And no, I don't own an Indiana Jones hat. I do, however, hum his theme music quite often.
And so I found myself wanting to do something new and exciting with my kayak. My kayak experiences had been somewhat limited to local lakes and rivers, but now I wanted a sense of accomplishment. Now it was time to increase the stakes, and to grab life by the beanbag.
I booked a shuttle service with the establishment who sold me my boat, a wonderful place in Old Forge NY called “Mountain Man Outdoors”. These guys are the best. They live what they sell and they sell what they live and they are passionate about all things that might potentially skin your knees. The shuttle was to take me and my boat to a secluded spot on the Moose River in the Adirondack Mountains, drop me off, and let it be on my own conscience to make it back to civilization. There would be no paddling in circles today, no paddling to an arbitrary point in a river just to turn around. This time there was a START and a FINISH!
As the shuttle van pulled away from my drop off point, I quickly took stock of my situation. I had a kayak, a paddle, a life jacket, a tube of sunscreen, and a quart bottle of Power-aid. My kayak was sound, my life jacket zipped up, my sunscreen slathered, and my Power-aid orange. I trust orange. Orange will not lead me astray. I can never quite trust those bizarre flavors of sports drink like “Mediterranean Volcano Boysenberry” or “The Icy Hand of Death Kiwi”.
Orange. Deal with it.
Getting back to my situation, I was in the middle of nowhere, and I was alone. Pushing the PLAY button on the music in my head, I fired up that familiar Indiana Jones theme and slid my boat into the water, where it struck a log, capsized, and was rudely yanked away by the rushing waters, never to be seen again, leaving me standing on the banks of the Moose River bawling like a bored five year old into his third hour of his mom trying to buy a bra.
Ok, so I am kidding about that part to create drama in what is already shaping up to be a lackluster article. In reality, my sleek kayak parted the still waters like a hot knife through chocolate pudding.
Hey, you eat what you like and Ill eat what I like.
As I swung my boat around the first bend it I began to ponder my situation and I realized that I really had no idea what the terrain ahead would deal me. I knew my departure point, I knew my ultimate destination, and I knew that between all that there were miles and miles of twisting river through a wilderness untouched by man (my favorite kind, because man sucks). Other than that, I really didn't know what to expect besides water and rocks, but my worries soon faded away when I saw the loons.
Those of you who know me, and indeed some who merely think you do, probably know that loons are one of my favorite animals. They are much like me. They are quiet, solitary birds, who for no reason, every now and then, let out a raucous barrage of insane laughter. To see one in the wild was a wonderful moment, and to see one like I did with three babies was a religious experience. This was a good sign, and this was going to be the day to judge all other days by.
I was at peace. Each bend revealed a new wonder of beauty that made my heart ache. This was, to put it mildly, some of the most beautiful terrain I had ever kayaked through. I slid past vast meadows of grassy hillocks, tall pines hanging over the water, boulders and sand bars, and not a single trace of human touch.
Well, there was one trace of man, and I was thankful.
As I came to the first FORK in the river, I was very happy to see an arrow sign pointing the direction I needed to take.
I think about arrow signs quite often. Arrow signs are a great idea on trails and rivers and indeed anywhere someone might get lost, but they are unfortunately easy to tamper with. Anyone who has seen a bugs bunny cartoon or “Jurassic Park” know that if you spin an arrow sign it can just as easily point you away from home and comfort and coffee and straight into the gaping maw of doom.
But I trusted the friendly little arrow sign, and I took the right fork. Oh, how I loved seeing my little arrow sign, and I hummed and I chuckled and I paddled through the cool Adirondack morning air. I had probably a good five minutes of paddling and humming and drinking in the gorgeous scenery, until I came to the next fork.
You guessed it, no sign.
A four letter word emerged from the murky gloom of my subconscious, and my lips delivered it like a newborn into the bright new world around me.
I won't keep you in suspense. It was “shit”.
Now I had a choice to make. I was certain that one way would keep me humming and paddling and dreaming my little dreamy dreams, and the other way would undoubtedly put me on some fast moving rapids that would make the kids in Mountain Dew commercials pee themselves with fright. There was no doubt in my mind that I would slide around a sharp bend, bouncing off craggy boulders, causing water to spray 30 feet in the air, and encounter a documentary film crew filming a portion of the river for a Discovery Channel show about the ten deadliest places in the world to be sitting in a 46 pound plastic boat. Yes, they would be slack-jawed with shock to see me come screaming along like a rocket, and one of them would stare at me, expression frozen in shock and horror, and I would see his lips mouth a somewhat whispery “Mother of God”. Of this there was no doubt. I suddenly remembered I had not updated my will since 1992.
It turned out that both branches of the fork were slow moving, peaceful waters, and emerged in the very same place. Go figure.
So I continued to paddle, and I occasionally climbed out at a convenient sand bar to relieve myself of body-processed Power-aid, and I decided that, on this friendly stretch of river, that signage was indeed nice, but really not necessary.
Boy was I wrong.
Sloshing around a corner, I could hear the sound of fast-running water somewhere ahead of me. It grew louder. Keep in mind that thus far, this has been very slow, almost glass-like water. The sound of rushing water ahead of me only meant one thing, and suddenly I saw a new kind of sign that summed it all up for me.
“Danger! Indian Falls! DO NOT ATTEMPT! Portage boats here for .2 miles!”
If that wasn't enough to get the point across, the people who had made the sign went one step further. Bolted to the sign was an old aluminum kayak paddle, twisted and shattered and bent at some angles that you just don't find in a kayak paddle. The sign was VERY informative, and couldn't have made the situation any clearer, not even if they had Mr. T standing next to the sign, complete with 72 tons of gold chains around his neck, arms crossed, fixing me with a stern gaze and repeating “I pity the fool who goes around this next bend. I pity his damn silly BOAT too!”
