Another 'float'?!?!?
With the weather being so nice, Kim asked if I wanted to join her on a float down the Small Fork (a waterway that dumps into the North River by the bridge). She had access to a collapsible canoe that we wanted to try out. . .
We drove out to White Alice (the end of the ~15 mile road) and began assembling the
unfamiliar canoe. After the initial patching of holes (yes, holes.), we began forcing poles into the tight fitting sleeves along the bowline and practing a few choice words. It seemed next to impossible to get the poles in. Tired and triumphant once we finally got one side in, Murphy's Law was there to greet us- it was the wrong pole! Taking a few breaths, we started tugging on it, pushing, pulling and cussing, to now try and get it out. . . it wouldn't budge! Resorting to reading the directions, we drug the frustrating piece of plastic to the steep bank and clamored down (Kim, myself and Ipuk- Kim's dog), managing to submerge the pole and sleeve, and pulling it back up again onto flat ground. We were willing to try it again, though our excitement for this collapsible canoe was dwidling at best. With two determined minds and out-of-the-box thinking, we finally got the wrong pole out, and the right one in. . . whew, and only after an hour!!
Feeling a little frazzled by the amount of time it was taking to put the canoe together, we debated if we still wanted to attempt the trip. The weather was on our side, and it still wasn’t too late in the day (it was only noon, after all), so we decided that we weren’t going to be defeated yet! We continued step by step through the directions making progress, amazed at the force we had to put behind putting the damn thing together. Many times I was on my knees pushing with all my might, while Kim, standing opposite, pushed in the opposite direction. For those of you that know us, we aren’t wimps. It took muscle to force this thing together. After one such force, I felt something with my foot. It was sort of throbbing, sort of a dull pain. . . I glanced down and could only reply “Oh my gosh. Oh my gosh.” Kim, not knowing what the heck I was talking about questioned me, and all I could say was, “Look at my toe Kim, look at my toe. Oh my gosh. . .”
In the excitement of pushing with all my might, all I can figure is that my toe slipped across the gravel and rocks and it forced the nail backwards. We all know of course that this wouldn’t happen to just any toenail, so I figured that my toenail had been dead for a while (though no color change was apparent at the time), and it had been looking for a way to get torn off. I guess this did the trick. After getting over being totally grossed out at the sight of it, I dealt with it. Thank goodness for the leatherman. (Kim captured some killer photos of my emotions as I did the deed of cutting the entire toenail off. . .)
Well, now that that was taken care of, should we finish putting the canoe together?!?! After a total of two hours, the boat was ready and in the water, and we were loading up our goods.
It’s got to be easier from here, I thought. I wonder if that was the thought that jinxed us? :\
There is a reason this is called the small fork. Not wider than 15 feet across at most points, the winding waterway was made of tight corners, sweepers and strainers around every corner and several beaver ‘damns’ (yes, that is a purposeful play on words). This was not going to be a float trip. Within the first five minutes we came to our first of many fallen trees that completely blocked the waterway from where it lay four feet above water level.
Kim climbed on shore to take a peek around the corner, as I manned the boat on the overgrown carved bank. We knew we weren’t too far away from where we started, allowing us to entertain the idea that we could still turn around if we needed. Kim came back with the okay, so we walked the canoe a little closer to the fallen tree along the shoreline, knowing we had to lift it up and over the log.
Now the shoreline wasn’t a nice shoreline. Think thick knee-high grasses and branches from trees protruding over the edge of an eroded cliff of dirt that can’t be seen. Taking gingerly steps to check my footing, I took one too soon. My left leg left the precarious cliff and landed in the water, up to my knee. . . no big deal, right? It’s just water. The unfortunate part was the fact that my right leg was still high on the bank, with no way to lift myself out that direction, I had to bring the other leg into the water to take a step forward on the cliff in front of me instead of beside me. Wrong choice again. The right leg disappeared into the water with nothing to land on until I was belly-button deep into the cold pool of water. Panic was setting in. Taking quick short breaths in, I was moving my feet quickly to find some sort of footing to get me out, as my right hand flailed at the grasses, trying to grasp onto something, The next step forward had me up to my neck in the water, and I was hanging on to the boat for dear life, as my feet were now dangling with no hope of finding solid ground below me. Kim all the while was laughing from the edge where she still stood dry and warm. Not finding it funny at all, I was desperate to get out of the cold water and was feeling like a puppy trying to learn how to tread water by being thrown into it, ready or not. There was nothing to grab on to, no ledge to prop my feet on, and my frustration level was rising. After Kim apologized and stopped laughing (out loud at least), she found a secure hold for herself, and reached a hand down to me. Clamoring up the steep slope, with the canoe rope still in tow, I stood dripping and wringing my clothes out on the face of the water’s edge shaking my head and thinking, this is not a good sign; then we continued on.
