In a completely unexpected turn of events, we woke up at 8am to blazing sun and the roar of a weedwhacker from just outside our tent… because that’s exactly what you want as your alarm clock on a raging Old Crow hangover. Any disgruntlement the public works tech may have felt at our tent’s presence at the boat launch was clearly assuaged by the agony that his lawn care routine wrought.
It took us a little longer than usual to pack the gear, and we very nearly fell in the river trying to load the boat as we struggled to solidify our opinions on which direction was “up”. Steve threatened repeatedly to barf over the side over the course of our first hour on the river; very little paddling was done, and we mostly reclined on our portage packs with dark glasses and hats on trying to enjoy the sunshine while not letting it touch our eyes. Periodically we broke our hungover silence to yell obscenities at a gimpy duck who consistently outpaced us through the oxbows.
THIS was a day of paddling that normal people think of when you say “canoe trip”. Sunshine, light breeze, steady current with minimal rapids; it was so goddamn picturesque it hurt. We ate lunch in the boat with our feet kicked up on the gunwales, circling lazily in the eddies, discussing the finer points of fishing cabin architecture and watching predatory birds dive over the river. At one point we passed a multi-story treehouse and gave serious consideration to asking if we could move in.
This was the first day that I felt validated by my constant sunscreen application. Steve hiked his shorts up as far as they’d go in an attempt to bring some life into his pasty gams, and “regret” isn’t quite strong enough a word for the ensuing sunburn.
Steve managed to convince me that “jimmy” was the proper name for a ripple in the water that might be a hazard but turned out to be nothing, as opposed to “eddy” for the small circular currents. I’m not proud that it took me almost an hour to figure out he was completely full of shit. (I blame the hangover.)
Camp for the night was at a campground just above Skinners Falls. After chatting with a local guide who was convinced we’d make it through the Class 2+ rapids via “just stick right and send it”, we pitched our tent in the back corner of a closed-for-the-season campground. For the record, we tried super hard to reach the owners to ask permission to camp there overnight; if you’re reading this, we’re really sorry we couldn’t get a real reservation… BUT you will always have a special place in our hearts for leaving the water on in your public showers and giving us a chance to feel like real humans again.
We didn’t see a soul for the rest of the day, and couldn’t shake the feeling that we’d died in the flood and this was now our eternal limbo: paddling down a river into unknown territory, always a little cold and a little wet, and totally alone save for the odd prophesier.