Final Morning

We unzipped our tents and emerged into a dark murmuring cloud of morning fresh, rain-exaggerated, mosquitoes. Small smears of some other animals blood, perhaps our own or upstream puking partyers, began to appear on our foreheads and arms.

The whisper of the camp stove couldn't rival the hum of the cloak of mosquitoes we wore. As if they knew we were leaving they dined on us as we had dined on the beauty of the river. And we dripped from their chins.

The reality that it was our last morning on the river settled over camp.

There was a lot of silence this morning. No crack and crunch of a morning Coors echoed through the corridors, no spark or poof and smoke of a morning cigarette, only the wheeze and sighs of lungs barely capable of words.

Beef Jerky

The one thing we didn't run out of was the beef jerky, thank god! Beef jerky is a mandatory staple in the canoe campers pantry. Two days before a trip my house fills with the smell of liquid smoke. Waking up in the middle of the night to rotate the trays of the dehydrator, I have been known to return to bed gnawing on what has become know as the only truly necessary food product to accompany a canoe camper. 

Many times the fancy meals will almost go forgotten in the trance of a soar jaw making love to a slender piece of dehydrated beef; a properly seasoned slender piece of dehydrated beef, that is.

Make no mistake, there is no better beef jerky available that is better than what you can make yourself at home.

(recipe to come)

Beach Gutter

Setting up the final pole in my tent , I felt the male and female ends, as soon as they were put together, split away from each other. I broke a tent pole. Fuck! I had no tent repair kit. For the rest of the night my abode would have what we referred to as the "gangster lean". During the night I woke to a pool of wet tent floor and wet sleeping pad, steeping in a puddle. I realized that in my drunkenness I set up my tent on a slope and what must have been a “beach gutter”(an avenue water travels down when you set up your tent like an inexperienced ass hole) The compromised integrity of my tent, along with poor site selection, found me awake during the most uncomfortable night of the trip.

One learns lessons based on, as I so articulate and eloquently call "retard fuck ups"

Before the Thunder Slapped

We watched the grass kneel in it's faith to a water that shrugged it's uninterested shoulders past it.

The sun began to drop behind the tree line and fracture into slivers that divided the river into a keyboard of light and dark.

We marveled above it, our eyes full of coors tapping out the contention that ;

ones life is built upon experiences like this.

only the writings and sketches one leaves behind is what one will be judged upon.

How you express yourself, inspired by such moments, is what defines you.

Above the treeline tarnished silver dollars stacked. The sound of thunder slapped and quickened our set up of camp. Tent poles become increasingly disagreeable and rain-flys flap with an unsettled fervor when darkening clouds ponder their course.

(and we lie in it)

Canoe Camping

Don't do it!

I promise, It will fuck up your life.

Go for three days or more; carry everything you need. Leave the routine, ditch your car, stuff your canoe, filter your water, eat in front of the woods' thousand watching eyes. Make dialogue with river and bank and you will be changed.

(Not like a simple defrag, a refresh or reboot, but a total reinstall!)

There is one thing you learn on a river, one truth that exposes it's naked self;

insignificance.

....the insignificance of things, everythings

Be prepared to return to a fit of throwing out, abandoning, disregarding, losing interest in, and saying good-bye to things, and people, many things, important things...so you once thought.

It is realistic that you might come home and break up with your not so significant other, propose marriage or confess undying love or devotion.

You will discover a desire to write blogs, take photos, make love, author free lance articles, cook on a backyard campfire, wander in the woods alone in the rain, read stories of adventure, cause fender benders, watch your income plummet due to daydreaming and your penis rise in the most inappropriate of situations or......... worst of all......... write poems.

This Thunder didn't Clap

I've never been camping on a river and heard such a sound. This thunder didn't clap, it slapped, it snapped, it cracked and fractured the calm air that hung above camp. The leaves of trees around us began to smirk and pull up their skirts, flash their skinny veins. The fire got louder as it choked on the overdose of oxygen. Tent, tarp, even our kevlight canoe began to move in the winds that picked up driftsticks and blankets of sand. We hunkered under our half assedly erected tarp, its center pole a rotted driftwood post creaking under the weight of the wind. Then began the rain that hung down, whipping at the tents like heavy wire. The integrity of camp showed its flimsy weeping muscles. Pools arrived at every corner of tarp and tent, we had to prod waterfalls from our shelter and nerves from our chests. All there was left to do was chess, chili cheese dogs and..........."oh, shit, I forgot....., I brought a flask of scotch!"

