Homegrown Locals

The Drive

2011-08-17T03:54:00.000-04:00

Kerry and I lived at the River for thirty one straight days this summer. On the morning of the thirty-second day I was off in a flurry with Nathan Sass and Jordan Poffenberger, headed to the wilds of Canada. One chapter ends and another begins.

Our time at the river was special. We arrived with Olive and Mogul in mid-July. The days were and the nights perfectly cool as we built fire after fire and watched the lights of Clayton glisten in the distance. We finally visited Gananoque, enjoyed a rainy day in Kingston, and celebrated our anniversary at the Wellesley Inn in T.I. Park, (afterward I almost made Kerry puke by spinning her around on the merry go round at an impossible speed.) We knee boarded, visited the sunken freighter, had parties in the Skiff House, jumped off Leake Island a million times, and drifted off to sleep at night listening to Christopher Timothy deliver the memoirs of James Herriot. It is undoubtedly a special place, and the two of us love it dearly. It now holds a remarkably special place in my heart, and I am beginning to understand the melancholy regret that goes along with leaving the dock at Rockledge for the last time of the summer. I am not sure what the future holds for the two of us in terms of staying at Rockledge, but I am fairly certain we will find a way to continue to spend time in such a magical place.

All things run their course, and on the morning of the thirty second day I was off on a new adventure. It was necessary that we drove two cars into Canada, even though there was only three of us. The first shuttle in particular presented a pressing feat of driving endurance. We were on our way to the fabled Taureau River, one of the most difficult runs in eastern Canada. The Taureau is fifteen miles long and cuts through some formidable terrain in the boreal forest of Jaques Cartier National Park approximately one hour north of Quebec City.

As we crossed the border, I stared down over the bridge into the clear and smoothly tilting waters of the Rift on the St. Lawrence. Moments of summer lilted like a soft ray of sunshine through my mind. I pushed the pedal and crept forward, slowly letting the breath of August course through my veins.

We stopped to grab some lunch along the way, and before long we were passing through Quebec City looking for the road north into Jaques Cartier Park. After a few wrong turns and an impressive view of the three hundred foot Montmorency Falls we found 175 and headed into the storm clouds looming on the horizon.

Quebec City is a majestic piece of urban ground set aloft on high ground hovering above the St. Lawrence River. As we corrected our course, I stared at the St. Lawrence, a pathway to home. When I am on the road it is usually not long before a baroque loneliness begins to chill my soul. This fact is not unappreciated, but rather it is interesting to me that I often long for this feeling of stony solitude. I consider it a necessary natural process of keeping the balance between my diametrically opposed internal workings of equal tendencies to be both an intro and extrovert.

It began to rain as we made our way into the park. We stopped at the booth and a strikingly cute young girl took our money in exchange for entrance. We headed down the windy road working our way toward the put-in. The sun was set, and the mist hung over the Taureau like a solemn totem, a foreboding warning that made the hair stand on the backs our necks. It was like traveling through the Gates of Mordor.

It took one hour to reach the take-out point. We dropped Jordan's car, loaded he and Nathan's boats on the Jeep and hung a few pieces of kayak gear from trees on the banks of the river so we knew where to take out.

It was nice to have some company, and just as we were about to leave a park ranger showed up and began to yell at us in broken english with a strong shot of a french accent. He thought we were going to try and illegally camp, but we explained we were only setting shuttle to run the river tomorrow. We made our plans clear to him so we could avoid a fine, but more so to make sure someone would come searching for us if things went wrong on the river. We were warned the river was very high by an experienced local guide.

Once things were settled with the park ranger, we were off on our two and a half hour shuttle to the put-in. There were no signs, no lights, and no gas stations on the way there, just mile after mile of tall wire fence lining the highway to keep the moose from crossing inconspicuously. Finally, we reached the entrance.

It was pouring and the fog was thick. We began our way down the dirt track into the Canadian wilderness. There is no way to describe the feeling other than ominous. Ten minutes down the dirt track and I jerked the wheel almost jumping out of my seat. A giant moose bounded out of the wood and into the road. We chased him for several minutes before he reared off into a small cut in the trees. The forest was dark and foreboding, thick with moss, ferns, and infinite bramble. It was impenetrable.

The dirt road ended, and I turned to Nathan to ask confirmation to continue. He remembered it steep and treacherous, so we plodded on. There was no more road, just an overgrown double track trail that seemed occasionally used by hikers and more likely moose. We descended downward for about twenty minutes when finally the trail became so tight it seemed the Jeep might no longer be able to pass through. The rain smashed the gun metal roof in angry droves. I hopped out of the car and stood in the rain. I felt as if the forest were swallowing me whole. I stared at the tiny sodden Jeep and knew it was our only lifeline, our only way back out. I hopped back in the driver's seat.

We backtracked up the trail and the tires immediately began to spin. I stopped the Jeep and put the car into four wheel drive. I pressed the pedal. Traction. Then, the tires began to spin and the Jeep slowed. Slow, slower, until our movement forward was nearly imperceptible. I knew that if we stopped, we were cooked. We would have been stuck in the middle of that thick black boreal forest, drenched in rain with no where to go, and many miles from anything or anyone.

We fishtailed wildly to the point where I thought I might lose control of the Jeep. We bounced dangerously up and down as the tires sloshed about in helpless desperation searching for some piece of solid ground. Inch by inch we moved forward, the engine whining in exhaustion, begging for mercy, but I knew there was none to be had until we were safely at the top. In a surge finally the tires bit solid ground and we climbed voraciously. The three of us breathed a sigh of relief. They congratulated me on my driving prowess. It was our first test as a group, and we had made it.

We made the decision to continue back to the entrance and make camp for the night in the rain. They set up a two man tent and I passed out in the back of the Jeep. My eyes closed and I gently drifted off to the pitter patter of rain drops on the windows.

When I awoke, I momentarily forgot where I was. The rain rolled rhythmically down the glass and the air was thick with a smokey fog.

A sense of ominous foreboding filled the air.

We were going kayaking, and the river was Richter high.

Day 31 - Kingston

2011-08-10T10:24:00.000-04:00

It was a rainy day. Kerry and I boated over to Wolfe Island, borrowed Rebecca's car and drove to Marysville to take the ferry over to Kingston. We ate lunch at Panchanco, one of Kerry's favorite restaurants. I picked unwisely and had a less than appetizing tostada with scallop ceviche, probably not the thing to order in a restaurant specializing in the local organic.

We went to the market to pick up a few fruits and veggies, and I stopped in a local book shop to pick up a few maps of Quebec. A few friends from home are driving up, and we are heading off for a few days to kayak in Canada. The timing is not perfect, but I have wanted to do the trip for the whole summer, so I am trading some final days of family time to go.

It was a great day in Kingston. The drive back to Rockledge in the boat was a wee bit stormy. We all had dinner with Aunt Roslyn's sister and her family, and Cullen taught me how to make an alcohol stove out of a beer can.

Nathan and Jordan arrived around nine o'clock. We talked trip logistics before heading off to bed, intending to head off late morning.

Day 30 - Work

2011-08-10T10:17:00.000-04:00

It was this morning that the idea of returning to work began to set in. I checked email and tended to a number of issues with 'My Own Backyard'. I am definitely looking forward to the upcoming year, but I know when it comes time to actually leave this place, I will immediately long to be back.

Day 28 - Sunday Recovery

2011-08-10T10:15:00.000-04:00

Everyone spent most of the day recovering until late afternoon. We all ate dinner at the Clayton Yacht Club, the premier and most venerable institution in town. We shared some ice cream at the Scoop afterward and concluded the day with an evening Parcheesi game.

Day 27 - Polish Horseshoes

2011-08-10T10:11:00.000-04:00

Cullen turned twenty-one on Saturday, and we spent the day making preparations to host a large party at the farm cottage on Saturday night. There are few social gatherings I enjoy as much as a good family gathering at the River. We split firewood, hung lights, and Cullen and Conor built a new game called Polish Horseshoes, which became an instant classic.

Polish Horseshoes consists of two spikes set in the ground big enough to host a beer bottle atop each. Players can play singles or doubles and take turns throwing a frisbee at the other team's pole attempting to knock the beer bottle off the top. Points are awarded for knocking the bottle off clean, knocking it off hitting the post, and lesser points if the other team catches it after the bottle is knocked off. The game went on into the wee hours of the morning.

Kerry was sick most of the evening and unable to take part in the festivities. I ended up sitting around the fire until three with only Luke Metcalf left to accompany me. The canoe full of ice and beer was three quarters empty when I finally retired to bed.

Day 26 - Down and Out

2011-08-10T10:06:00.000-04:00

I opened my eyes, and quickly realized I was not feeling much better. I felt like I had a fever, but as I am usually not sick and a bad patient, and did not have much confidence in my own assessment. I tried to head over to Rockledge for breakfast, but soon decided I was better off resting. I went upstairs and laid down on a bed overlooking the river and was in and out of sleep for the entire day until about five o'clock. Somewhere in there Kerry took my temperature and it came in at 102. No sooner had the bug set in, my fever broke and around five, I decided I felt well enough to crawl out of bed and walk down to the dock. I gradually improved over the next day or so, as the illness passed to Erin Clare and Kerry the next night.

Day 25 - Stricken

2011-08-10T10:02:00.000-04:00

Another great day ended up around the bonfire on the Point gathered after dinner. Everyone was cooking Smores when I began to feel a bit ill. It was within twenty minutes that I removed myself inside to the floor around the Parcheesi table. I promptly passed out and awoke to Kerry shaking me to head back to Cottage. I could not stop shaking and felt desperately cold. The short walk home felt unbearably long, and I was relieved to crawl into bed. The worst was yet to come.

Day 24 - Brothers

2011-08-03T23:56:00.000-04:00

I went for a run to the town dock. My foot has been aching for days. I tried to start running again, and overdid it a bit on my first two days back. After a few days of rest, I was feeling pretty good and gave it another go.

My foot was feeling better. I ran a bit past the dock, and down the old gravel road to a white mailbox and turned around. On my way back I was confronted by a black lab. He is always out and about, and lives at an old cabin on the side of the dirt road leading back to the farm cottage.

He stood in the middle of the road. I tried to make friends by holding out my hand for him to sniff, but he would walk within inches, give a startling bark and then scamper back down the road. I advanced further, and finally his owner who was cutting the grass on top of an old red riding mower stopped in the middle of the road.

When I started my run I ran into a guy named Charlie who lives next to the farm cottage with his wife. I stopped and we chatted for a bit. I asked if I could still borrow his log splitter. He said his offer stood, and I was welcome to come by to use it in the morning. Once, I start running, I don't like to stop, but it was really no trouble, and I was off again in no time. However, on the way back, it looked like I was going to stop again, and I must admit it was in begrudging fashion that I felt obliged to offer some friendly island conversation.

Over the past few summers, I have run by this old cabin many times on runs around the island, but have never before seen the inhabitant. He is a barrel chested old man of about sixty or seventy years of age. He was dressed in old blue jeans and a flannel shirt, on this particularly cool afternoon.

We started talking about all manners of things. I always enjoy the conversation of complete strangers. I am eager to hear about what they do and where they're from, trying to assemble the pieces into a picture of their life.

Rick lives on Grindstone year round. He hunts most of his food and heats his small cabin with wood through the winter. He stopped at one point in our conversation meticulously eyeing a bird down the dirt road on which we stood. He sat atop his red tractor and told me stories of his life on the island, and his years spent in the mountains of Montana in a small logging town.

'Nice and peaceful here on the island. In the summer there's a lot of traffic, or what I would consider a lot of traffic, but otherwise nice and quiet,' he mused.

He told me of his back troubles and his upcoming surgery when I inquired about the 'for sale' sign on his lawn.

'I can't move ten feet without it hurtin' real bad these days.'

'My dad just had surgery on his neck, and he came out alright,' I said as I tried to offer some assurance.

'My brother lives on down the road. We don't talk much though. He's an overbearing doctor, and I don't take well to people tryin' to tell me how to live my life.'

I sympathized with him. I don't either I thought. I hate when people try to tell me what to do about anything. I could not help but think though that if his brother was a doctor, what a shame it was that he lived down the road and they did not speak. It seemed likely his brother might help him with back.

'What kind of doctor is your brother?' I asked.

