How Much to Get Drown and Shot? Part II

When the morning came, it arrived like it always does when one is sleeping under a few microns of nylon and down. Too early. Unlike most first nights spent in the woods, I actually slept like a log. All the night noises that usually make me flinch awake and stare into the darkness as I run through my mental lexicon of snuffles, breaking twigs or bug noises, were beaten out by the strange exhaustion that comes when you’ve spent hours and hours driving in unfamiliar territory, hoping that you’re going the right way. The beer, I’m sure, was a helpful sleep aide as well.

All of us, shambling and bleary eyed, shuffled off in the directions of showers, sinks or coffee vending systems in our own private rituals of restarting our mental engines in preparation of today’s events: “Trying to have as much fun as we could with out drowning.” Once the other campers/would be rafters had all gotten vertical to one degree or another, we assembled in the main building for our orientation talk on water, boulders and how to keep your head above both. The mix of people here to have fun in the nearby white water was about what you’d expect. Mostly youngish, mostly male and mostly not paying very good attention to the talk, present company included. The problem was that we were in the wrong mindset for paying strict attention to a lecture. We were there to have fun! The few, obvious hangover victims spent the time hovering over steaming cups of black coffee, the young yahoos blithely chatted to the other young yahoos and the rest of us spent our time looking at the photos on the walls of rubber boats full of smiling, terrified people, seconds before going for an impending and inescapable swim.

rafting

To be totally honest, I remember NONE of the talk. I’m still here, so I’m guessing that I didn’t miss anything. After we picked up our helmets and life vests, we all clambered into the club van and headed for the river. We could hear it from our campsite, but this, as it turned out, wasn’t where we were going to be putting in.

These are always odd moments for me. My parents come from very different stock when it comes to adventure and the way they see the world, and being a mix of that, it often puts me in a position of some discomfort. If I had multiple personality disorder, I’d be one of those crazies you see on the street corner having heated arguments with my self.

Mom, is cautious.
Actually, Mom is VERY cautious. It’s not that she’s a fearful person. She’s not. It’s just that she likes to have thought out every possible angle of every situation before it’s approached. She needs a plan and if the accumulated data indicates that things will not be in her control, then she tends to avoid it. In plans, she finds comfort and things like throwing your self into a raging river with a dozen other people and a raft the size of a van that may, or may not smack you in the back of your head, just doesn’t come out sounding like a good one. This plan would obviously not be played out.

Dad on the other hand, likes to wing it. Plans are good and all and come in very useful during the workday, but when it comes to fun, he’s almost always happy to simply step out the door and see what happens. This is a man who, when he was younger, would go to the airport with a toothbrush in his pocket and get on the standby list, just to see how far his meager funds would get him. If the flight was full, he’d get on another list and see how that panned out. This kind of adventure would make my Mother bananas. Again, it’s not that it would scare her so much as the fact that she couldn’t plan for all the eventualities. Her brain would overheat as she tried to map out every possible coarse of action that could happen. Dad calls it having an adventurous spirit. His father in law refers to it as, “Ready, Fire, Aim.” Both ways of living have their benefits and the two of them actually compliment each other very well. After almost forty years of marriage, I guess I’d say that it works well for them.

You might think that since I am a product of these two philosophies of life, I would be perfectly blended of each part and able to plan well for life’s journeys, while still being able to let go in the moment and see what comes, but that’s not really how it boils down in my psyche. It ends up being more like a cage match between the Id and Subconscious, the winner gaining control my actions until the other can wrest them from the other’s grasp. How this usually plays out, is with me about to do something dangerous and fun, huge grin on my face and fists clenched when, “DING!” the Mom side finally gets the Dad side in a full Nelson and screams, “What the HELL are you doing here?! Are you seriously about to attempt this? What ARE you THINKING?!”

These are not calm moments for me and they usually make me hum nervously as I look around at where I am in a desperate effort to either distract my self until the moment passes or find a window to leap out of and escape. This was one of those moments… but the van was moving and the windows only cranked out a few inches. There was nowhere to go except in the drink. We pulled off the road and into a small clearing filed with enormous rafts, paddles, more vans and more nervous-but-trying-not-to-look-nervous would be drowning victims. The nearby river looked calm and flat as it lazily rolled by.

My Father’s voice whispered through my head, “You paid money to raft on THAT? Man, did you get ripped off!”

Mom then added, “Thank God! I hope you brought a snack and towel.”

More later…

How Much to Get Drown and Shot?

As I walked up to the out door tiki bar, the unmistakable shape of my friend, Ioseph’s back greeted me. I had been looking for him specifically and, lucky me, he was not easy to miss. Flaming red hair, big in every direction and as per usual, decked out in a Hawaiian shirt. I quietly strode up, reached out both hands and wrung his neck.