Without Details We Wouldn't Have The Ever Beautiful Grotesque

When nature called, or yelled as it did after chili cheese dogs, the routine began by grabbing the machete, wielding it around unruly like, stuffing a roll of toilet paper under the arm and strutting off into the woods with a curious grin.

The machete was a duel or truel use item. Not only did it provide an air of manliness to our journey it made us look bad ass in front of beach infringers. The machete made quick work of breaking down wood for the fire and most importantly it was a marvelous poop shovel.



As the night was winding down, and the chili had time to corrupt my innards, I found myself headed straight for the machete which was lodged in a stump of drift wood on the beach like Excalibur.

Because of the cool that the ferns and trees provided far up and off the bank of the beach, I thought it would be a perfect place to make compost.


It’s an odd moment there, squatted over a hand dug hole, looking down pondering such deep philosophical equations as; “I should have dug a hole #1 and a hole #2”, before you realize mosquitoes are going to town on your balls and ass.

The natural reaction would be to shoo them away with a swatting hand, but no, the risk is way too high that your hand’ll catch the drizzle over an undug hole #1 or even worse you’ll miss and squash a nugget against a cheek, this is no good. In such situations survival experts and natives alike recommend a good dousing of OFF pre-poop excursion which allows for an unobstructed hands free evacuation zone.

Can I get a: "God Damn?!"

When your planning a canoe trip, monk fish steamed in buttered corn husks or scallops with a tangerine saffron burre blanc most likely won't make the menu for the third night or later. The later into the trip the lower the quality gets. Well, at least in theory.

I don't care if your Thomas Keller, Daniel or the late great Julia Child, chili cheese dogs and burgers RULE! If you haven't had one, I promise you'll love them and if you don't - you should be shot - along with vegans. It's American heritage, like tacos are Mexican, chili, burgers and dogs are American. They are so revered in this country they enter into the realm of lore. When America cooks out what do they eat? They eat Hot Dogs and Hamburgers; preferably with chili and cheese.

Thank California for this. Nowhere does chili come standard on a burger or dog other than California and more specifically Los Angeles. Thank you Tommy's Burgers, thank you Fat Burger, thank you Gerry's Orange O.

On the river, when clouds are stacking, darkening and wind is flirting with the underside of trees and rain flies......short prep meals takes on a significant value.

So when planning the last night's meal of the trip and you want calories after a long day of paddling, easy prep, or flavor that makes you sink into your tired self and moan, consider chili cheese dogs.

Chopped onion, grated mild cheddar, a heap of chili, a sliver of French's yellow over a Nathan's hot dog, on a campfire-stone toasted bun; can I get a God Damn!?!?!???

The River = Our Lounge Chairs

We had to set up the tarp to keep ourselves and our gear out of the heat. Just staking the guy lines of the tarp boiled pints of sweat from my already soak turban. We scouted the island, collected what wood we could, found a somewhat level spot for camp, walked into the water and laid down. It was like the river, as it took our breath, took our worries. Across the river, a break in the tree line exposed a distant mountaintop, which turned out to be the best view from a camp we had, There in the water, the river our lounge chairs, we cracked our final beers and lit the last of the smokes.

Feel That Heat On Your Eyes?

Soft Sand And Views

"Hot." 

"Super fucking hot!"

"Let's take the first beach possible, ok?"

"Yea. We need to stop."

It wasn't even 11:00 before we found a beach. Not just any beach either. Along this second half where beaches were supposed to be fewer than people; there...... before us.......... the biggest most expansive beach we've seen the entire trip. It wound around a bend or two coughing up the perfect drift wood for fire, soft sand and views. Like drunken castaways we beached and began exploring. 

Transient

In acoustics and audio, a transient is a short-duration signal that represents a non-harmonic attack phase of a musical sound or spoken word.

Shifting Through Life And Earth

The river begs for more respect. Humbly, it offers the unique sound of its own body shifting around obsticles in life and earth, or of caressing your feet as they dangle off the sides of the boat, its thousand tongues dripping back into themselves. Paddles have an uncanny way of flattering the waters they dip into. On quiet days one can stare for hours at the swirls and flutter that ripple across the skin of the river made by a wooden paddle. Light tends to choose unfamiliar hiding places in the folds of such affection. No other form of travel seems more natural. And no other way of living seems as fitting as nomadic or transient camping.   