'He is an orthopedist.' Oh, the crushing irony. His brother, who coincidentally turned out to be the man I stopped to speak with on the start of my run, was an orthopedist. Here I was speaking with his brother at the end of my run who had a bad back and needed surgery, but they did not speak and it was highly likely the one brother even knew about the plight of the other.

People are complicated in such peculiar ways.

I took a glance at the old white pickup truck on the side of the road with a snarled tire falling off a battered silver rim leaning in the dirt. He noticed me looking at it.

'Been there for three weeks. Can't move around so well, so I can't work as well as I used to. Havin' a hell of a time gettin' that thing off.'

I inspected the tire and looked carefully at the rim.

'I could come and give you a hand if we can jack it up.' He was pleasant enough and I liked his black lab, Tucker, who seemed to finally take a liking to me and was licking my hand. I felt a drop of rain on my forehead.

'I best be going. I will try and wander up in the morning to give you a hand.'

'That sounds good,' he said.

I jogged down the dirt road. A few more rain drops splashed down. I could not help but feel a bit fascinated by the story lurking beneath the surface about two brothers on a small island in the middle of a huge river, separated only by a few hundred yards of dirt road and their unwillingness to speak with one another.

I thought about my grandfather at home in Virginia. I thought of his ill disposed attitude toward my parents, and his stubborn, unruly, wayward, and wrongheaded attitude toward life. It is a shame the pickles people work themselves into in life.

Yes, I would definitely travel back tomorrow to help Rick remove that hub. Perhaps, it was the sense of comradery I felt with Rick, or some internal sense of reaching out to my stubborn grandfather vis a vis this old dirt road man on Grindstone Island. I am certain of one thing.

You never know what you'll find on a dirt road.

Day 23 - Great Sandy Bay

2011-08-03T19:18:00.000-04:00

Kerry loves Great Sandy Bay. The water was placid, calm, smooth as silk. We headed out to meet the rest of the family on the sandy shores of Lake Ontario. The boat ride takes forty-five minutes, and the ride is beautiful.

On the way out we passed a swift moving freighter. In calm waters there were no other winds or currents to dissipate its wave action, and we were suddenly hurling full speed toward a set of six to eight foot rollers. We flew off the top of the first, airborne, as I pulled back quickly on the throttle. We slowed and rode out the rest, diving into the deep troughs and staring skyward as we flew over the crests.

We rounded the point, and into the bay, floating over wave sets with significantly longer periods than one sees further upriver. The Grady White was anchored near the shore. The sun was high in the sky beating down on our increasingly brown bodies. The wind turbines stood like silent sentinels watching the shores. The air smelled fresh and clean, like laundry dried on the line.

Kerry loves this place, and if I could pick a place that makes her most happy, I believe it would be this one. She smiles in pure joy, swimming along the sandy bottom, counting the ripples in the sand, feeling them with her fingers. I laid lazily in the bow of our boat gently floating up and down and drifting off into a peaceful afternoon nap as she begged me off to do a dolphin race with her. It was an afternoon wrought with the spirit of childhood, making up silly games like jumping off the bottom, up and out of the water and back down again as many times as possible before we got dizzy. She climbed and jumped from my shoulders repeatedly laughing all the while, and I challenged her to a swim underneath our boat which lay in shallow water. We swam down pushing our chests into the sand and emerged on the other side. She climbed on the boat, and in one last trick of the day she jumped from the bow.

Her spirit connects with this bay, and it was obvious for me to see in a way so strong that it offered understanding.

I was glad we visited.

Day 22 - The Plunge

2011-08-03T18:49:00.001-04:00

Some things in life simply draw you in. I cannot resist the allure of the sense of a bit of danger. The cliff on Prince Regent Island is an impeccably dressed cliff, standing tall in its suit of solid grey granite, capped with a hat of brisk green conifer trees, standing in a deep aqua blue pool of shimmering crystal water.

My urge to share this treasure is equally as strong as my desire to jump from atop its crown. I try desperately not to be too pushy, but I find the experience so invigorating it is impossible not to implore others to take the plunge... especially when I can see the shimmer in their eyes and I know they're game.

Conor and Keith hopped in the boat with me. Keith drove out to the cliff. We circled around and hid in the cove so as not to be seen by the property owners. I accompanied Keith on a quick depth inspection and we quietly edged our way to the top while Conor manned the boat. We stood and stared out among the islands, the silhouettes of Cormorants tucked in the evening shadows. We hushed in whispered tones. I counted, 'one, two, three' and was sailing. Time slowed, and my arms spread in a primeval desire to fly before slowly retracting in vain, held close to my body as I plunged beneath the surface.

I stared up at Keith, his knees bent, and then in a flash he was airborne falling precipitously. He emerged awash in a giant grin. 'That was big.'

Conor climbed and I followed again, while this time Keith manned the helm. The same scenario played itself out again, a scenario as old as time itself - men standing at the edge of the abyss and hurling themselves off into the great unknown.

In those moments when you fall, it is only these and similar moments in life when the coin lands neither heads nor tails, but lands perched unwavering on its edge, in a moment perfectly balanced between chaos and order.

Day 21 - Party for a Princess

2011-08-03T18:19:00.000-04:00

James and I stood patiently beneath the oak contemplating how to hang a pink pinata that said 'Princess' on it from one of the branches.

James finally accomplished the task.

James - 'It's a good thing, I'm not evil.'

Me - 'Why?'

James - 'Because I'm a genius.'

And so the afternoon ensued, cousins by the dozen invading the island eyes set on the pretty pink prize hanging from the tree. Finally, it was time and we all gathered round for the show. One, two, three whacks. No dice. Alas, the blind fold came out, and three forcefully placed precision whacks later, a swarm of children dove simultaneously at a pile of candy floating down from the tattered pink ribbons floating in the breeze.

The afternoon rolled into evening and finally folks motored off to their own family dinners.

Day 20 - Molly's Gut

2011-08-03T18:11:00.001-04:00

I once heard someone say,'if something makes you happy attack it'.

I am beginning to get a bit stir crazy out here. The days are coming and going with rapid fluidity, and they are merging one into another.

Erin Clare was feeling the same way, so we decided to head back to Molly's Gut near Stave to do a bit of snorkeling and then maybe on to Gananoque to eat some barbecue. Kerry could not decide if she wanted to come, and then finally at the last minute hopped aboard.

We headed to Stave to find the rest of the MacLean clan. Two of the younger cousins wandered into a bees nest in Molly's Gut and were stung from head to toe, and hence forth for the rest of the afternoon the entire family descended upon Stave Island enlightening the Mullen's day with unrequited company.

Erin Clare and I found less than ideal conditions for snorkeling in Molly's Gut because of weekend boat traffic, and were pulled into the MacLean vortex at the Mullen's and the rest of our afternoon disappeared into thin air.

Day 19 - The Twins

2011-08-03T18:00:00.000-04:00

The twins arrived in tow with their parents and sister, James, Ashley, and Chloe.

James called the day before and asked, 'Is the house quiet?'

Kerry responded, 'Yes, it's been pretty quiet around here.'

James - 'Good, because it's about to get loud'.

Immediately upon their evening arrival, I found myself in the boat with their family taking their first boat cruise of the season. I was happy to introduce them to Molly's Gut, near Stave Island and took James for a leap off the new cliff on the back side of Prince Regent.

James - 'Ash, can I jump?'

Ash - 'If you don't love your children.'

We jumped.

As the house gets crowded, things always get interesting.

Day 18- Soggy Bikers

2011-08-03T17:55:00.001-04:00

We awoke to a vicious and mighty storm that ensnared the entire Thousand Islands within its grasp. Keith and Conor were arriving from their cross country bike trip, an undoubtedly impressive and inspiring feat.

Erin Clare, Kerry, and I made our way across the river to Clayton in conditions where visibility was reduced to almost nothing. The rain pelted our faces and our glasses fogged as we slowed to a crawl. We finally arrived at the town dock thankful to be in one piece.

The guys rolled in sopping wet. They completed their journey of over three thousand miles in front of Jreck's Sub Shop. We ordered subs and headed back to Grindstone, enjoying the rest of the of wet and rainy day listening to the stories of their cross country adventure.

Day 17 - The Mullens

2011-07-31T18:17:00.000-04:00

The Mullens invited us over for dinner. Ker and I love visiting the Mullens on Stave Island. They have a cozy little spot overlooking a beautiful spot on the river. The Mullens are simply great people. They are a modern urban homesteaders, living in Philadelphia during the year, and Stave Island during the summer. They have three kids, chickens and a sport rifle so they can shoot red squirrels from their deck.

When we arrived at their home they presented us with a set of hand crafted Adirondack chairs as a wedding gift. The chairs are incredible, and we set them by the fire ring in front of the cottage. Toni made homemade tortillas and we ate some of the best fajitas I have ever had.

We shared stories and some great laughs, and around eleven we headed off in the dark, with only our bow light. We drove slowly all the way home and Erin Clare and Kerry stood in the bow with spotlights looking for shoals.

Day 16 - Stave Island

2011-07-28T10:48:00.000-04:00

The day was incredibly slow moving until about two o'clock in the afternoon. We ran some errands in town, and headed to Stave Island afterward to give Andy Mullen a ride to Wolf Island where everyone was gathering for dinner.

Stave is an incredible island, and the Mullen's have an awesome spot. The water is deep and their house is nestled in a tiny alcove perched atop a small woody cliff. Andy always has beer on top and we shared a beer on the dock and caught up about the year.

We set off for Wolf a bit later and arrived to a roaring fire and hot food. I took the younger cousins out knee boarding, which seems to be everyone's new favorite activity this year. I had waited all day for a turn, and just as it was getting dark I was able to beg Kerry out to drive while I took a few spins on the board. I had one major wipe-out, but on the bright side was able to pull of a few three-sixties for the first time.

Day 15 - Blue Paint

2011-07-27T12:05:00.000-04:00

Kerry woke up in a rampage. She was set to paint the bedroom blue. Erin Clare arrived the night before and was staying with us for the week while Ryan Northington’s parents were visiting from Texas. When Kerry’s mind is made up that she wants to do something, she is going to do it, quite the same as myself. It was easiest to go along with her plan and stay out of the way.

The three of us loaded the boat and headed into town. Erin Clare took care of a few things at the library in preparation for her year in England. Kerry and I grabbed some breakfast. We picked up our supplies at the hardware store and headed back to the island.

I did not want much to do with painting, so I continued my shore line clearing project, while the girls painted. I took apart the chainsaw and cleaned the air filter. It was a finicky machine, stubborn, and prone to easily flooding and not starting. I let it sit for twenty minutes while another large thunderstorm brewed on the horizon.

We sat on the edge of the thunderstorm line for most of the afternoon. Finally, the chainsaw started and I began to clear. I felled three trees, the sky turned black, and it started to pour. I hurriedly retreated inside the cottage to wait out the storm. It was violent and thick. It rained with fury for about thirty to forty minutes and just as quickly as the sky had blackened it was once again a beautiful opaque blue with puffy white clouds. I grabbed the saw and headed back outside.

It is immensely satisfying to watch the trees come down, throw them in a huge pile, and haul them away with the tractor. I enjoy using the saw, but most of all driving the old nineteen sixties red and rusty Massey Ferguson tractor. She is an impeccable machine that has worked hard through the years. She starts right up without so much as a hiccup, and I am amazed at the ease with which she pulls seemingly intolerably heavy loads.

I spent the good part of four straight hours working with the saw and tractor.

When I was finished, I set out for a run. I wanted to test my current state of physical ability, and painfully discovered I have a long way to go. I spent so much time kayaking this fall and spring, that I spent little time running or working out in other ways.

I started running for the town dock. My legs were heavy and my knees sore, but I was pleased with how I was moving along. When I got to the town dock, I felt like going farther so I headed to the school house. When I reached the school house I was about 2.5 miles out. My legs felt like lead, and I was moving along quite slowly. It was a long painful slog back to the cottage, but I made it without stopping.

It was a start.

Day 14 - Canada, Oh Canada

2011-07-27T11:47:00.000-04:00

Kerry and I woke up and headed out on a mountain bike ride through Grindstone Island. We were in search of Mid River Farm, an on island farm selling grass fed beef, pork, chicken and eggs. We found the farm, but a storm was brewing on the horizon, and no one was home. We had time enough to snap a few pictures of the farm and pushed onward. The mountain biking on the island is a great mix of dirt and gravel roads, fire roads and even a bit of single-track. We cruised through a huge expanse of open meadow filled with thousands of Black Eyed Susan wildflowers. It started raining and we pedaled faster back to the cottage.