“Why…” I started to enquire through clenched teeth. “did I have to drive seven hours to have a beer and play in the water?!?”

Ioseph, having quickly recovered from his momentary strangulation, simply stood up and turned around, me still dangling from him like a peeved remora.

“You look like you need a drink!” Ioseph thinks everyone needs a drink.

Letting go and wordlessly taking his spot at the bar, I allowed him to order me a large, cold beer on his tab, and sucked down half of it in one lift.

“Better?”

“Grumble mumble rumble…”

Where we were, was the “the middle of no where” Canada and the reason we were here was Mountain Man’s bachelor party. Of the four close high school friends, I was the first to marry and I kept a tight rein on the pre-wedding festivities. I admit, I can be a bit of a wet blanket at times and so thankfully, my friends were decent enough to keep things sane on my bequest. It’s not that I don’t enjoy having fun. It’s more that I know Ioseph.

And knowing is half the battle.

Ioseph, when given tabula rasa is prone to go… nuts. There is no way, NO WAY, that you will be able to predict what he will get in to in the name of a good time. He is in possession of one of the most dangerous mixes of personality traits that I know. He is: self deprecating, funny, highly intelligent, totally uninhibited in any way, can justify just about anything and is instantly forgivable for just about any of these actions. If the year were 1720, I have no doubt in my mind that he would be a pirate, a royal governor of some tropical island, or both. Probably both. Luckily for the world, he’s also a very nice guy. Just bananas.

The reason he had chosen Canada was because we had nixed the idea of Vegas.

Ioseph in Vegas… *shudder*

The drive here had been a long one and I had done it alone. My directions were essentially to go north until I hit Montreal and then hang a left. When I ran out of pavement, I was just about there. I was tired and my butt hurt and I needed another beer. I couldn’t for the life of me understand why we couldn’t go white water rafting in the States. I requested my beer and paid with an American twenty. The bar tender handed me a fresh pint and twenty-two dollars in change. Hmm. This might not be such a bad thing after all.

It was already dark out and I still needed to get my stuff out of the car. I joined my friends, Ioseph, The Doctor and Mountain Man and got the lay of the land. It was time to make camp.

This, to be sure, was my kind of camping. Any campsite that comes with an outdoor bar, indoor bathroom facilities and food made by someone else gets the thumbs up in my book. For people like Mountain Man and The Doctor, I’m sure it was eye rollingly cushy, and it was, but it was also exactly what I was up for after my marathon drive. After flopping out my sleeping bag in the tent, I was unconscious in a matter of moments. Maybe it was the beer, the drive or both, but I did know that I’d better get rested up. Tomorrow was one of Mountain Man’s last days as a bachelor and there were big plans. We were going to see if we could get sucked under a raging river, flung against massive, unseen, underwater rocks and not get killed!

Hey! It’s important to have goals!

Ran out of time today.More later…
-TP

Don’t Step in What the Bear Left. Part II

With a sigh that all but shouted the word “WUSS!” Mountain Man bent to the offer and as the motel came into view, we pulled into the mostly empty parking lot. Our residence for the evening was exactly what you’d expect of a motel that was out in the middle of nowhere. It was thread bare, tired, and I’m guessing, last updated in the seventies judging by the paint choices of avocado green and harvest gold. What it did do is keep up out of the rain that night. To be honest, it was a fairly light rain and the news didn’t report of any tornados swooping out of the sky in search of young girls in blue dresses and accompanying dogs. As I lay in bed listening to the patter on the roof that night, I admit I felt fairly vindicated. We might not have been in mortal danger had we camped, but getting damp involved the crappy shower in the bathroom rather than a squishy sleeping bag.

The next day we were out and on the road as early as we could stand it. Mountain Man had instigated a cunningly evil rule for our road trip. Something to get us moving and moving with determination. Breakfast could not be had in the town where we slept. We needed to rack up some miles before dealing with our stomachs. Out here, that could mean quite a spell. We trundled along and eventually found sustenance, but not our friendly waitress’s friend. It’s an imperfect world. By lunch, we were making some really good progress and were closing in on the upper peninsula of Michigan. We decided that we would take our mid day break on the Canadian side of the Great Lakes and pulled of the main road to search for food. What we found, were bugs. Lots and lots of bugs.