Seeing as that is only the first fifteen minutes of the trip, I’ll save you the time, and give you the condensed version of the remaining hours on the water. . .
We managed to dump and partially or completely fill the canoe with water three or four times (it happened so many times we can’t remember the details anymore). My body was in the water at least three more times (once with my head completely submerged). We managed to get the canoe out from under a sweeper where it was upside down and completely sunken. And we portaged around two beaver dams along the way, not to mention the countless logs crossing our path.
We created our own little system of maneuvering up and over the myriad of logs laying across the water, like two jack-in-the-boxes, each taking our turn to jump onto the log as we approached it, and then jumping back in once our section of the boat was over the obstruction. And as time passed on, the river got narrower and narrower. We were now in a “river” that was narrower than our boat was long, not sure we can call it a river anymore, or if it should have ever been called a river for that matter.
We had plenty of practice for our yoga and contortion skills as we maneuvered our bodies under branches we’d hand back to one another as we pulled ourselves, and the boat, through the branches that hung as filters across the entire waterway. Limbo became the name of the game and paddles were no longer necessary. With scratched backs, soaked clothing, white sock bites covering every inch of our skin and nearly six hours from our starting point, we actually managed to reach the North River in tact (for the most part). The thought of another 2.5 hours in the boat to reach town was not being entertained at this point. We were going to find another way home. Not sure how Murphy’s Law didn’t follow us to the very end, but we lucked out with someone fishing along the shoreline that Kim knew, and he even had a truck! We pulled out and asked for a ride. Though in hindsight I realize that the sight of our boat filled with leaves and branches, our backs red and swollen, and faces exhibiting pure exhaustion, I’m sure we looked desperate and he knew he didn’t have much of a choice in the matter.
So for a float trip that started out eight hours earlier, a canoe that had been cussed at, submerged and drug across countless trees and bodies that were chewed on, scratched up, physically tested and baptized in the cold water – I would no longer call it a float trip. This had been an adventure. A trip no one has probably ever done before, and no one should rightfully do again.
PS- the next day, my feet, ankles and calves were swollen and itched like nothing I've ever felt before. The number of bites on my lower legs was astounding. My back was equally as puffy and itchy. . . an adventure to remember. . . an adventure to remember, I had to keep telling myself that (and to never go 'floating' with Kim again).
We drove out to White Alice (the end of the ~15 mile road) and began assembling the
unfamiliar canoe. After the initial patching of holes (yes, holes.), we began forcing poles into the tight fitting sleeves along the bowline and practing a few choice words. It seemed next to impossible to get the poles in. Tired and triumphant once we finally got one side in, Murphy's Law was there to greet us- it was the wrong pole! Taking a few breaths, we started tugging on it, pushing, pulling and cussing, to now try and get it out. . . it wouldn't budge! Resorting to reading the directions, we drug the frustrating piece of plastic to the steep bank and clamored down (Kim, myself and Ipuk- Kim's dog), managing to submerge the pole and sleeve, and pulling it back up again onto flat ground. We were willing to try it again, though our excitement for this collapsible canoe was dwidling at best. With two determined minds and out-of-the-box thinking, we finally got the wrong pole out, and the right one in. . . whew, and only after an hour!!
Feeling a little frazzled by the amount of time it was taking to put the canoe together, we debated if we still wanted to attempt the trip. The weather was on our side, and it still wasn’t too late in the day (it was only noon, after all), so we decided that we weren’t going to be defeated yet! We continued step by step through the directions making progress, amazed at the force we had to put behind putting the damn thing together. Many times I was on my knees pushing with all my might, while Kim, standing opposite, pushed in the opposite direction. For those of you that know us, we aren’t wimps. It took muscle to force this thing together. After one such force, I felt something with my foot. It was sort of throbbing, sort of a dull pain. . . I glanced down and could only reply “Oh my gosh. Oh my gosh.” Kim, not knowing what the heck I was talking about questioned me, and all I could say was, “Look at my toe Kim, look at my toe. Oh my gosh. . .”
In the excitement of pushing with all my might, all I can figure is that my toe slipped across the gravel and rocks and it forced the nail backwards. We all know of course that this wouldn’t happen to just any toenail, so I figured that my toenail had been dead for a while (though no color change was apparent at the time), and it had been looking for a way to get torn off. I guess this did the trick. After getting over being totally grossed out at the sight of it, I dealt with it. Thank goodness for the leatherman. (Kim captured some killer photos of my emotions as I did the deed of cutting the entire toenail off. . .)