We got back to the cottage, changed, and headed out in the boat to Gananoque. I was excited. The boat ride to Gananoque takes about ten minutes. It is just on the back side of Grindstone Island, but a world away. We pulled up to the Marina and everyone was speaking French, likely a herd of vacationers from Quebec.

Our assignment was to ‘check-in’ to Canada. We docked the boat and walked to an old school pay phone booth, and dialed 1800-CAN-PASS. I was under the impression that you could ‘check-in’ to Canada for the duration of the summer and freely boat back and forth between American and Canadian waters. I was all set to get my ‘summer pass.’ I happen to be an idiot. The conversation went something like this:

‘Hello, yes, I would like to check in to Canada and get my ‘summer pass’’.

‘Where are you?'

‘Gananoque.’

‘Where are you?'

‘Gananoque.’

‘Where are you?’ Surely there was a misunderstanding between me and the Canadian woman on the other end of the line. I was not sure what game we were playing, but it seemed likely she simply could not hear me properly, so I yelled into the telephone line for the third time.

‘Gananoque!’ There, that should do the trick. She could not have missed that one, nor did the French Canadians passing by in the rain.

‘No sir. Where in Gananoque are you?’ Well, that seemed like a simple question, and as I was still unsure why she did not clarify her question in the first place, I began to look around for some identifying marks to explain my location. Ah, there we are.

‘I am in the James T. Stone Park.’ Kerry was squished next to me in the phone booth in bewilderment telling me to tell the woman that we were at the municipal marina. She was of course correct.

‘Sir, that location does not exist. You need to be at a registered check-in location.’ Who knew going to Canada was going to be so complicated and without any instruction for how to properly navigate this cumbersome process. I looked up at the sign and realized that the James T. Stone Park was yet to be built and under construction according to the sign. I went with Kerry’s suggestion.

‘I am in the municipal marina’.

‘Oh, of course, don’t ya know sir. That is a registered check-in location. Thank you. Now, how long are you going to be in Canada?’ Finally, I was making progress.

‘Well, I will be in and out of Canada for the next month, and I would like my summer pass.’ The woman sounded exasperated and took on a very serious tone.

‘Sir, let me explain something to you very carefully so that you are clear on the rules. Every time you go into Canada or Canadian waters, you have to call this number to check in. You can get in a lot of trouble, don’t ya know, if you don’t go aboot checkin’ into Canada the proper way, and don’t ya know I don’t want you getting’ yourself all kinds of fines, don’t ya know.’

Well, I wanted to yell into the phone, no I don’t know, don’t ya know, and I was just doing as I was told, and as there were no other instructions anywhere for how to go about this, I was utterly lost and confused. I listened to her instruction and checked in for the afternoon and hung up the telephone, looked at Kerry and said, ‘Well, that was easy’.

We walked around Gananoque as close as we were to Grindstone Island there was a very clear feeling in the air that we were now in another country. It was a beautiful little town. We walked through the town park next to a huge fountain and intricate wire frame sculpture of a Blue Heron. We wanted to eat some barbeque, but the place was closed, so we decided on fish and chips after we stopped at the local beer seller to pick up a few Canadian imports.

It was our lucky night, as we walked in on ‘wing night’, a wonderful accompaniment to our fish and chips dinner.

It was a cold and rainy ride back home, but all in all it was a great day.

‘Don’t ya know?’

Day 13 - Disappearing Days

2011-07-27T11:44:00.000-04:00

Not much to write home about today. We slept in late again, a gloriously evolving habit. Evan, Paul, and Roberta headed out around three o’clock. It was great to see Evan, and too bad he could not stay a bit longer. They were headed back to York to see Conor and Keith who just arrived from pedaling their bikes across the entire country from Seattle. Conor and Keith are joining us at the river on Friday along with James, Ashley and the kids.

I caught up on some work for ‘My Own Backyard’. I had to upload images for the website, and laid out a plan for the upcoming year. If I can meet the goals I set this year, I will be able to solely run the business in two years and retire from full time teaching. Time will tell.
The days are starting to quickly melt away, and I am finally unwinding, slowing down, and living in a much more natural rhythm. If I can achieve my goals with ‘My Own Backyard’ I will be able to live this way every day in the not too distant future.

The River - Day 6 - 12

2011-07-24T15:36:00.000-04:00

Day 12 - Canadian Police and Airborne

2011-07-24T13:21:00.001-04:00

Five boats deep, we cruised over to Leak Island again to swim and jump. Andrew and Gil were interested to see the big cliff I found, so we set out to find it. The cliff overlooks a beautiful deep spot in the river. I had yet to jump it, so I dove in and swam for shore. I quickly climbed to the top and stared down. It was definitely a big jump. The cliff is slightly overhanging and falls into water fifteen to twenty feet deep. I jumped off and felt the sting on my arms when I hit the water. I left them out a bit, so I would not go so deep on the first jump just in case.

I came up to the surface and Gil was already climbing and Andrew was in the water. I swam back toward shore, and suddenly Andrew jumped in and was swimming back to the boat.

'Police'.

We climbed into Andrew's boat and Gil was standing ready to jump. We heard the police on the horn.

'Sir, you're going to have to climb down from there please'.

Luckily, they were not too interested in us, just making sure we were not on private property. Nevertheless, we were in Canadian waters and Kerry and I had not checked into Canada yet. If they run your numbers and they want to, they will impound your boat and slap you with a massive fine.

We lucked out. We are heading into Canada tomorrow to check in with our passports. We spent the rest of the afternoon jumping off the rope swing at Cement Point.

We cruised back to Rockledge in the evening and Evan and Alex were biking out to the airstrip on the island to go up in Al's plane. I decided to ride my bike out to the airstrip to watch them land. The airstrip is just a field that a farmer mows with a windsock in it. They came in over the trees and landed smoothly.

They motored up and Uncle Alex offered me a ride as well. It was a great surprise and I took him up on the offer. I was a bit nervous taking off in such a small plane, but once we were up it was unbelievably beautiful. The sun was setting and the bird's eye view of the islands was incredible. We saw Rockledge, the Acorn and the Farm Cottage, as well as Wolf Island, Beauvais Point, Wellesley Island and Lake of the Isles. I even had the chance to take over the controls for a brief moment.

Great day!

Day 11 - Custom Paint

2011-07-24T13:08:00.000-04:00

We went into Clayton Marina first thing in the morning to sign the papers and close the deal on the boat. It was an exciting morning. I dropped the trailer off up the road behind Mike Bogart's barn to store it for the rest of the summer. I drove back to French Creek and met Kerry who picked me up in the new boat. The hull is a '96 and the engine a '05 with really low hours. The folks that owned it lived up the road from Rockledge on Grindstone Island. They took great care of it, and it should last us a really long time.

We drove over to Beauvais Point in the afternoon and went wakeboarding and kneeboarding with the cousins. Kneeboarding is high on my my new favorite activities list. Kerry is awesome at it and was pulling some sweet three-sixties!

Day 10 - Boats

2011-07-24T13:01:00.000-04:00

We decided to try and work a deal on a Boston Whaler that we found at a local marina. We were able to sell our Montauk for more than we paid, and use the cash toward a trade-in on a much newer cleaner, and thoroughly less complicated rig.

While we were waiting to finalize the deal, we went back to the Cottage and finished up the last of the shoreline clearing job we started when we arrived. It felt great to finally finish it.

I went up to visit Olive's grave under the apple tree in the evenings. It feels much quieter without her around.

Day 9 - Olive

2011-07-20T11:42:00.000-04:00

Sometimes the greatest gifts in life come in the most surprising shapes. I came back from my trip through North Carolina almost three weeks ago and had my first chance to meet 'Olive'. Kerry temporarily adopted Olive from her cousin Elizabeth's farm. Olive was the runt of the litter, and no one was sure if she would make it. She was almost stepped on by her mother, and she was unable to get any milk because she was so tiny. Kerry asked Elizabeth if she could try and take care of her until she was big enough to return to the farm. Elizabeth said yes, and Olive became a part of our lives.

Kerry sent me pictures of tiny Olive while I was on the road. She was sitting in Kerry's lap wrapped in a blanket. When I walked in the door I was excited to meet her. She squeaked and ran around the house, constantly falling down because her tiny little hooves would slip on the wooden floors. We fed her milk mixed from a powder that we heated in the microwave. She let us know when she was hungry by squeaking and rubbing her snout against our legs. She squealed in joy when we set the milk on the floor of our kitchen and she hungrily thrust her tiny snout deep into the dish drinking thankfully.

I never knew how cute a tiny little pig could be, and I immediately fell in love with Olive. I sat on the couch in the evenings and she curled up with her legs tucked quietly underneath her body in my lap while I let her suckle in the palm of my hand.

We took Olive with us every day when we did our last camp of the summer with four little kids from the area. The kids loved Olive. They picked her up, petted her, and fawned over her every minute of the day. Olive stayed in the car while we tubed down river or picked blueberries, but we returned a few hours later and the kids got the chance to feed her.

Nine days ago Kerry and I arrived at the River. We slowly set up a home in the white farm cottage sitting on the banks of the St. Lawrence. It is a paradise for our dog and our pig. The first few nights were windy, and we built a huge bonfire in our newly constructed fire pit. We sat beside the river watching the waves lap against the shore and the moon rise in the distance over the small town of Clayton. We set Mogul's dog bed beside the fire and he and Olive curled up beside each other. Olive followed Mogul wherever he went, back and forth on the trail between the Cottage and Rockledge. Olive loved to stand beside me while I built the fire, and as soon as there was a flame and heat, she would nuzzle her tiny nose and body against the rocks so she could get warm. She sat in my lap and I snuggled her head while she fell asleep night after night. Many people imagine pigs as rather smelly animals, but not Olive. She smelled sweet and soft, a mix of vanilla and lavender.

I opened my eyes this morning. I felt my leg and ankle still swollen from being stung the day before. The swelling was so bad last night I believed I was likely having an allergic reaction and took some Benadryl. Sleep came quickly. I had strange dreams last night. Dreams of being transported through another dimension. I opened my eyes and I heard a quiet voice.

'Your Pig. Your pig'.

Kerry jumped awake. I was not quite sure what going on. She ran downstairs and I followed after her. She threw open the screen door and a woman sat on the creaky old wooden steps. She was covered in blood. She was crying.

'I am so sorry,' she said.

Olive wandered down the trail, following Mogul this morning. He was following Eliza who was out on her morning run. We did not know there were vicious dogs just down the trail on the neighboring property. The dogs played with Olive at first, but when she turned and playfully ran, they attacked.

Her wounds were mostly superficial, but one of the dogs bit through her chest and punctured her lung. I took Olive from the woman and held her in my lap. I could tell she was in shock. The conversation clattered around like a dusty old breeze. Telephone calls to local vets were made. I held her in my arms and knew the terrible truth. Her breaths were becoming more labored and shorter by the minute. I stared into her eyes, but they were listless and vacant.

I put pressure on the puncture wound, but knew there had to be a way for the air to escape. I attempted a makeshift occlusive dressing out of saran wrap, but it was useless. She was fading away. We headed toward the dock at Rockledge. I stopped in the middle of the trail. Her breaths were short and drawn. In a small space where the sun filtered through the trees and speckled the ground, I sat with her. The ants crawled beneath my feet. The flies buzzed around my head. I held her wrapped tightly in a kitchen towel. The blood soaked through and stained my shorts. I stared out into the hazy morning, and she took her last breath. Kerry cried beside me. The hot summer haze filled the air like smoke.

We loved our tiny pig named Olive. She was a special animal. She had personality. She loved you back. You could feel it in the way she nuzzled your leg and curled up in your lap besides the fire. I like to believe she was grateful to Kerry for taking care of her and giving her a little more of a chance in life than she had.

There is a violence in life. We all live on the edge of the sword, kneeling precipitously between life and death. Reaching out to love something is in turn reaching out to know pain. There is not love without loss.

I chipped away at the pale crusty brown soil under the apple tree. I felt that burying her there would at least allow her body to be absorbed into the tree, and that perhaps when we see the apples we may still feel the light of her life.

