The canoe weighed a little over seventy pounds. When one morning the week before we were to leave, my father told me he was going to show me how to portage it, I couldn’t believe him at first. I have always been strong and wiry, but it didn’t seem possible that I could hoist that long canoe over my head and walk through the woods.

“You take it slow and easy, Lizzy,” said my father. “I don’t see any chance of you having to carry the canoe on this trip, but just in case, I’d like you to know what to do.”

I bent down and took hold of the bow. My father stopped me. “One step at a time, or you could hurt yourself. Let’s pretend that Tim is with you, but he’s broken his arm and can’t carry anything. Still, he can help you turn it over.” He nodded to Tim. Together, we rolled the canoe over.

“Now, Tim,” my father said, “get your good arm and shoulder under the bow and lift it up until it’s propped on your head.”

Pretending that his right arm was broken, Tim grunted and strained and got the canoe up at a forty-five-degree angle without much trouble and kept it propped there.

“All right, Lizzy,” said my father, “step underneath and get the yoke over your shoulders. Bend your knees, not your back. That’s it. Now stand up.”

I did, and to my amazement, the canoe bow swung up and balanced on my shoulders. I took a careful step and, although it swayed, the canoe stayed where it was supposed to. It didn’t even feel too heavy.

“Carry it down to the barn and back.”

I heard Miss Pauline draw her breath in quickly. My father said: “It’s not too far for her, Pauline. Now you keep your thoughts to yourself or you’ll make her lose confidence.” I started down the path, moving slowly. The weight wasn’t what bothered me. I was afraid I would let the canoe tip and fall off. But it didn’t, although it swayed alarmingly when I made the turn at the barn. I got back to the road without difficulty. Tim stepped under the bow and together we lowered it to the ground.

“There,” said my father. “I’d reckon you carried it some sixty yards. Most portages aren’t any longer than that. If they are, you just prop the bow up against a tree crotch every now and then and get some rest, then get on about your trip.”

Lifting the canoe by myself wasn’t any harder. My father showed me how to pick up the bow, get it shoulder high, and inch my way back until suddenly the canoe fell forward, balancing on the yoke. I trotted down to the barn and back again, this time with more confidence. Then Father made Tim go through everything, and I laughed when he let the canoe fall as he made the turn near the barn. But he got it up on his shoulders by himself and completed the “portage.”