Well, now that that was taken care of, should we finish putting the canoe together?!?! After a total of two hours, the boat was ready and in the water, and we were loading up our goods.
It’s got to be easier from here, I thought. I wonder if that was the thought that jinxed us? :\There is a reason this is called the small fork. Not wider than 15 feet across at most points, the winding waterway was made of tight corners, sweepers and strainers around every corner and several beaver ‘damns’ (yes, that is a purposeful play on words). This was not going to be a float trip. Within the first five minutes we came to our first of many fallen trees that completely blocked the waterway from where it lay four feet above water level.
Kim climbed on shore to take a peek around the corner, as I manned the boat on the overgrown carved bank. We knew we weren’t too far away from where we started, allowing us to entertain the idea that we could still turn around if we needed. Kim came back with the okay, so we walked the canoe a little closer to the fallen tree along the shoreline, knowing we had to lift it up and over the log.
Now the shoreline wasn’t a nice shoreline. Think thick knee-high grasses and branches from trees protruding over the edge of an eroded cliff of dirt that can’t be seen. Taking gingerly steps to check my footing, I took one too soon. My left leg left the precarious cliff and landed in the water, up to my knee. . . no big deal, right? It’s just water. The unfortunate part was the fact that my right leg was still high on the bank, with no way to lift myself out that direction, I had to bring the other leg into the water to take a step forward on the cliff in front of me instead of beside me. Wrong choice again. The right leg disappeared into the water with nothing to land on until I was belly-button deep into the cold pool of water. Panic was setting in. Taking quick short breaths in, I was moving my feet quickly to find some sort of footing to get me out, as my right hand flailed at the grasses, trying to grasp onto something, The next step forward had me up to my neck in the water, and I was hanging on to the boat for dear life, as my feet were now dangling with no hope of finding solid ground below me. Kim all the while was laughing from the edge where she still stood dry and warm. Not finding it funny at all, I was desperate to get out of the cold water and was feeling like a puppy trying to learn how to tread water by being thrown into it, ready or not. There was nothing to grab on to, no ledge to prop my feet on, and my frustration level was rising. After Kim apologized and stopped laughing (out loud at least), she found a secure hold for herself, and reached a hand down to me. Clamoring up the steep slope, with the canoe rope still in tow, I stood dripping and wringing my clothes out on the face of the water’s edge shaking my head and thinking, this is not a good sign; then we continued on.
Seeing as that is only the first fifteen minutes of the trip, I’ll save you the time, and give you the condensed version of the remaining hours on the water. . .
We managed to dump and partially or completely fill the canoe with water three or four times (it happened so many times we can’t remember the details anymore). My body was in the water at least three more times (once with my head completely submerged). We managed to get the canoe out from under a sweeper where it was upside down and completely sunken. And we portaged around two beaver dams along the way, not to mention the countless logs crossing our path.
We created our own little system of maneuvering up and over the myriad of logs laying across the water, like two jack-in-the-boxes, each taking our turn to jump onto the log as we approached it, and then jumping back in once our section of the boat was over the obstruction. And as time passed on, the river got narrower and narrower. We were now in a “river” that was narrower than our boat was long, not sure we can call it a river anymore, or if it should have ever been called a river for that matter.
We had plenty of practice for our yoga and contortion skills as we maneuvered our bodies under branches we’d hand back to one another as we pulled ourselves, and the boat, through the branches that hung as filters across the entire waterway. Limbo became the name of the game and paddles were no longer necessary. With scratched backs, soaked clothing, white sock bites covering every inch of our skin and nearly six hours from our starting point, we actually managed to reach the North River in tact (for the most part). The thought of another 2.5 hours in the boat to reach town was not being entertained at this point. We were going to find another way home. Not sure how Murphy’s Law didn’t follow us to the very end, but we lucked out with someone fishing along the shoreline that Kim knew, and he even had a truck! We pulled out and asked for a ride. Though in hindsight I realize that the sight of our boat filled with leaves and branches, our backs red and swollen, and faces exhibiting pure exhaustion, I’m sure we looked desperate and he knew he didn’t have much of a choice in the matter.
So for a float trip that started out eight hours earlier, a canoe that had been cussed at, submerged and drug across countless trees and bodies that were chewed on, scratched up, physically tested and baptized in the cold water – I would no longer call it a float trip. This had been an adventure. A trip no one has probably ever done before, and no one should rightfully do again.PS- the next day, my feet, ankles and calves were swollen and itched like nothing I've ever felt before. The number of bites on my lower legs was astounding. My back was equally as puffy and itchy. . . an adventure to remember. . . an adventure to remember, I had to keep telling myself that (and to never go 'floating' with Kim again).
posted by Carrie @ 8:58 PM
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