My sweat dripped from brow and mixed with Olive's blood. I closed her eyes and placed her body in the hole. We chose a flat stone from the river and placed atop her grave with a few stems of goldenrod. We said a prayer and asked God to keep her safe.

I am thankful for the gift of Olive while she was alive, and angry that she is gone.

We walked solemnly back to the Cottage. Our small family felt torn.

Day 8 - Boats...

2011-07-20T10:30:00.000-04:00

We woke up and headed into Chalk's. Chris put the boat in the water so we could take it for another spin. It had a bit more pick up than the day before, but we still wanted the engine checked out. We made a passing offer, but the guy would not budge on his price. We are still awaiting the results on the engine, but likely we will have to pass on this one. It is looking more and more likely that we will wait until next summer to get our own boat.

In the afternoon we headed over to Leak Island with the cousins. We all had some good laughs jumping off the cliffs.

We drove back to the Cottage to feed Mogul and Olive before heading out to Beauvais Point for dinner again.

Day 7 - Trailer Woes

2011-07-20T10:22:00.000-04:00

Ker and I headed over to Wellesley Island this morning to take a look at a boat trailer for the Montauk. We pulled off the side of the road. Two guys stood next to an old white van. The first gentlemen approached me to shake hands. He was a barrel chested man with sandy hair. He introduced his brother who stood in the back round. I shook his hand as well, and it was immediately apparent that he was the one who would not be speaking. The trailer was in decent shape, and probably would have worked just fine for the boat, but the two of us could not strike a deal. I was reluctant to dole out his full asking price, so we went on our way.

The decision to not buy the trailer reopened the conversation about the boat, an engine, trailers etc. We headed to Chalk's Marina to figure out what to do with our boat, and at the least make sure it was still there. Chris is the sales guy at Chalk's. He seems a nice genuine and good hearted man in an honest way, quite opposite of the way that most salesmen make you feel. This of course meant one of two things, he was an honest good men, or he was incredibly skilled at his profession. I like to believe the former.

We spotted two Boston Whalers for sale, an Outrage and a Dauntless, and the Kerry and I immediately began dreaming up new plans to sell our boat and get something that would be much less of a hassle. We took the Dauntless out for a spin. It was a really nice boat that would be a great fit for what we need up here. We decided to head back in the morning to take another look.

We ate dinner with a few of the cousins at Beauvais Point. I played laser tag with the boys and we all went for an evening swim.

Day 6 - High Seas

2011-07-17T21:22:00.000-04:00

Woke up to a strong westerly wind blowing in from Lake Ontario. Kerry and I decided to get the kayaks out and head to Club Island to watch the women's world cup final in the skiff house with the cousins. The game was exciting, but sadly the U.S. could not pull out the win after overtime and a penalty kick shoot out.

It was another beautiful day, and the paddle back was a bit easier than on the way over. I did a bit more clearing along the shoreline and should finish it up tomorrow morning.

The First Few Days...

2011-07-17T12:38:00.002-04:00

Day 5 - The Black River Race

2011-07-17T12:17:00.000-04:00

I woke up and packed a few things to head out for the day. I was heading into Watertown to compete in the annual Black River Race. Kerry and I started driving over to French Creek in 'Little Bear' only to realize we left the car keys in the 'Ventura'. We pulled a quick u-turn and headed back to Rockledge. We docked 'Little Bear' hopped in the 'Ventura' and headed back out.

We said a quick goodbye in French Creek as I hopped out. She threw a sarcastic 'brown claw' and said 'go get 'em tiger' as I headed to the Jeep. The 'Brown Claw' is an amusing and ridiculous anomaly that has swept through the larger kayaking community like a rampant and incurable virus. It started as a joke between two paddlers and has grown into a symbol adopted by legions of followers that throw it around at every turn and ripple in the river. I believe there is a rather quiet majority of paddlers who hold the 'Brown Claw' in great disdain, and will throw it or some distorted version of it to make fun of the 'Claw' and and its utter absurdity. Nonetheless, this likely only further perpetuates the omnipresent nature of the apparently immovable phenomenon of the 'Brown Claw'.

The drive to Watertown takes about twenty minutes, and passes through some beautiful countryside. I always enjoy it. I pulled into the parking of Hudson River Outfitters around noon, only to realize the race was not until four o'clock. I only kind of know one person in the New York kayaking scene, and he was busy running the event. I searched the parking lot, trying to find someone to pal around with for the day and get a quick practice lap in before the race to scope out some race lines. I spotted a guy carrying his Greenboat down to the river, and asked him if he was going all the way down and if he wanted someone to paddle with. He said definitely. I threw my gear on and headed down to the put-in.

We surfed a bit in 'Hole Brothers' and then drifted on down. There is a good bit of flat water before the first rapid 'Knife's Edge'. We talked about all manners of things as we floated down. It was a gorgeous day, and really nice to just be out on the water. We scoped out a race line at Glen Park Falls and ran it smooth. The Canyon on the Black River is a really fun little section of whitewater. My favorite rapid by far is this large curling wave that falls quickly into a big pour over hole, aptly titled the 'Poop Chute'.

We finished the section quickly and proceeded to wait at the take out for another group of paddlers and rafters so we could catch a ride on the bus back to the start. We didn't realize how far ahead we were so we sat in the shade and waited for close to two hours before the group got there. The time went by quickly and we swapped stories on all aspects of life: family, girls, marriage, careers, school, and sustainability. It never ceases to amaze me how easily a shared passion for the outdoors and whitewater opens the door to forging new friendships.

The rest of the group finally arrived. We helped carry some rafts out and headed back to the put-in. We geared up for the race and headed down. I raced my 'Remix'. It would have been awesome to have a long boat, but I left it at home. I kept pace with the top long boats for a short bit in the beginning and quickly faded back. My goal was to do my best to keep up with the back pack of long boats and at least beat the rest of the creek boats out there. The race went well, and I was the first creek boat to finish.

Plenty of laughs were had on the way back to the put-in. Once we arrived everyone quickly transitioned to get ready for the 'Floateo' competition. All manners of inflatable watercraft are permitted and I had a large grey dolphin as my tool of choice. I was unable to stay in the hole the first ten tries, but finally decided to deflate it about half way, and just as everyone was finishing I caught an epic several minute surf in the hole on an inflatable dolphin. It was the perfect finish to an awesome day on the water.

I was exhausted. I called Kerry, enjoyed a beautiful drive home watching the sunset, and she picked me up at French Creek. My head hit the pillow and I was out when we got back to the Cottage.

Day 4 - Swimming Pigs and Chainsaws

2011-07-15T21:14:00.000-04:00

Woke up this morning to another beautiful day. I was set to clear some brush from the shoreline around the Cottage with Mike, but first we had to run into town and pick up 'Little Bear', the tiny Boston Whaler. 'Little Bear' was restored over the winter and she looked and drove great on the way back to Grindstone.

I hopped out at Rockledge to talk to Mike and get ready to clear. We headed over to the cottage and Mike told me that the neighbors took Olive (our pig) home the night before. Apparently, while we were out running errands, Olive was lonely and heard some people lying out on the floating yellow raft in the river. She decided to jump in and swim to the raft. The neighbors got a good scare because they had no idea what was swimming toward them in the water. She hung out at their house for a few hours and they escorted her home at nightfall. She is one crazy pig.

We spent the afternoon clearing the shoreline, and we now have a much expanded view of the water from the cottage. Kerry made a great dinner with homemade bread made from Pabst Blue Ribbon beer. It was awesome.

Black River Race tomorrow!

Day 3 - Fish Tacos from the Burri-Tow

2011-07-14T22:39:00.000-04:00

We had a lazy morning bumming around the cottage again. I hope this becomes a habit for the next six weeks. I enjoy milling about, lifting a rock and adding it to perfect the aesthetic of my fire pit, and eating a bowl of cold cereal with fresh whole milk in the hot sun in a big comfy chair next to river. Mike was out in the garden watering the vegetables. Kerry and I were excited to talk to him. I enjoy Mike's company and have a great time talking about the various projects we want to pursue around the property. Tomorrow we plan on elevating and clearing a bunch of trees to tidy up the view from shore.

The highlight of the morning was building a snake stick. Mike was attempting to investigate the broken down Ford pickup next to the barn. The Ford is an old eighties rusty grey Ranger that rumbles so loud when it starts you think you're at a drag race. Whop! Ba-Ba-Ba-BOP!!! It rumbles along the dusty dirt roads of Grindstone announcing it's old age like it's the second coming of Jesus. Sadly for the Ford, it's cacophonous rumbly tumbly symphony came to an end several weeks ago. The weather warmed, the wet weather cleared and parked in the sun next to the big red barn, the innards of the Ford quickly became infested with a large array of snakes. Mike does not like snakes, and when he went to lift the hood this morning, there were two huge snakes sitting on the engine block. He came down to see if I could help remedy the situation. I quickly constructed a 'snake stick', a trick my father taught me when I was a kid. A 'snake stick' is simply a long stick with a piece of rope secured to one end with a loop. You let the snake squirm through the loop, pull the string and it tightens around the snake's neck. You can then carry the snake where you want to release it, pin it's head, loosen the string and then let the snake go. I walked up to the truck with the newly fashioned stick. Mike popped the hood. An enormous black snake quickly slid into the shadows under the truck, but a few Gardner snakes remained. I caught one with the stick and brought it to the woods. The others eluded me. Mike thought it best to leave well enough alone. Where there are a few in sight, there are likely many unseen.

Morning lingered into mid-afternoon and finally Kerry and I jumped in the boat. We had no destination, just to see where the afternoon was going to take us. We headed over to Leak Island and jumped off the cliffs. It was my first swim of the year in the River, and it felt great. We continued on looking for Stave, but not too hard. We trolled passed Gananoque, but didn't have our passports to dock, so we headed downriver. We found the quintessential perfect cliff jump somewhere on the Canadian side of the river on our way in search of the 'Rift'. We did not find the 'Rift' and wound around the back side of Wellesly Island, bought some gas in Alexandria Bay, and cruised to the farmer's market in Clayton.

We discovered the most amazing invention, 'The Burri-Tow'. This traveling red vehicle is apparently home to the world's most amazing fish taco. We ate them ravenously with a fresh lemon. I enjoyed them some much, I began selling them to passers-by, much to the chagrin of the owners. Needless to say, we were fast friends, and I attempted to convince them they should drive the 'Burri-Tow' to the Gauley River Festival in West Virginia assuring them they would be a huge hit.

Mosquitoes are out in droves tonight. I started a fire, but couldn't stay out to enjoy it, so we enjoyed it from the screened in porch. Finishing the night with a Pabst Blue Ribbon.

Great Day!

Day 2 - Strip Malls, Whitewater, and Thunderstorms

2011-07-14T22:20:00.001-04:00

We woke up early and dilly dallied around the Farm Cottage. We hopped in the boat and headed over to Clayton to hop in the car to head to Watertown. Watertown is about twenty minutes from Clayton on route 11. Clayton is a tiny town with one grocery store, the Big M. We needed to stock up on staples, and Kerry wanted to head to 'The Mustard Seed' and organic grocer in Watertown. I happily obliged as it meant I would get a bit of whitewater time at the local play spot on the Black River.

We stopped in K-Mart to get a few necessities for the cottage. An enormous thunderstorm blew in while we were inside and the weather changed in an instant. I enjoy the fickle nature of summer weather.

The Mustard Seed was super cool. I bought a whole body 'total Cleanse'. Use your imagination. They're supposed to be really good for you, so I figured I should give it a whirl. After 'Mustard Seed' I stopped in the kayak shop and talked to Brian. He led us down the Black River last summer as part of the bachelor party. I discovered the Black River Festival is this weekend, so I am headed out to race and enjoy the festivities. Hopefully I'll meet some folks who know a bit about the river scene in Quebec. I had a good time in the play hole while Kerry bargained for a table for the cottage at an antique store up the road. I decided I am definitely interested in play boating a little more, but I absolutely hate the green Jackson All-Star I own.

We headed back to the cottage. Kerry made some Brats from her cousin Elizabeth's farm, and I built a huge fire pit next to the river. The wind blew strong and cold the entire evening and when we were finished with dinner we sat by the fire and stared across the open water to Clayton.

