Live and learn

I emailed instructions for an upcoming overnight paddling trip I’m leading. Someone in the group responded to say how organized it was and gave her confidence that everything would go well. She wished she had my ability. Two things.

First, it never goes according to plan. Be afraid. Be very afraid.

Second, it isn’t ability. It’s the school of hard knocks. You learn from your mistakes. I’ve learned a lot.

I did a lot of learning the first trip I put together in the summer of 1983. I was freshly minted from a course in canoeing. Up to that point, I was a city boy. After that point, I still was, but would need this venture to realize to what extent.

Already having the canoe, so I sat down with an L.L. Bean catalog and a book on camping I had read, opened to the suggested packing list. Selection should be easy because the various catalog products were described in detail. Another lesson learned. Off went the order.

This trip predated the internet. I had contacted the state tourism department and received a bulging envelope of brochures. One region was brimming with canoe liveries and campgrounds. There’s a good sign. Another lesson learned.

It’s difficult to be a trip leader if you don’t have a group to lead. The family was still too young. I recruited five guys from the various circles I ran in. I didn’t know any outdoors people. The criteria were that they be fun people and game for about anything.

Denny, a neighbor, was the exception. He taught school and every summer, packed up the RV and headed out to the wild west for three months. He was invited as my technical resource. I did discern that there would be things that couldn’t be gleaned from a camping manual.

The gear arrived a couple weeks before the trip, but I was away on business. Not a problem. It came with instructions, so how hard could it be? Everything had been portrayed as easy-to-assemble-in-minutes. Always try out new gear before a trip. I will repeat that; before a trip.

The rendezvous point was the parking lot of my office, after work on a Friday. Three people were on time. One was fifteen minutes late, another, twice that. Harold was nowhere to be found.

I unlocked the office and tried his office and home numbers. Nothing. We waited and waited. No Harold. Finally, the caravan took to the road.

Somewhere south of Columbus, Hersch started whining for dinner. About 30 miles north, I gave in. We pulled into the lot of a ramshackle eatery. I asked that we make this a quick stop. Daylight was fading quickly.

The crowd ran heavily to ball caps with seed or chewing tobacco logos. We stuck out in our fresh and creased pseudo-safari attire. The waitress ushered us to a table at the rear.

Hersch questioned her on the origin and preparation of various dishes. She regarded him as one might an intruding roach, repeating her response mantra, “Couldn’t say.” She didn’t know if the fish had been fresh, frozen or what, nor of which species. It’s a fish sandwich. What’s the problem?

Fortunately, Hersch resigned himself to the situation and ordered, probably a second before she decided to make him her personal hand puppet. And, about the time the sun dipped below the horizon.

Everything would’ve been okay if she hadn’t returned later to inquire about how we had enjoyed the meal. Hersch held forth. She stalked off and the fry cook soon came out to take issue with Hersch. Denny jostled him out the door while I took care of the check.

I let Denny drive my big Suburban while I navigated according to the directions provided by the campground. State highways gave way to county roads which led to a maze of packed dirt lanes, cloaked in the darkness of a moonless night. The directions followed suit, gradually degrading into obscurity. Turn left at the stand of cottonwoods. What the hell did a cottonwood look like?

People will assume that if you’re going into the bush, you understand stuff like that. Years later, I was planning an expedition into the Okefenokee Swamp (Georgia) and sought some advice from a park ranger there. Among the gems he provided was, “Don’t make noises like a female alligator in mating season.” Darn. There goes the campfire entertainment. How would I know what that sounds like?

After numerous wrong turns, we arrived at a locked gate with an unlit sign. No one was in the gatehouse, but I saw lights in a nearby house. It was the owner’s.

He had given up on us and rented out our campsites. It was late and not the time to debate the concept of reservations. He agreed to find us a spot. Money talks.

We followed him down the gravel drive, noting the densely packed tents on either side. An expansive sea of canvas structures wasn’t what I envisioned from a place that employed “Wilderness” in its name. Abruptly, there appeared a significant gap. So, what was the hesitation with finding a place for us? He deposited us there and left us to our tasks.

It was inky dark. I assigned Pat and Ed to hold flashlights and unloaded the large carton that held my new tent. I had gone for maximum size, which seemed the only way to fly.

Out tumbled a dazzling array of poles, spikes, line and other apparatus, and one humongous roll of nylon. My eyes turned to Denny.

“What?”

“You’re the camper. Tell us what to do.”

“I don’t camp.”

“You camp every summer.”

“That’s not camping. You pull the RV into the slot, plug in a couple wires and pop open a beer. I’ve never put up a tent in my life.” Oh good grief.

The instructions were about the size of a white pages directory for a small town, with similar typeface. We struggled long into the night. Finally, we managed to piece together a semblance of the picture on the box. Time to embrace Morpheus.

It was designated a six-person tent, which would seem more than adequate for the five we had. Live and learn. It was an arduous night of shared elbows and knees, punctuated by one downpour. Note to self, there is no such thing as ‘waterproof” when it comes to outdoor gear.

We awakened to a continuous din of rumbling and clanking. Was Patton on the march? I climbed over a few bodies and stuck my head out of the tent. Up on the road, an endless convoy of school busses with multiple canoe trailers motored by. The flip side of the popularity indicator. This did not bode well.

The alluring aromas of coffee and bacon wafted across the campground. And, something else. What the hell was that smell? No wonder our patch of ground was previously unoccupied. We were next to the outhouses.

