McPhee is one of the few contemporary writers whose own enthusiasm, acquisitive curiosity and delight in the minor marvels evokes a similar reader response. Here the subject is canoes, and McPhee, admiring, intimidated and bemused, pries into the craft of Henri Vaillancourt, a young man from New Hampshire, who makes his own canoes. ""He carves their thwarts from hardwood and their fibs from cedar. . . . No nails, no screws, or rivets, just root lashings."" Henri, like many artists, is shy, taciturn, vain, and given to occasional headlong decisions in uncertain situations. These qualities were noted by McPhee on a canoe trip (Henri's fourth) with some friends north into the Maine wilderness. ""A canoe trip is a society so small and isolated that its frictions. . . can magnify to stunning size."" McPhee, in his customary style--as seamless and resilient as one of Henri's canoes--reports on bits of Americana (Indians, voyageurs, loggers) sights and sounds. Another unique profile by a master craftsman. Copyright ©Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.