Day 1 - The Return

2011-07-14T22:07:00.000-04:00

Back again after a long stretch on the road. I started my own company in January after a year of running pilot programs and building a business plan, I decided to make a run for it and follow a dream. The trips went really well, and we covered a lot of ground through Virginia, West Virginia, Tennessee, and North Carolina. We caved, backpacked, mountain biked, kayaked, surfed, and laughed until we fell asleep at night under dark star lit skies among the mountains, fields, and streams closest to home. Many folks seem to have an ideal of the exotic, a vision of paradise. There are droves of people wanting to convince us that a beautiful place with crystal clear water, white sand, and a swaying green palm trees is all we need, and even the only possible way we can truly relax, unwind, and let our spirits wander and dream like they are meant too. Thankfully this could not be farther from the truth and if you adopt a sense of adventure and a bit of a willingness to get lost, one can easily see that this ideal of relaxing affairs and freedom we all desire and need is but an attitudinal adjustment and openness of spirit. In any case, before I digress even further from my intent here, let me begin where I last left off at the end of May.

I finished up the paddling season with Curt and the boys. The school year quickly came to a halt and I was out the door as mentioned on the road conducting trips. Alas, the trips came to an end, and Kerry and I left to spend six weeks on the St. Lawrence River in upstate New York on the border of Canada. Kerry's family's summer home is an extraordinary place set on a 300 acre peninsula in the middle of the river on an island called Grindstone. The river is no ordinary vision of a river and exists in great breadth as it pours from Lake Ontario, several miles wide in many places. The region is called 'The Thousand Islands', and you guessed it, there are in fact over a thousand islands of all shapes and sizes littering the landscape.

There are three structures on the property: Rockledge, the Acorn, and the Farm Cottage. The two of us are staying in the Farm Cottage for the remainder of the summer. The Farm Cottage is an old white farmhouse circa the turn of the last century. The interior walls are a dark grainy pine replete with wooden floors. There is an immense fifty year old lilac bush that borders that left front corner of the house. A large red barn sits about one hundred yards behind the cottage. The house sits about one hundred feet from the riverbank which is littered with old Shag Bark Hickory trees. There is a silver metal floating dock that juts into the river good enough for the temporary docking of a boat if one is in a hurry to get in and out. The floors creak, the water pressure is weak, and the upstairs sleep hot when the summer nights are still, but the river is cold, the skies blue and speckled with a painter's version of puffy white clouds, and the air crisp and warm in the splendid summer sun. It is a glorious place to slow down and get back to basics.

We left on Tuesday afternoon. We spent an exorbitant amount of time packing, strapping, and installing a new roof rack system to haul up our mountain bikes and kayaks. I am hoping to adventure around in Canada for a bit to see some new rivers. We finally had everything ready and hit the road. The drive was not too bad. We stopped a few times to feed 'Olive' our pet pig who gets a bit rambunctious and squeals incessantly when she is ready for milk. It was almost dark when we arrived at the French Creek Marina. We quickly unloaded most of our things on to the new eighteen foot Boston Whaler. The wind picked up as we pushed off the dock. We trolled out of the marina and under the bridge and there were white caps by the time we reached open water. Just as suddenly as it had come on, the wind ceased as we rolled into the dock at Rockledge. A welcome 'hello' from the River.

We retired to bed around midnight and eagerly awaited morning.

Beginnings and Endings

2011-05-25T01:42:00.000-04:00

It is hard to know where to begin. It has been hard to place my thoughts lately. Spring is a time of change, growth, and new beginnings. The idea of spring is of course a literal physical manifestation in our environment, at least for those of us accustomed to the variation of four distinct seasons. It seems that in my own life I possess a sort of spiritual spring that embodies the essence and evolves concordantly with spring in the natural world. As I crawl out of the blanket of winter, and the daylight begins to creep evermore into the tight grip of lingering cold nights, my inner clock starts to shift. I begin to change. Life feels fresh, and it is exciting to see where roads cast in new, warm, pale golden light will lead.

The twang of the country guitar and steely rustic vocals filled the cabin of Curt's fading red 1994 Nissan pick-up truck. We paddled with Don just six days before. The conversation in the cabin shifted to all manners of things. It was hard to follow. I snapped some pictures of a few dandelions littered in a sea of green grass with the specter of half burned white farm house flying a tattered American flag in the background. We walked down the muddy road alongside Sovern Run to the put in for the Big Sandy. His memorial service was Sunday afternoon. 1:00 pm. Sovern Run was lit like a candle amidst a clatter of trees swaying in the breeze about to burst with a new set of leaves. They were just waiting for a bit more sun. Just a few more days.

The Sandy was great. Just like it always is. Curt took one over the handlebars over 'Big Splat' Times moves slowly. The next run he nails it. Time moves at a normal pace. I do not choose to go on this one. I slide off the rock. I take the safe route. I ramble on down the river.

I think about the kids that Curt and I are teaching. Curt and I talk about how they are progressing as we float downstream. We glide through 'Island' rapid. The 'River Mobsters'. What a crew. What a special opportunity to share our love for something so spectacular with a group of guys just starting out. Just barely getting their feet wet in the grand scheme of things. Spring seems to always exist when we are young. That is just how we remember it though when we look back. Only as real as the ideal we hold in our minds. Sharing our passion. What a great opportunity.

There were about one hundred people gathered at the put-in of the North Fork of the Blackwater. The river Don had died upon just a week ago. Time seems but an impression sometimes, and reality no more real than my dreams. I could feel the tiny waves of anxiety creeping in my fingertips, thoughts of maybe I would just wake up and realize it was a dream as we all stood in a circle, held hands, bowed our heads and prayed.

His ashes drifted over the forty footer. The one drop he left alone and never ran. The petals on the flowers swirled in the eddy as we all stood and gazed upon the rusted brown rocks and water. They swirled. We stared. They swirled and tore apart, tiny piece by tiny piece.

They fluttered softy carried away on the wings of the calm amidst the chaotic. How much of our lives do we spend feeling different than everyone else? How much of our lives do we spend trying to be understood and to understand ourselves? All of it?

I knew little of Don. I spent a weekend at his house in Canaan Valley four days before he died. He showed me down the Upper Blackwater for my first time. Don had shown dozens down the Upper B. He was 'Blackwater Don'. He was a character written into his own story. He kept a fox for fifteen years. He was a lawyer in Pittsburgh. The fox led him to be a lawyer and kept him in a relationship with a woman until the fox passed away. He knew the Blackwater as well as anyone. I am almost certain that I was the last person that 'Blackwater Don' showed down the 'Blackwater'. My first was Don's last.

The pale golden light of spring was painting the road. The light was paler than usual. Life can be like that sometimes. You know what I mean? The bittersweet feeling you have when you leave people you love, but the horizon is promising, bright, and you can smell the freedom in the air. Pale golden light, a little paler than usual. It feels just like this.

I felt a few tears when I stared at the petals being torn from the flower drifting aimlessly in the eddy. That is what we are. People. Left to our own devices we may drift aimlessly in eddies being torn. Piece by piece. Searching for the calm amidst the chaotic. All we have is each other. Most of us reach out and try to hold on as we try to embrace the idea that we all walk our own path.

The red Nissan pick up truck rambled on down the highway. The truck smelled of wet kayaking gear. It smelled a little like one idea of home.

I was glad when she opened the door and I could feel her warm embrace. It felt like life.

A week later I was in the back of the green bus sleeping on a love seat. The river flows on. Life moves forward. My first. His last. A beginning. An end.

Curt edged me about by forty-five seconds in the race. I had to own up to the kids on Monday and accept my defeat. All in thankful spirits. The shine melted the soreness away as we crammed over a hundred steamy bodies in a yellow school bus and made our way out of the canyon. The chatter and laughter shook the steel and the smiles and spirits could have cracked stones. Gifts from the river.

The Green Dragon rode. We filled her up with the will of possibilities. The open road and the music from a 'rented' Wal-Mart stereo wired to a cigarette lighter. We should grow up, right? Irrelevance is irrelevant.

We are all writing our stories. We play the parts. We act the hero, the villain, the savior, the warrior. It's all there clambering around in one big soupy stew. The moments are short, the lines are tight and wide open with blue skies all at the same time. The choice is ours.

Eric Ornstein came home yesterday. He, Geoff, and I wandered out to the 'Bridge Channel' on the Falls. He dislocated his shoulder under the bridge. I was holding the rope. I down climbed in time to grab his boat out of the water. He clung to a tree. I struggled to pull his boat on to the rock as he clung to the tiny sapling sitting in the eddy. It was hard not to think of the flower swirling in the eddy on the edge of the North Fork of the Blackwater.

Geoff and I laid him down on a rock and set his shoulder back into place. We hiked out and I drove him home.

Like I said from the beginning it is hard to know where to begin. It's been hard to place my thoughts lately.

'Brett, why aren't you coming?'

'I'm writing.'

There is no movie for this one. There are no pictures. Just a song and images floating in my head from the past few months. Most of the time darkness gives way to light if you let it, but our moments here are brief. This screen is black, but not for long. I don't know what comes next.

Maybe that's the way I like it.

The Sad Sun - Deer Tick

The sad sun
shining down on the day I drove to the cape
And a thing that was slowly dying
The sad sun was taken away

Never had your chance to live
And it's hard to forgive
Never had your chance to love
And it does not happen like this
In heaven, if heaven exists
And we'll never know until the moment we're finished
And the few that care
What have they accomplished right here?

The sad sun
Shining down on the day I drove to the cape
And a still thing was slowly dying
The sad sun was taken away
The sad sun was telling me that
You'll never see his light again
All rolling around with no skin
And your wrists cut from start to end
And they're laughing
Clouding your head with bad thoughts
But I'm your friend
And the close encounter
Never happens like this

Never had your chance to live
And it's hard to forgive
Never had your chance to love
And it does not happen like this
In heaven, if heaven exists
And we'll never know until the moment we're finished
And the few that care
What have they accomplished right here?
What have they accomplished right here?

Red Creek

2011-04-20T15:26:00.002-04:00

The Upper Blackwater

2011-04-18T15:08:00.000-04:00

4 Minute Warning

2011-04-04T23:31:00.000-04:00

Hard to stop thinking about the movie 'Gasland' lately. There's a short clip from a Radiohead song, '4 Minute Warning' in the film. It was released as a bonus track on the second disc from their 'In Rainbows' album.

If you haven't seen 'Gasland' check out this link... Gasland

Every Now and Then...

2011-04-04T22:58:00.000-04:00

Well, I should be telling stories about dirt bagging in the Smoky Mountains over spring break, or possibly hitch hiking home last Friday night after being stranded in Leesburg, or perhaps the chickens that are roaming my backyard, but this afternoon trumps all. The inaugural Magic Bus trip took place this afternoon. It is officially tagged, titled, and towing a trailer full of old school Perception Dancer kayaks.

Curt and I met at Old Angler's Inn with our team of eight. It was our second day out on the water, (the first day was officially cold and miserable). Today the weather was glorious, eighty degrees, sunny, and and the occasional gusty headwind. We continued teaching the forward stroke, slowly introducing the sweep stroke, and draw. The guys were having a great time. It was one of those perfect magic spring days on the Potomac. The kind everyone waits for all winter. The water was cool, clear, and refreshing. It is the beginning of what is usually a great stretch of kayaking on the Potomac. The river is alive with activity, plenty of folks training for Cheat River Festival in early May.

We put in at Sandy Beach and paddled up the back channel to the backside of Maryland chute. We had the guys practice a few wet exits so they would be comfortable with it. We hiked through the island and climbed a rock overlooking the Potomac. Scott was paddling up river and I yelled out to him. I had not seen him since he left for the Grand Canyon. He paddled over and we chatted for a bit. He joined up with us and we took the group paddling back downriver to the Sandy Beach to finish up the session for the guys. Curt and I ran up to the parking lot to quickly load the boats and then hustled back down to the river to attain upriver to Rocky Island Waves with Scott. We got a good workout and some awesome triple surfs at Rocky before heading back in a long since faded sunset.

We convened in the Magic Bus to enjoy the moment, discussing all the potential of the new beast. Today was a great new beginning. I deeply appreciate the opportunity to paddle with Scott and Curt tonight. Days like today do not come around all the time, but when they do, it is nice to take a moment to step back and breath them in.

Tsali

2011-03-28T18:41:00.001-04:00

Day four down in the Smokies...

On the Run

2011-03-28T17:26:00.000-04:00

My first two days in the Smoky Mountains, North Carolina...

