them is an adventure in itself. The obstacles sometimes make the channel narrow and the current increases correspondingly. Another kingfisher appears. On the branch of a fallen tree that is keeping itself above water - and that has sprouted new leaves this spring - it sits peering into the crystal clear stream. But the passing fish must be too large for it, as even we can see them.

Krutyn, at the other end of this gorgeous route, is a touristic village. But that is not so apparent in May. Picturesque piers appear in the landscape, little bridges soar over our heads. A water mill blocks the stream. Two boys help us cross the hundred metres over land. Finally we leave the forest behind us and are surrounded once again by the rolling fields, the country of the stork.

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At Wojnowo we take a detour and paddle onto the Dus lake. In sight of a little graveyard, with unusual octagonal tombstones, we moor by a church. Lost amidst the landscape, forgotten in time, a small Russian religious community has been living here for two hundred years. These Philippones formed a sect within the Russian Orthodox Church starting in the 18th century. They did not join in the reformation and kept everything as it was. They were soon persecuted for this. In 1825 they were allowed to move to Masuria, then still a part of Prussia that had been depopulated by the Napoleonic wars. This was an advantageous decision for the Prussians, as the Philippones were hardworking folk for whom vodka was taboo.

An old man shows us the church, which is full of 19th century icons. Two women still live in the adjoining nunnery, one in a wheelchair. But what do you know, she still gets up and does some hoeing around the garden, a flowery oasis. Hardworking folk until the bitter end! Soon these women too will be lying in the graveyard, the orthodox cross at their feet, pointing east. Once, only wood was allowed to be used for the cross and was not repaired as it rotted away. Since this century, the symbolism of the life circle has been relinquished and stone is also allowed. Soon these crosses will be all that is left of the Philippones.

We glide back on to the Dus lake, which is celebrated for its birdlife, and go back to the Krutynia river. The landscape is so flat that we imagine we are back in Holland. The church tower of Ukta is the only thing rising above the reeds. Then the hills start rolling again and we find the Ukta campground on a pleasant hillside. It is private property and the owner, another true-to-type Pole, is mowing the grass. He enjoys his new life as an entrepreneur, but it is hard. Take the mowing for instance. It takes him three days. By then he might as well start over again at the beginning. We view his land and then his little lawn mower, which is more suited to a garden of ten square metres. Yep, hard going. As well as messing about with hundreds of metres of extension cord, that he has to worry about mowing over too.

Sticky from our long day, we ask where showers are. "A shower! Darn, everyone asks for that! And just when I've built a nice new sauna. You can just pour warm water over yourself there." "So there is warm water at least?" "Of course you have to get the fire going first, but after an hour you have an traditional wood-burning sauna. What more do you want?"

In the courtyard of his farm we find a water tap at last: too low, ice-cold and in full view of the windows. No woman would wash here comfortably. I discover the foundations for a washing room. The owner comments: "I have to build it! Some people leave as soon as they arrive. But after the sauna I ran out of money. And I don't have time, I need to mow the grass."

After Ukta, we venture into the second nature reserve on our trip, a bigger one this time. We could get through it in one day, but we take two. There are many little inlets, we watch water birds in their nests, even discover a large beaver lodge. Kayaking has become second nature by now. We never want this to end. Sleeping in the great outdoors, picnicking when we want. The sound of the paddles in the water cleans out the mind.

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