Men stirred and grumbled for sustenance. I opened up the stove box and set it up. Denny unpacked breakfast ingredients. No fire. We reassembled, reconstructed and reacted. Nothing. A jeep with a loudspeaker threw up a cloud of dust. Ten minutes to bus boarding. We scrambled.

Hungry and red-eyed, we rode in silence amidst an excited horde of youngsters bouncing around the inner walls of a crowded bus. The journey was interminable.

At last, we bumped down the final rutted stretch and came to a lurching halt. The kids jubilantly leapt out every orifice of the bus. We slowly unfolded and trudged to the front door.

The guys picked out their rental canoes and equipment. With our unanticipated odd number, I would have to solo paddle my barge. How tough could that be? One less idiot in the boat, right?

The bus driver led us down to the river’s edge. The relatively narrow stream was almost obscured by an infinite skein of canoes with errant life jackets and paddles afloat in the sparse gaps. Uncontrolled canoes loudly careened off each other, creating a floating carillon. Multitudes of children shrieked and parents bellowed admonitions above the din. Ah, wilderness.

I noticed that the river bottom rocks were silver and asked the bus driver about it. “Thousands of aluminum canoes scraping across them every week. You figure it out.”

We loaded out boats and launched off the bank. Or, attempted to. It was like trying to merge into I-75 in Friday afternoon rush hour.

There was little current and not much room to wield a paddle, but the moiling legion of boats bumped us downstream. Eventually, the channel widened and we had some breathing space. We used the opportunity to get to shore and eagerly dive into our trail mix.

A few more miles further downstream, canoes were pulled up in front of a burger stand fronting right on the river, bespeaking of the volume of boat traffic. Alas, we had not thought to bring cash.

The afternoon sun broiled us as we struggled to maintain course and headway. My friends weren’t paddlers and this was my first solo attempt. The trip was turning into an ordeal. I rounded a turn and spotted some shade. We needed a rest.

Stretched out on the bank, sweating, panting and gulping tepid water, we wondered what people did for fun. Our heads turned in unison at a familiar sound coming from upstream. Familiar, but somehow out of place.

A strange craft drifted into view from around the bend. I will describe it from the bottom up. Inflated inner tubes, sheet of plywood, cooler of beer, beach chair with languid occupant, portable TV atop folding table (a baseball game was the sound we had heard) and patio umbrella. So that’s how people had fun in the wilderness.

Once more into the breach. With visions of bubbling freeze-dried camp food dancing in our heads, we doggedly ricocheted from bank to bank for the remainder of the trek. Crawling up onto the bank, we rested briefly before dragging the boats up a long hill to the campsite.

What had been a mere odor was now a malevolent presence. Cooking in the sun all day had ripened the outhouses. Perfect.

I opened a beer and flopped down into a folding chair. That felt better, but why was everyone looking at me? Oh, yeah. Time to grapple with the stove.

As I fiddled with the components, I noticed two women setting up across the path. Maybe I could learn from them.

They brought out their stove and took a break to mix and enjoy martinis. They were strikingly reminiscent of the fun girls from Mount Pilot that Barney Fife picked up.

Then they unloaded a cooler from the trunk of their car. C’mon, light the stove, already. I need to see how it’s done. But no, it was time to mix another batch of potables and light some cigarettes. I sloshed white gas and tried to figure out why no vapors were reaching the burners. I had missed a step somewhere.

The girls got out their pots. But, again turned to the beaker and prepared another potion.

Ed came over to me and asked if we were going to eat or what. I looked at the other guys and knew he spoke for the group. Just asking the girls might help. Doubtful. They were now snorting in laughter and it was obvious that their meal preparation would advance no further, save for the olives.

I dove into the information packet I had received from the state and pulled out a flyer for a smorgasbord in a nearby town. Would the guys hold out for the dubious prospect of a camp meal? No and hell no. We jumped into the Suburban and scattered gravel.

The location appeared to have been a large residence at one time. Two cavernous rooms of food tables and three of dining accommodations. Everyone else was dressed in their Saturday night best. We looked like shipwreck survivors and smelled like Shaq’s locker. Didn’t care. We set about the business of elbowing dowagers out of the way and seeing how high the grub could be piled.

Filled to the gunwales with turkey, dressing and cobbler, we waddled out to the vehicle and pointed for camp. Daphne and Skippy were still doing their part to support the gin producing industry.

We sat around belching and trying not to think about the second leg of the river that awaited us. Denny and I went for a walk. Coming back, we stopped to talk, just short of the outhouse aroma perimeter. Someone tapped me on the shoulder.

“Hi, fella.” It was the girls. I was surprised she hadn’t said “doll.”

“Oh, hi.”

“We’re your neighbors, over there.” At least, that’s what I think she said. The words were fused together into a single sibilant syllable.

“I know.”

The other one took the lead. “I’m going to be honest with you.”

“I was hoping you would.” Oh God, Denny, don’t encourage her.

“We’re came to meet people with similar interests.”

“That’s nice.”

The other one grabbed the wheel. “I’m going to be really honest with you.”

“I appreciate that.”

“We’re here looking for husbands.”

“Well, this is your lucky day.” The girls brightened. “We’re husbands!”

It didn’t register, but a quick explanation sent them flouncing off. We returned to our fragrant campsite where our friends were snoring in the lounge chairs. Not a bad idea.

The next morning was trail mix and Coke, pinballing off a multitude of canoes down the river and breaking camp. It was a quiet ride home.

Not an auspicious beginning, but an education. Show me a capable trip leader and I’ll show you someone covered in the scar tissue of experience.