Gooney Creek

2011-03-12T19:01:00.004-05:00

This little gem does not run often, but when it does, it is a great class III/IV creek outside of Front Royal, Virginia. The storm of the century blew through on Thursday, giving Curt and I a great time on and off the water on Friday without having to drive too far from home.

Gooney Creek from Brett Mayer-Aschhoff on Vimeo.

Dear Eleanor

2011-03-10T10:50:00.002-05:00

Dear Eleanor,

You do not know me yet. I am a friend of your father. Well, I suppose you could call us friends. We are more aptly titled brothers. I am not sure when it began, but somewhere along the way he started calling me 'big bro' and I him 'little bro'. It was probably somewhere in between waking up in the dusty soil on the banks of a river in Colorado and sitting beside a campfire drinking whiskey in the mountains of Appalachia. In any case, we are good friends bound by rock and water, and have seen each other through some interesting times in our lives.

You are only two days old and know nothing of this world yet. It is a rather crazy place, full of ups, downs, and all arounds. Your father was fresh out of college when I first met him. I am almost five years his senior, and at the time, was in his eyes an 'old man' at the ripe age of twenty-five.

There are a few more characters that you might hear about one day. Strongarms, Warthog, and a man with a slick shootin' southern drawl named 'Captain Haddock'. We roamed around together like a band of modern day cowboys for a while before setting out into different seas. We all traveled the world, and between the lot of us covered a great span of cultures and continents. I stood toe to toe with a penguin in Antarctica once. Strongarms was robbed in a Bolivian hospital while having his appendix removed. We chased our fair share of ladies. Warthog once followed a girl to New Zealand, and Captain Haddock could not resist the allure of the setting sun. We were always up for a good adventure, and passed out next to more than our fair share of roaring fires beneath a canopy of stars.

This is the romanticized version of things; an important skill to have in an often acrimonious world. The truth is that things are tough out there, and it really helps to surround yourself with critically loyal friends and family. There is no two ways about it. You are going to fall down in life, but the old cliche holds true: it's how you pick yourself up and dust yourself off that matters most.

Life is full of change and ever shifting horizon lines. Rivers are a good place to go to learn about things like this, but if that does not suit your style, the world is full of wonders that will let you catch a glimpse of the deeper meaning of things. Just keep a smile on your face, a spring in your step, and an innocence in your eyes.

If you ever find yourself a bit confused and navigating some roads that seem like they may never end, pull off to the side. Take a deep breath. Gather some wood. Light a fire, and look to the sky. You'll figure it out after a while.

I hope this finds you well.

Here's to a celebrated life.

Brett and the rest of the gang

God's Tongue

2011-03-09T23:54:00.001-05:00

We woke up around eight o'clock on Saturday morning. We had a great night hanging out in the Purple Fiddle hostel, making new friends, playing the guitar, and listening to the band play below us.

It felt great to sleep in a bed. We usually sleep on the ground or in the back of our trucks when we are out paddling. We were cold and exhausted from 'High Ridge'. Getting a good night's sleep in a warm bed was a great choice.

We checked the gauges. There were plenty of options, but we decided on Pringle Run. Pringle is a short, but incredibly steep section of whitewater that pours into the Cheat River near the Narrows. I was excited to finally have the opportunity to kayak it. It was one of the first steep creeks in West Virginia that caught my eye in my early days of paddling.

It took thirty minutes or so to get there from the Valley. We parked the truck and started walking up the dirt road. The gate was locked. The army owns the land on top of the mountain and conducts a variety of training exercises that involve building and demolishing bridges with explosives. They installed the gate to keep folks out.

We scouted most of the creek. The boulder drops were large and complex. We grabbed our boats and hiked to the top, and bushwhacked our way down to the creek. We put in above what many consider to be the main attraction, the twenty foot waterfall. The middle lands on a large pile of rocks, so it is important to get right. It looked a bit too low to paddle the lead-in slide, so we walked down ten feet slid into the eddy above the right line of the falls. The line was tricky, but I managed to pull off a decent boof. I stared back at the falls and Curt dropped in close behind.

The creek consists of four sections. The waterfall section comes first, followed by three large, complex boulder garden style rapids. Each rapid consisted of five or six moves through tight technical lines. We scouted each section, and talked for a few minutes about how to best approach the series of rapids. Once we felt confident, we threw our helmets on and proceeded down stream. We took footage and photographed much of the run. It is posted prior to this entry.

We finished our run on Pringle. The day approached mid-afternoon. We took a look at the Cheat. It was big. We hiked up to the truck and loosened our gear. Down the hill we spotted two kayakers scoping out Pringle. They walked up the hill to see what we were up to. We gave them the beta on the creek, and they offered us a lift a few miles up the Cheat so we could run some big water. It was a great trade. The Cheat was pumping, and some of the waves were well over head high and breaking hard.

Curt and I took off our wet gear and changed into some dry digs. It always feels incredible to put on some warms clothes after a cold afternoon on the water. I eagerly threw on my brand spanking new six dollar grey hooded sweatshirt from the Shop and Save in Davis. Perfect.

We milled around the hood of the truck and opened a few cans of sardines and threw them on some crackers. I prefer the ones in hot sauce. Curt pulled out a mason jar of clear liquid. 'It's from Kentucky'.

We decided to hobble up stream to take a look at the guys who gave us a lift upriver an hour ago. We were hoping to catch them in the middle of the action on Pringle, but could not find them. Finally, we noticed them below the waterfall. We walked back downstream to watch them paddle the most technical section. We stood on the banks and waited. The sun shone through the canopy illuminating a cadence of white swirls dancing over the face of bronzed rocks. The rocks were likely bronzed from old mine drainage upstream. The roots of large river birch engulfed car sized boulders like human hands holding baseballs. Prehistoric ferns six feet tall grew on mere inches of soil smeared on vertical surfaces of rock. Tree branches reached from bank to bank holding up the sky arched over the creek. My nasal passages cleared as the mason jar hit my lips. It was like standing on God's tongue.

I was so enraptured I forget about what we were doing. The two kayaks barreled their way downstream in a hurry. Their lines were evidence of a long day on the water. We walked out of the small canyon and back to the car. Curt turned the key and we headed to Jim's house.

Jim Snyder invented the cartwheel. The cartwheel was my first introduction to kayaking. I first witnessed the spectacle sitting like a log on a large raft lumping its way down the New River Gorge. I was twenty years old. It was my first foray into the world of whitewater. I was a surfer, mountain biker and skier when I was not playing soccer in the those days. I knew little of kayaking. There were no big rivers where I grew up. I was having a blast on the river that day with a few close friends. I did not even understand what a kayak was. I watched this guy floating down the river as if he were some sort of wild animal, when suddenly the tail of his boat popped skyward, and then as if by some sort of river magic, he flipped his tail underwater and his nose was pointing skyward. I had no earthly idea how this happened. I was mesmerized.

In any case, Jim Snyder invented this move, and we were on the way to his house to pay him a visit. Curt is the proud owner of a wooden Backlund paddle, Jim's mentor. Curt intended to ask Jim to make a few changes and clean up some damage he'd done over the years. We hopped out of the truck and shook Jim's hand. He brought us into his shop.

Walking into Jim's shop is like walking into the inside of a tree. It primarily consists of sawdust, wood, and sawdust. The walls are covered in sawdust. The ceiling is covered in sawdust. The floor is covered in sawdust. Throw in a whole lot of glue, and it makes you feel like your inside the wood of a tree with sap coursing all around you.

Jim is no stranger to strangers. Most river people are this way. If you speak boat and paddle and your soul is made of rocks and water, you are welcomed into the company of others who appreciate the simple truths of whitewater. Jim poured tales of big water runs on the Grand Canyon, and thrill seeking descents on Roaring Run all over the shop floor. Our mouths stood agape as he displayed the artistic ingenuity of his various paddle and boat designs. He stood before us a simple man who understood the absolute importance of a life lived with aesthetic brilliance and creative grace.

Well over an hour passed and we finally bid Jim farewell. Curt left his paddle behind and was happy with the proposed modifications. Putting a scratch in such a beautiful piece of work is hard to stomach, but the paddle does not truly become art until its blades dip beneath the surface of cold mountain creek, and clamor against boulders in an attempt to seek the grain of time.

Back to the Fiddle. We drove. The weather cleared. We lived true to our roots on Saturday evening. Dirtbags, quasi-lunatics and happy. We marched into the hostel, unpacked our gear in front of the gas stove and melted into the couch. The place bustled with activity. The band played loudly. People came and went. The fire burned hot. The case ran dry. The hours dripped by and our eyelids slowly closed as the banjo pickers sitting on the pool table finally decided to call it a night and give their instruments a rest.

We rose early. A group of skiers from my hometown cooked breakfast in the kitchen. A young girl with a merry smile made lunch for her husband and friends. They accidentally took a bag of our food the previous morning, and we all shared a good laugh about the mistake. The Top Yough was calling. We said our goodbyes and hit the road. We would be back soon.

The day was glorious. Blue as blue gets with orange rays of sun trying hard to melt the snap of winter. The river was high. We bounded down stream losing gradient. We continued on for fifteen minutes and passed Muddy Creek Falls, the tallest waterfall in Maryland. We got out to take a peak. Time slipped. The boat was awkward and our momentum was lost. We pulled over, and I climbed the bank. I threw a rope down and we hauled our boats up the icy crag. Sometimes its just time to call it a day. No one likes to tuck tail and run, but best to save it for another day. We hiked below spires of blue ice and hero sized stalagmites of winter's hard work.

We arrived home tired and happy.

Pringle

2011-02-27T22:58:00.000-05:00

Just back from a long weekend of non-stop adventure. Stories to come... for now, here's a short film of our exploratory run on Pringle Run near Albright, West Virginia.

Untitled from Brett Mayer-Aschhoff on Vimeo.

High Ridge

2011-02-25T21:47:00.000-05:00

The phone rang. I rolled over. The phone rang again. My arm reached toward the night stand and fumbled for the phone. I pressed the 'accept' button. 'Hello'. It was Curt. I fell asleep at nine o'clock the night before. 'I'm on my way dude'.
I thought Curt was coming at seven o'clock. It was six. I shut my eyes for a few short moments, adjusting to the thought of getting out of bed.

I climbed out of bed. I put my feet on the floor. The floor was cold. I walked into the bathroom and flipped the switch. I turned on the faucet, dropped my boxers, and hopped in the shower. Warmth.

The doorbell rang. It was Curt. Kerry answered the door. He came in and took a seat. I gathered my things, threw them in the back of his pick-up truck and we hit the road.

Three hours later we were approaching Seneca Rocks. We drove too far. We pulled a U-turn and headed back south. Our eyes were peeled. We were looking for Forest Road 761. The gateway to High Ridge. We did not have any information on the creek, only tid bits of information we heard from friends who ran the creek earlier in the year.

761. We found it. We hung a left and headed up the mountain. The weather was glorious. Blue skies and sixty degrees. It was the kind of day you dream about. Perfect light, a shimmer of a breeze. Gorgeous.

We plowed our way up the muddy road, fish tailing a time or two in Curt's Nissan pickup. Suddenly, the ride was over. There was a large gate in our way. We hopped out and surveyed our surroundings. We were close to the top of the ridge. We examined the topo map and decided we should hike up the road a bit further in search of the put-in.

There was a sign warning of a natural gas well at the top of the mountain. Ridiculous. Here we were in search of a ride on a beautiful pristine piece of water and it was under siege from six hundred different chemicals being pumped under ground to 'frack' the gas out of the rock. The natural gas companies can only recover a portion of the fluid. The rest ends up in the aquifers, eventually seeping out into local waterways. Lovely.

We threw our gear on. The sky darkened. A storm lay on the horizon. The temperature started to drop. We headed up the road. It began to sleet. We passed the natural gas pad. Despicable. Minutes later we passed an ancient rusted pick-up truck. We took a picture. Ten minutes later and we arrived at a small culvert.

This must be it we thought. Not enough water. We were at the top of the mountain so we headed down. Five minutes later and we found the put-in for High Ridge. Beautiful. We were not sure what the normal flow looked like, but it appeared we had enough water to get down. We geared up, hiked in, and put on.

I snapped the spray skirt. The seal launch was memorable. I launched off of a rock that sent me sailing through the air to the other side of the creek. I settled into the river, pointed my nose downstream, and was off to the races. After a number of large drops, I stopped in an eddy and stared back at the gradient. Impressive. Curt settled in beside me a few moments later.

