Date: 2004-06-12
From: Georgia

To: Maine
Miles today: 15.0
Weather: overcast clouds

Shenandoah River, VAEarly miles of a 75-mile tripTuesdayI'm sitting in the stern of a 17 foot canoe gently sliding down theShenandoah River with AT thruhiker Spice Man & Party Girl. With us, a30-pack of Miller High Life, half a gallon of Jack, a half gallon ofEvan Williams bourbon, a case of generic Coke, a fifth of Mescal, fivegallons of drinking water, a bag of pharmaceuticals for emergency sedation, aquarter bag of special spice, and our brains - each so wild-eyed andgoogly that it oughta be licensed as a concealed cerebral weapon in theeverlasting gonzo fight of the free & the brave.Spiceman was reticent about this whole gig, but he's getting into itnow. Granted, we're only moving at perhaps a mile an hour on theslow-flowing Shenandoah¢s. At about Mile 3, we gotta pull out and portage the canoe around a dam. It is the first of three dams we will conquer on our trip. I've gotpoison ivy on my right arm in a kind of slice-pattern, as though I slitmy wrist laterally, the wrong way. That ain't bad. The bad spot is onmy left arm, just inside the elbow, such that every time I fold my armthe shit spreads itself. Another of the joys of nature. This stretch of the Shenandoah River is ideal for our littlehalf-cocked threesome in a canoe. Every ten minutes or so there come asweet little stretch of rapids, a narrowing of the river with rocks tododge and trees to duck. There isn't a soul out here. Just us. Andwe laugh like children as we take on a rapid, zooming through, the boatjiggling up and down, water spraying over the gunnels, Spiceman upfront taking most of the splash over the bow. We cruise along sighting out rope swings, sizing them up, comparingthem. Most are ropes tied to random trees on a forested edge, nohouses around. We pick one, a blue and white rope, strong and thicklike a climbing rope. I scale up the tree which reaches far out overthe water, in itself a sweet diving platform. I pull the rope up andSpiceman follows, swings, arcs far out and drops with a splash. PG isinspired. She leaves her throne in the center of the canoe and is inthe water and up the tree. Later in the boat we talk about how ourjourney would make a nice board game, each stop along the way amini-adventure unto itself.Last night it was Spider Island. We'd spent the late afternoon rowingin light showers, alternately relaxed, then wired with the approach ofrapids, always on the search for the perfect isle to call home for thenight. An island because it assured us of some privacy and in alllikelihood no accusation of trespassing. We found one, a long narrowisthmus that I liked but had to admit, as romantic as it looked, twastoo narrow to tent on with anything but a hammock.A few fun little rapid runs later, we came upon Spider Island, a tinyjungle in the center of the river that we so-named for itspreponderance of arachnids. I hit the beach like a hurricane, feelinggreat, and in rare form took up a paddle in hand and wielding it likescythe & machete, cleared all the mad lush viney jungle creepers toform a nice sandy patch of beach. This would be our home for thenight. By now, Spiceman, who had lost his jar of spice earlier that day andproceeded to drown his sorrow in half a gallon of southern whiskey and2 mg Klonipin donated by yours truly, did a fine job collecting stonesfrom the shore and building a fire pit. Nay, twas more than a firepit. It was a work of art, smallish stones piled and fit togetherpuzzle-like into a towering well.Up ahead we meet our first "fellow canoers," a family or two in threecanoes, mostly kids. On the river since Tuesday, we'd been totallyalone for 40 miles. Several Budweiser¢s and a shot or two of Mescal inme, I spy a great jump spot, a tree jutting out over a deep section ofriver at a less than a 45 degree angle, thus easy to clamber up, andgreat for jumping. At its peak, that is to say as high as one couldclimb amidst its branches without snapping one off, it's about a40-foot drop. We race ahead of the kids and pull up to the base of thetree. I climb out and straight up it, as always with an almost uncannysense of balance I am up and away and ready to plunge in no time. Thekids notice. They tune in and pretty soon everyone on the river iswatching. It should be a perfect 10, a bold and beautiful leap fromgreat height to the amazement of all. But I'm too confident. Or wasit the Budweiser? I dunno. I lower myself down and hang from thebranch, increasing the tension below by putting myself in a position of"no turning back." Then I make my mistake. I start swinging. I letgo on a back swing and plummet 40-feet to the stone-hard surface of thewater in full belly flop posture. In an instant, I rediscover my (oflate) sedentary balls. Later, I climb and jump again to avenge myself.But it's too late. The kids are gone.-RSM For the full story of Rick's journey, visit Jigglebox.com