Imagining my left femur in roughly the same shape as the twisted kayak paddle on the shore, I respected the river and politely made my way to the portage area. I tipped Mr. T five dollars for his troubles. He seemed to appreciate that.
Now would begin the .2 mile portage over Indian falls.
My boat only weighs 46 pounds, but it is 16 feet long, and bulkier than a pile of treated lumber. With my life vest, paddle and half-bottle of Orange Power-aid lashed to it, I flipped it over my head, plopped the seat on top of my head, and starred lugging that mother through the woods.
Life is funny. No really, it is. Seriously, go look it up.
It's truly amazing how some things work well backwards and others do not. Take my kayak for example. It suddenly became very obvious to me that when my boat was in its preferred medium, it could carry me with precision and perfection. Yet when I tried to reverse that, and carry it over my preferred medium that I became sweaty and tired and I grunted and swore as I tripped over roots and rocks. Two tenths of a mile suddenly seemed much longer. Still, the view from then bridge over Indian Falls was not only gorgeous, it also showed me that the sign, the twisted paddle, and Mr. T, were not exaggerating. It was beautiful from dry land, but there was no way I could have made it through in my boat, not even with an Indiana Jones hat on my head and John Williams himself on the shore conducting a full orchestra that he had somehow trucked all the way out there.
With my boat back in the water on the far side of the rapids, I struck out on the final leg of my wilderness adventure.
I entered a dreamlike state. I paddled and I took in the sights. Birds swooped and darted overhead in an array of precision flying. Bugs skittered over the calm surface of the water. Light filtered down through the trees and leaves and illuminated soft pools where small fish lollygagged in their peaceful and tranquil reality. I was at that point in an adventure in exercise where my body and spirit were one. I had reached that magical state in a weekend adventure when everything just fell into place, and my soul was at peace with itself once more.
Suddenly, that was shattered.
*CRACK*!
To the right of the waterway, off in the trees, came a sound that split the serenity of my balance. It was a sharp CRACK of a sound, the sound of something large and angry brutally forcing it's will upon something natural and unmovable. With my paddle barely making a sound as it dipped into the water, I continued on, quietly observing the woods around me for anything that might produce such a peace splitting sound.
Again I heard the *CRACK*, closer this time.
I finally stopped paddling and let the slow, lazy current barely move me along. What WAS that sound!?!?!?!?
One can only imagine the things my mind conjured up that might produce such a loud and frightening sound. If it was a bear or a moose, I sure as heck wanted to SEE it, but in no way did I want to come into view of a family of bear cubs doing cannonballs into the river on that beautiful summer morning, just to discover that Mom didn't appreciate bright red plastic kayaks and would show me just what she thought of it by ripping it to shreds with claws as long as car radio antennas. She would certainly show me who was boss off the Adirondack wilderness, and my days of typing long, run-on sentences would be over.
Again came the sound, *CRACK*, this time on the other side of the river.
Now my brain has certainly split into the two distinct halves of my heritage. On the right, I had the Italian half of my brain, with its red blooded passion and emotional playground, and on the left was the German half of my brain, with its cold precision and desire for order in all things. They began to mutter a conversation between themselves, which went something like this…………..
Italian (wide eyed):
“Oh my God-a! What-a the hell-a be that?”
German:
“Is nuh-sing. Nuh-sing at all.”
*CRACK*!
Italian (doing a quick sign of the cross):
“Oh please-a God. I be good! Please let-a me live!”
German:
“I told you…. Is nuh-zing. Now shut up and paddle you klutz.”
Yes, the two halves of my brain are poorly constructed European stereotypes. I seem to like it that way.
Sweeping silently around the next bend, the source of the mystery sound came into view. My worst fears, fears that I hadn't even dared to imagine yet, had somehow been realized, and I came face to face with something so hideous, so horrible, that my face went an ashen gray, and something inside me shriveled and died. I knew that my quiet, solitary adventure of one in the wilds of the Adirondacks was about to end. Bracing myself, I faced my fear, and it faced me back. Eye contact was made. My blood ran like ice water.
Golfers.
Well, gentle readers, it seems that I had made it back to civilization, for standing on the well manicured bank of the Moose River were 3 men in ridiculous outfits, standing next to a golf cart, slapping golf balls and trying to clear the trees, and failing miserably at it.
“Hi guys”, said the Weekend Adventurer.
“Hello”, said the puffy golfers in loud pants and deafening shirts.
I slid by them quietly, letting my fear flow away with the moving river. I knew the end of my trip had come up suddenly on me and I didn't want it to end. I fought the current the way a child fights his bedtime.
The rest of the trip was uneventful. I slipped through a grassy area and came into contact with a ridiculous amount of other people, paddling their kayaks around in a large open area behind the Mountain Man Outdoors buildings. I was tired, and my muscles felt good, and I knew it was time to pack up and go. Pulling my boat out at the Mountain Man boat launch, I threw my boat and belongings over my shoulder, and made the last leg of my journey to the parking lot.
As I walked through the people milling around the boats for sale, perhaps newcomers to the world of kayaks and Adirondack waterways, I somehow felt different than the man who had set out that morning. Men shopping for kayaks looked deep into my weary eyes and asked the deep, burning question, “Dude, what was it like out there?”, as they ran their hands over the sides of sleek crafts that promised so much more to life. To them I could only wordless look back at them, as if to say, “You have to see it for yourself. Go, my friend. Live it. Love it.”
I had entered the wilderness a man with worries and doubt, I had emerged a man free of the scampering demons of life.
I had become………. The Mountain Man.
I went to SUBWAY for lunch.
Dr, Torgo