We hopped out and scouted for forty five minutes. The gradient was incredible. The creek was eight foot after ten foot after twelve foot drop continuously no stopping. The snow was pouring down. The wind was blowing hard. I sat in my boat trying to warm my hands. I was about to launch over a twelve foot piece of mank into more continuous mank. Exciting. I had a minor temper tantrum because I could not feel my hands. I got out of my boat. Curt meandered up the trail.

'Let's hike out'. We surveyed the scene. It was two o'clock. Time needed to scout versus daylight available - not looking good. We decided to accept defeat and try again another day. It was a major bummer. We shivered and slipped our way back up to the fire road. One mile later and we were back at the truck. Lessons learned.

After warming up we made our way toward Canaan Valley. Burritos at Hellbenders. We ate.

As we write, we are sitting in the hostel at the Purple Fiddle. A long day, but nothing a few sips of Kentucky moonshine cannot cure.

More adventures on the horizon for tomorrow.

Until then...

Brett and Curt

Bitch Monkey

2011-02-14T23:30:00.000-05:00

There I was. In the midst of it. Cliffs to my left. Waterfall to my right. It was beautiful outside. It was seventy degrees, the wind was blowing seventy miles per hour, and the sunlight filled the small canyon in a way that felt like velvet. The leafless trees blew in the distance. Their scraggly branches danced with the effervescent blue sky. I folded the camera down. The battery was dead.

I took two strokes forward and began to pick up speed as I approached the lip of the first slide. My boat hurtled forward and I stared into the gaping jaws of the first hole. I feathered my left blade a bit and pulled my self atop the right curler and punched through. Sometimes the first drop goes smoothly. Sometimes. There are other times when it punches you in the face and typewriters you into the left wall, almost as if the river was speaking up a bit... 'Don't get too brave their boy'.

I followed the current through the canyon, rocketing toward drop number two. I angled left, started on the right, two three strokes, and bam! Contact. It hit me in the gut and hurled me right. I dipped a blade and paddled forward. I stroked around the log on the right wall, lined up behind and prepared to drop into the third slide.

Things were different. The drop was no longer the same. A log submerged against the river left wall created a large hump in the downstream flow. It changed the angle of the main flow and pushed it further right. Normally one lines up on the right and fires it up right of center with a hint of left angle. When run successfully, one would easily careen past the small crack dropping from the third slide over a fifteen foot waterfall into the Back Canyon.

I never tried the Back Canyon. The main lines were so much fun, and it always looked a bit too manky. Most folks stay to the left and leave the Back Canyon alone. Fewer still run the crack over the waterfall that connects the two canyons in a rather heinous looking spray of jagged rocks and water mixing and swirling through the air in a way that makes you a little scared just to look at it.

Things were different. I lined up on the right with a larger degree of left facing angle and began to power my way down the slide with the intent to move across the face of the breaking wave into the safety of the slack water on river left. Almost all of the main flow was now going directly over 'Bitch Monkey'. I ran the drop successfully twice the day before and once the day before that. It seemed as straight forward as the old line, it simply had a new twist.

I went under the bridge and crashed through the wave. I felt like had a great angle. I blinked. There was water in my eyes. I opened them. I was not where I was supposed to be. I tried to correct. It was too late. 'Bitch Monkey' had me. It was pulling me backwards like a vacuum. There was no escape. I took a big lefty backward stroke and hoped for the best. I blanked. I was upside down under water. I felt no impact. I felt no rocks. I held my paddle, reached out and rolled up. I opened my eyes. I had never been here before. It was kind of nice. I was up against a big wall. I took a sweep stroke and faced down stream. My boat felt different. I was not sure what it was. I paddled into the eddy above the last slide. The whole moment was a bit surreal, but incredibly clear. I let out a scream of joy. I popped my skirt and looked down to notice the bolt that connect the back band to the ratchet split the plastic. It must have happened on impact. I decided I didn't feel any impact because all of the shock was absorbed by the screw. Crazy.

I pushed my feet forward to steady myself in the boat and hurled down the last slide. My day on the water was done. I walked back to the car to meet up with Kerry.

I always wanted to run 'Bitch Monkey'.

Blue Snow White Wind

2011-01-18T08:52:00.001-05:00

Blue Snow White Wind from Brett Mayer-Aschhoff on Vimeo.

I opened the shed door. It was dark. I could see a few shadows on the wall. I held up the match, and was able to spot my boots. I walked over to the shelf. The boots were cold. The laces hung down and dragged on the dirty plywood floor as I made my way for the door.

I wanted to load the Jeep so we could make a quick getaway in the morning. Plans are simply plans. They have a way of falling apart. We were overly tired. I opened my eyes at seven o'clock in the morning and desperately wanted to keep them shut.

We finally arose. The car was packed, but there were a few random sundries that did not make it to my gear bag. The slow process of gathering things I could do without began. I could not find my outer shell. Two hours passed before I shut the car door and stepped on the gas.

We arrived in Seneca Rocks close to two o'clock in the afternoon. The day was not entirely wasted. We decided to try and move past the frustrating morning and go for a hike. I cannot think of how many times I passed Seneca Rocks, but it was not until Saturday that I stood atop the ten foot wide fin of rock and stared into the valley below.

There was a dusting of snow on the ground. I wondered how the snow conditions were on the other side of the mountain. It was hard to believe the reports. Fifteen miles up the road we were surrounded by two feet of snow. Canaan is truly another world.

Hellbender Burritos is always a great time. Kerry and I managed to post up in the corner of the bar for four hours. It is one of the only places in town with a television. We were glued to the playoff action. The Steelers pulled it out. The Raven's season was over. I discovered Yellow Snow IPAs.

We deliberated for some time about where to sleep. I voted for the back of Jeep. This was perhaps a rather silly romanticism of mine: me, the wife, the dog, squished into our sleeping bags, piled under blankets, tucked away from the blustery cold and dark of night. In reality it was craned necks, sore hips, dog hair, frozen feet, and baggy eyes in the morning.

Nevertheless, we perserved. We woke up in the Whitegrass parking lot. Our plan was to go cross country skiing. We decided breakfast was a good idea. We changed our minds and decided to go skiing. We changed our minds again, and decided to walk the dog. We finally decided we better head into the shop and rent some cross country skis. There were so many people trying to ski there were no skis left. We decided downhill skiing was a better idea anyway.

Timberline was great. The slopes were coated with a few fresh inches. It was a relaxing day. We took in the scenery, enjoyed the terrain, and took a rest here and there to check the scores of the playoff games.

Kerry learned to 'drop in' in the terrain park. I attempted to learn to throw a 360 under the superb tutelage of a young lad who seemed to consider himself the czar of the mountain. He invited me to try. I was intrigued and took him up on the offer. I almost landed it on my first try. The following ten attempts did not end so well. On the last attempt I knocked the wind out of myself and smashed my face in the snow.

All in all, it was a great weekend. Canaan increasingly feels like a home away from home. If we end up on the east coast, I may have to make the relationship official one day.

Until next time...

Milepost

2010-12-29T02:44:00.000-05:00

It is hard to believe, but this is my one hundredth entry. I started 'Homegrown Locals' four years ago. The original title of the blog was 'Kayak Harder'. I started writing simply in the spirit of wanting a written record of some of my adventures on the water. In many ways, my writing remains true to my original intention. At certain points I approached the endeavor more seriously, and on other occasions let many months pass in between entries. When I look back, it is easy to see how my writings and adventures coincided with where I was and how I felt about life.

There were times when I considered giving it up. There was this nagging insistent feeling that what I was doing was simply a waste of time. I am glad that I continued. My life changed dramatically in the past four years. I feel incredibly lucky to have had so many opportunities to see and do things I never imagined I would have the chance to do. I am thankful for the friendships I forged over the past several years. My friends are often my inspiration for doing, exploring, and seeking the truth in life. Paddling whitewater often seems the glue that keeps us all together, but over the years our friendships have grown far beyond the river.

I moved to Bethesda, Maryland when I was twenty-five years old. In all these years, I never really felt like I moved to Bethesda. I always felt like I moved to the river. I remember my first night in my old apartment at Landon. I put my boat on my Jeep and asked for directions to the river. I pulled in the parking lot and carried down to Sandy Beach. I surfed a few waves around S-turn rapid, and met an old guy named Frank. He had long scraggly white hair, and a peppered beard. He had an old school surf boat. It was a warm summer night. We laughed and surfed until dark. The sunset in the gorge was beautiful. I was completely hooked.

It is an interesting thought; the river has been the most persistent presence in my life since I started all this. It never leaves. It is always flowing. It is always there. It is always calling me back. I have driven to the river feeling brave. I have driven to the river feeling sad. I have driven to the river feeling angry, lost, and confused. In every instance, I left feeling a little better than I did when I arrived.

None of us ever really know what's over the next horizon line. I feel like I spent a lot of my twenties seeking out new horizons and running most of them blind and backwards. I broke a lot of boats, drank a lot of beers, slept on the ground in a lot of different places, and broke my own heart more times than I care to admit to even those that are closest.

The river flows on though. There is no slowing it down, no holding it back, and whatever I was before, I know that I am now not the same. I am bits and pieces of all the rapids I ran clean, my worst swims, and all the times I hiked out. I am the best and worst of what I have always been, but just a little bit different every day.

I think most of us are this way.

So, I suppose I shall mark this post with a toast: to falling apart and pulling your heart back together.

I hit the river this afternoon. It was cold and I was alone...

but that was just an illusion.

'Keep it together Mayer, keep it together'.

Here's to one-hundred, and the best yet to come.

Cold and Alone from Brett Mayer-Aschhoff on Vimeo.

Seneca Mission

2010-12-02T01:35:00.001-05:00

Seneca Creek from Brett Mayer-Aschhoff on Vimeo.

The Rescue

2010-11-29T01:16:00.000-05:00

I am finally finding a quiet moment to sit down and write this story. I hope I can recapture the emotion from last week, but I am afraid doing so is going to be a difficult task. Nevertheless, I am going to give it my best shot.

A little over a week ago I saved a woman from drowning on the Potomac River. Perhaps I should correct myself in laying claim to being in control of the event of saving this woman, but in the common vernacular it was in fact me who paddled out into the water to save her. I am simply not so sure I was working alone.

It was Friday. I left school on a warm, sunny afternoon. I jumped in my truck and headed to the Falls to unwind with some afternoon laps. I could not stop thinking about something I caught on television the night before, a documentary about a spiritual healer in Brazil. As strange as it sounds, after I watched the film I was markedly calm.  I went to sleep. When I woke up the feeling remained.

I arrived at the river. The parking lot was mostly empty. A couple strolled the towpath. A woman walked her dog. The temperature was above average for the time of year, but it was an otherwise normal afternoon. I crossed the canal and headed down the path to the river.  The water level was high. The river had been low for months. It was the first time I saw it with real water in it for quite a while. I decided to walk around 'Grace', and ran one lap on the 'Fingers'. I paddled down through O'Deck. I surfed the wave for a bit, but was not really in the mood. I really just wanted to be outside and enjoy the afternoon. I paddled down to the 'Fishladder' to take out, but decided to float down through 'Rocky Island Waves'. As I paddled downstream, I noticed a woman crouched by the side of the river in a small pothole. I noted she was pretty close to the water, it did not seem too unsual.

I looked up at Rocky Island. The sky was bright blue and it was warm. I knew there were not too many warm days left in the season, so I hopped out of my boat and climbed the cliff to sit in the 'King's Chairs'. The chairs are natural stone formations that look like someone took a huge ice cream scoop and scooped out a chunk of rock to make a smooth stone lounger. It was the perfect spot for a warm sunny November afternoon.

I was sitting for a while. I was thinking about the film I watched the night before, God, being in the moment, and a smathering of other utterly idealistic notions for which my mind is all too commonly attuned. I decided to close my eyes and try to clear my mind of any extraneous thoughts. I placed my hands on the rock, and started breathing in and out very slowly.

Suddenly, I opened my eyes. I am not sure why I opened them at that moment, and I am not sure for how long I had them closed. I scanned the river. Immediately I noticed the pink hat bobbing up and down through 'Rocky Island Waves'.