The River Begs For More Respect

When you're one of them it seems ok. When it's you standing in a canoe howling unintelligablly or your own radio blaring down the corridors of the river it might seem fine. I love and respect the holy trilogy of canoe, river and beer. But when you canoe for the silence and awe of nature; nothing sucks more than a fat frat boy in a canoe singing Bon Jovi off key, no any key.

We Kept Dipping our Turbans

The river, in the heat, smoked. Wildlife hid among the roots and in holes burrowed in the cool earth. Even fish swam deeper than usual. The no-add sunscreen we were using was hot in the palm as it more poured than squeezed from it's bottle.

Being on the water seemed like being between the folds of a silver poolside sunscreen. It wasn't but merely 15 minutes before our freshly river dipped cotton shirts dried on our backs or on our heads.That was the first day I had ever experienced heat in a way that gave me concern.

"If we stay on the water our skin will resemble microwavable bacon. Yet, if we beach at the next available spot we could get behind on schedule." We weren't sure what to do. The main problem other than sun was the supposed lack of beaches suitable for camping we were warned about.

We kept dipping our turbans and paddling under every branch or downed tree.

Our First Portage

We had prepared for the portage as if we were in the true wilderness back country, our machetes bushwhacking around unrunnable rapids or lining our canoe down the corridor of a rock garden. Neither were anywhere near the truth.

Along the way, as though I were Lewis and he were Clark, we began naming the bends and beaches. The eddys and banks which had significance to us but no name we knew of, began to take on personality. 

Our creative sick humor juices began to flow.

When we reached the portage, which was more like a well marked airport landing strip than a back country bushwhack, we realized it was a dam we were portaging. A Dam not a class IV marvel we could ponder over lunch or shooting falls that no canoe can maneuver. On river right there was a well worn dock like bank, we pulled our canoe up lengthwise and began unloading for portage. This was no normal expedition packed canoe. We had 3 bundles of wood, a cooler with a block of ice and enough beer to kill a large moose, 5 huge dry bags and a very unorganized amount of bags for trash, accouterments, cameras, cell phones and cigarettes. We looked at each other......shook our heads. "We got at least three trips" our eyes said.  It was only a hundred yards, no one was around. As soon as we started stashing our goods a couple in a canoe paddled up, ruining our solitude. 

The painter asks cordially, "have you been to yet or heard of the Finger Banks?" Our creative names were paying off.

The couple was immediately interested, as if there was a section of river that they were never told of, or should try to avoid. They curiously said "no". "Yea, and the Taco Drops are supposed to be extremely dangerous.", he continued on. I could barley hold my near laughing voice from the edge of cracking as he continued with his recommendation to avoid the treacherous swells and undertows that were notorious at the Tea Bag Falls.

Though we might have felt relatively alone over the last day or so, people seemed to swarm around the portage. When we arrived at the end of the 100 yard portage there must have been 4 full troops of scouts, cub scouts, brownies and other unwanted ass holes. We were one of at least 12 canoes ready to suck their feet from the mud and launch. We lugged our gear across in two trips, sweat pissing from our heads. We took a shit in the campground outhouse, bought a weather proof map, and a sticker with a canoe and paddles like a cross bones and skull and pushed off, the entire State's youth council behind us. 

Never was I happier to leave a campsite. 

Inhaling The Remains

We broke camp, took a final dip in the river, dr bronnered ourselves, cracked a Keers, wiped sand from nearly everything, played a game of speed chess, humped some drinking water for our nalgene's, closed our eyes, faced the sun, inhaled the remains of the morning and set out into the mist.

Grow a Mustache?

The one thing I hate about camping is doing the dishes. At home its one thing, I'm very comfortable in the kitchen, camping though, nothing ever really seems fully clean. I think I'd rather stab myself in the side of the neck with a large chisel dipped in honey mustard, ewwgh, or grow a mustache than do dishes.

Coffee Water

Barista's' offer the finer points of water quality and ratio to grounds, we just drink it, dark! The darker the better. "Broker Coffee" it's referred to in the sales world, "Martyr Coffee" in the terror arena, "Cardiovascular Bliss" in others. Water from the river makes the best morning brew.

The painter for some reason had taken on the chore of collecting water whether it be for coffee, pasta, or drinking. He had the most marvelous posture in his collection technique. This illustrated the animal importance of the act or filtering water.