Here’s something that you might not know. The Mayfly is a little over an inch and a quarter long. It lays its eggs on the surface of fresh water, which then sinks, and hatches into a nymph. This nymph can live for about a year or so, nibbling on all sorts of aquatic interests. Then, one day, it will go up to the surface, break through its outer skin and emerge into the air as a fully formed mayfly, looking for love and looking fast. It often has only a day or so to fulfill its function. Now imagine all of these nymphs doing this at the SAME TIME. What you get is roughly a billion-zillion mayflies cavorting around, mating and getting squished on your car.

shadfly01

As we pulled into town, the place was literally alive with mayflies. They covered every horizontal surface. They covered every vertical surface. They covered you if you stood still for more than a minute or two. Having them crawling and flying everywhere was revolting but it wasn’t half as disgusting as the sound each foot fall made as you walked from your bug-guts covered car to the MacDonald’s, flattening mayflies as you went. The thing that finally killed the last vestige of my apatite was when I grabbed the door to enter the restaurant and my fingers squished a couple of mayflies that had been hiding out of site on the back side of the handle making whoopie. As I did my little gross out dance, furiously trying to fling the mostly crushed yet still wiggling remains of the hidden lovers from my hand, Mountain Man and I came to the same conclusion. We nodded, bolted back to the car and got the hell out of this freak show. I honestly do not remember getting lunch that day. It was going to be a while before I could face anything I would want to ingest.

It was shortly after this that the trailer caught fire.

Well, “fire” might be pushing it since there were no actual flames, but it was burning up. Mountain Man was driving at the time and happened to glance in the rear view mirror. What he saw was blue/white smoke billowing out from the left wheel of the trailer, totally obscuring the road behind us. He immediately pulled off the road and we leaped out to find just what the hell on an empty, open trailer could possibly catch fire. There was no break system, no electrical except for the lights and nothing not built of steel. As we waded through the evil cloud of burning rubber, the culprit made its self known. Each of the two trailer wheels sported a little sheet metal fender and the one on the right had come half loose. One of the two bolts that held it there had wiggled loose and dropped the fender on top of the spinning wheel and done a top notch job of chewing it up. The friction from the fender had just about completely burned through the rubber. So, a tire change was made with our one spare and the fender was reattached with a twisted bit of coat hanger until a hardware store was located and better fix made.

I remember getting some sandwiches at a truck stop in Minnesota and checking our next move on the map. It was getting late. By the time we left the last inhabited landmark on our map, it was dark. The episode with the bug invasion and especially the tire cost us a lot of driving time and left us looking down the dark railroad cut with me behind the wheel. It was right about then I noticed that the dash lights had died. All of them. It was a moonless night and it was pitch black in the car.

“All we need to do,” declared Mountain Man, “is drive down the railroad bed about two point five miles and look for a grassy landing on our right.”

“The problem,” I pointed out, “is that I can’t see the odometer. The dash light is dead. I’ll have to use the dome light.” This is the point when we discovered that yes; the dome light too had bit the dust.

I looked at the black spot where I gauged Mountain Man’s head should be as he sat in the passenger seat. “Do you have a flashlight?”

“Um.. No. Do you?”

“You’ve got to be kidding. Neither of us brought a flashlight?”

This was going to be tricky. You couldn’t see anything in the car and the only light to be had anywhere was from our own headlights. Not so handy to see things INSIDE the car, as it turns out. Then I remembered my keychain. About a week before as I had prepared for this outing, I had gone to make a pilgrimage to Eastern Mountain Sports, our local camping supply retailer. As I had been cashing out, I spotted these silly little keychain fobs that looked just like miniature Colman lamps.

coleman

On an impulse, I bought one. Inside the diminutive lamp was a sixteenth of a watt bulb that was powered by a watch battery. I fished it out of my pocket, turned the knob and, Voila, we had light. Not much light to be sure, but when it’s pitch dark, it’s amazing how the tiniest bulb can make the biggest difference. I set the “lamp” in front of the odometer and crawled the car down the cut.

Let me take a moment to describe this so called road that we were on. It had been made, perhaps a hundred years ago by the railroad to cut across the swampland of this corner of Minnesota. Having seen its last train decades ago, the tracks and ties had now been stripped and the top of the bed smoothed a bit. It was still fairly bumpy but more importantly though had the added bonus that it was almost exactly as wide as the wheel base of the car. Plus, it dropped off heavily on each side. If you happened to take your eyes off it as you drove, you and your hapless vehicle would very quickly slide down a forty-five degree gravel bank for perhaps eight feet and wind up in the trees. You might be able to recover form this situation if you were lucky. Maybe.

My hands were glued at the ten o’clock and two o’clock positions and my eyeballs were focused directly forward as I navigated the car along at just better than running speed. I had been driving unblinking like this for perhaps ten minutes when Mountain Man spoke.

“Um… I think we missed it”

More later…

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