I yelled out. I was too far away. No response. I ran quickly. I down climbed. Loose rock slid as I scrambled down the vertical pitch. My boat sat in the shadows. I jumped in and strapped my helmet. No time to pull my skirt. My arms stroked voraciously at the clear crystalline water. My body tired. I mumbled words of encouragement under my breath to keep going. Finally, I reached her.

'Are you alright?' She looked up with a milky white stare.

'I'm fine'. I was confused. The water was freezing. She was not flailing around. She was drifiting in the current like a floating stone. She was anything but fine. Several hundred more yards in the main current and she was going to float straight to the bottom. This stretch of river sees an average of six or seven deaths per year. This year, the park service had already seen eight. Nine was not an option.

'Do you want me to tow you to shore?' The answer seemed obvious, but I awaited her response anxiously.

'Yes'. I pulled hard.  We made it to the rocky bank in the nick of time.  There was no one else on the water. There were no hikers. There were no climbers. The gorge was empty. I took off my dry top and gave her my t-shirt.  She pulled off her wet top. I stared up at the cliff face. We were not in a good spot. The only way out was up.  We had to get back to her car as quickly as possible.  Hypothermia can set in quickly. I was thankful we were not miles from help, but we still had to negotiate the cliff.

I asked her name, and a few other basic medical questions. I explained I would scout a route for us to make it up and out. I looked carefully, trying to find the easiest way up. After a few moments I was satisfied, and we proceeded to climb. There were a few places where exposure was a big risk.  One misplaced step and we could both wind up in the river, or worse breaking our fall on a rock ledge fifty feet below. I spotted her, braced her, gave her hand holds, and hoisted her to the top. It was a relief when we were off the rock face.

She was in relatively good spirits. Cold, but not too distraught. The hike out was short. After ten minutes the trail came to an end and we were near the parking lot. I noticed the park police car, but there was no ranger. I figured it was a good idea to report the incident if someone was around, but it was most important to get her a change of clothes and into a warm vehicle. There were two kayakers in the lot changing after their surf session at O-Deck. She changed her clothes.

I was cold. We hopped in her car. She blasted the heat. I felt there was something more to the situation, but I was not sure what. I told her there was no good reason for me to be sitting on Rocky Island that afternoon. There was no good reason I opened my eyes to see her hat at that moment.

She asked if I believed in God. I said yes.  I was sitting on that rock for a reason. She said she was glad I rescued her, because she was beginning to feel forsaken by God.

I asked her why she felt that way.

'My life has been a lot of pain.'

'Why is that?,' I replied. She responded with a long list of abuses, broken relationships, and recent misfortunes. She recently lost her job and was working as a cashier at McDonald's to make ends meet. She said she had no friends, and asked if I had a lot of friends. I told her I was lucky to have some good ones.

She leaned her head on my shoulder. The bright lights shone through the car window. It was the park police. I hopped out and met the officer halfway.

'Is that your boat?,' he asked.  I told him it was. On our way out of the gorge, he was hiking in to do his nightly rounds. He was making sure there was nothing unsual going on in the park at dusk. He noticed my boat, and assumed an accident had taken place. He called in the park helicopter to do a search. They were looking for me.

There was no way I could have known.  I explained what happened. He walked up to the car and questioned her. I sat in his police car, and cranked upt the heat.

He came back and was about to back up his car. I told him he may want to make sure she leaves the park.  He asked what my intuition was.  I told him I was not exactly sure, but it was possible she did not just trip and fall.

He asked her as politely as he could if she had thrown hersel f in the water. When she responded no, all he could do was let her go. I got out of the squad car. I walked up to her and gave her a hug goodbye.

'Take care of yourself,' I said.  I thought to say 'I love you' for some strange reason, but held back. She understood.

The officer drove me back to my truck on the Maryland side. It took nearly an hour to make it there with Friday night traffic. I shook his hand and bid him a good night.

'It was good thing you did tonight,' he said.

I closed the car door.

I am not sure I will ever by able to explain that evening, but I do know the entire event was not a coincidence. I will never know if she threw herself in the water. I am not so sure she did. Maybe it was more like she was 'pulled' in by circumstances outside of her control.  Perhaps the circumstances of her life led her to the edge of the river in the strangely cushioned depths of an ancient stone pothole to contemplate the meaning of it all. Perhaps she arrived at the river's edge in the same way as I arrived at the top of the rock, likely contemplating the same questions.

There are things we cannot see. There are things that happen that are far outside of our control.

The river is wide. The river is deep. It is shallow. It is rocky. It flows in straight shots.  It meanders back upon itself at the strangest of times, but all the while it is creeping ever forward. There are a million ways to be dashed to bits.

That afternoon I felt light in the deepest of my bones.

We are not foresaken.

Thanksgiving Sessions

2010-11-28T23:37:00.004-05:00

The fall season is flying by in a hurry. So far the weather has been unusually mild, and there has been relatively little rain. The Falls are typically starting to run high again this time of year, but we've had water levels hovering around an average of three feet for the past several weeks. It is hard to complain. The boating has been great.

This weekend offered some more beautiful weather. A lot of guys were in town for the holidays, so we met up for a 'Thanksgiving Session' this afternoon. I caught some good footage and filmed a few new angles. I climbed on top of the rock in the middle of the river above 'Sweet Drop'. The video short is compiled from today's session.

Congrats to Scott and Katy on their recent engagement.

Cane Creek Farm

2010-11-15T10:22:00.000-05:00

Kerry and hit the road last weekend for a wedding down in Durham, North Carolina. We decided to spend the day at her cousin Elizabeth's farm, Cane Creek, on Monday.

We got a chance to eat some great food from the farm, and had a fantastic morning catching pigs and turkeys to send to market. It is an incredible feeling to wake up, walk outside, and go to work knowing you will be able to spend the entire day out in the fresh air. The first chore of the morning was to hitch the chicken mobiles to the tractor and move them about ten yards to a new spot in the pasture. This helps spread the chicken manure around the field. They came running by the hundreds as we filled the trough with their morning feed.

When we were finished we ventured off to pick up the trailer used for picking up the pigs on market day. We found an entire herd of Red Devon cattle in our way and had to wait for them to move along to the next field before we could get to the barn.

Catching pigs was new experience. Pigs are amazing creatures. One of the most remarkable attributes of pigs is their personality. Each pig is slightly different than the next, and we were introduced to the crew of 'all-stars'. Donovan is the friendliest. While pigs are normally quite skittish, Donovan saunters over and stick his snout right into your legs to say hello. In complete contrast is Wayward Pig. He should have been sent to market more than a year ago, but he is on to the farmer's game, and when they come rolling in to catch his buddies, he is sure to stay hundreds of yards away.

We tied off the feeders the night before so the pigs would be hungry in the morning when we opened the one with the corral. We backed up the trailer and began to usher the biggest pigs aboard. After several tries, and a lot of running and chasing we had the pigs we needed.

We took them back to the barn, and it was off to try our hand and catching turkeys. The goal was forty, but it turned out they were mostly underweight and needed another two weeks of fattening before sending them to market. We caught twenty-five. It was my first time catching turkeys. It is a little like taking a 'shot' in wrestling to grab their feet. Once their feet are secured, you come over top and smother their wings so they cannot beat you, and carry them like a football to the trailer.

The visit to the farm was great, and left Kerry and I with a lot to think about as we move forward.

New Boat

2010-11-15T10:02:00.000-05:00

I have not been able to spend much time kayaking over the past few weeks. I cracked two boats in the past nine months, and my weld on my old Jefe was far from adequate, and leaking tremendously every time I was on the water. Finally, my warrantied Remix hull made it in, and I installed the outfitting on Friday night. I got the chance to take it out on Sunday afternoon for a few laps on the Falls with Geoff Calhoun. I took this photo series from the session:

Pummel at 2.9

U-Hole Boof on Virginia Lines

Right Line Entrance at S-Turn Rapid on the Virginia Lines

Right Line at the 'Spout', on Virginia Lines

Geoff on Low Water 'Grace'

Classic Autumn Days

2010-11-15T09:46:00.000-05:00

Somewhere between Riley's Lock and Great Falls

This past weekend offered up two incredible back to back classic Falls days. The weather was perfect, lower sixties, blue skies, and plenty of sun. The nights were crisp and cold. Kerry and I woke up on Saturday morning, and decided to head out on a new adventure. We were tired out from being on the road the weekend before at her cousin Elizabeth's farm, so we wanted to stay local. I had the idea to grab the canoe and head up to Riley's Lock and canoe down to Great Falls, walk around the Falls and then canoe Mather Gorge to Old Angler's Inn. We were not sure how long it would take, but after a leisurely morning finally got up to Riley's to put on around two o'clock in the afternoon.

We only had about three and half hours of daylight, so I knew we had to keep a steady pace. The first part of the trip offered some great canoeing through the George Washington canal. There were four or five quality class two, maybe three rapids with some interesting tight maneuvers through log jams and big boulder gardens. We made our way out to the main Potomac and headed downstream for some beautiful calm flat water paddling. There was a surprise five or six foot cobbled ledge about half way down that offered a quick thrill as we found the only open sluice with enough water to keep us from hitting bottom.

Sunny Waters on the Potomac

We spotted a Bald Eagle along the way, and after about two and half hours made our way into familiar territory. We started recognizing some of the trees on river left, the big sycamores that line the River Walk trail in Great Falls Park. It was getting dark quickly by the time we took out above the Falls and the temperature was starting to drop quickly.

The river was low, and the Gorge was calm, but S-turn is always full of squirrelly water, and it was the one part of our trip that I was a bit nervous about in the canoe. Mogul was joining us, and was not too much trouble, but any sudden movements would be enough to tip us on a strong eddy line.

Kerry was a bit panicked when we got to the entrance of the gorge, so I came up with a quick plan 'b' and walked us along the cliff wall down below the rapid about one hundred feet downstream. Getting back in the canoe was difficult and the canoe sat directly next to a strong eddy line. Mogul jumped off the cliff into the boat and we held onto the wall and pulled our way away from the stronger current, dug in, and paddled out into the main flow. We paddled through the Rocky Island wave train and floated the rest of the Gorge with ease. It was completely dark, and a half moon sat overhead.

We were frozen by the time we took off the river, but it was an awesome spontaneous adventure on a beautiful fall day.

Mogul in the Canoe

Painting Lines

2010-11-04T22:03:00.001-04:00

Firing up the Right Line at the Spout

It's been a great start to the fall season. Buckley came down last week for his sister's wedding. We hung out on Wednesday night with Trope, and again on Monday morning to catch a little action on the Falls. We took two runs down Maryland side before firing up the Virginia lines.

The fall season always brings about its share of change, but this year the change seems particularly abundant. My life as well as those I keep close, all seem in a state of flux faced with big decisions and fresh horizon lines. Change can spur the occasional anxious moment, but more than anything I like to think of change as an opportunity.

My time at Landon seems to be drawing to a close. I hope not to make a rash decision about my next step in life, but to carefully consider all the options and decide what the next step may be. I am well aware the grass is not greener on the other side, rather it is merely different grass. Any situation in life will bring about its share of imperfections and frustrations. We simply need to decide what frustrations we are willing to deal with, as we follow our passions and pursue our desire of what we think life should be.

This can undoubtedly be an overwhelming process of pursuit.

Thank goodness the river is there to lift our spirits.

Digging Up Old Times

2010-10-20T01:31:00.000-04:00

52 Miles

2010-09-20T11:40:00.000-04:00

I made my return to the Gauley River.

The Gauley is often a milestone in many paddler's lives. Most never forget the feeling of their first time down, scared at 'Insignificant', wide-eyed at 'Pillow' and terrified in 'Lost Paddle'. The river is a true classic. Time passes in a paddler's life. Bigger rivers and steeper creeks come to pass, but the allure of the Gauley remains. It is a pilgrimage. It is a sacred space where the community gathers and revels in all that it is. The paddling community is made up of a unique breed of individuals from working professionals to bearded, dread-locked, back of my van lifestylers who breathe water instead of air. They all have one thing in common though. It is a respect, a fascination with an ideal that seems lost, or at the very least, hard to find in modern society. It is a feeling of a life without walls. It is a feeling of a life about possiblities. It is a feeling of... perhaps quite obviously... life. Simple, visceral, moving life. On the river, things makes sense because things are real. One gets to blend, and mesh with the very essence, the very core of the lifeblood of the planet. In this environment, it is an easy mental exercise to let go of the constant neverending chattering monologue of you mind. We are out there, because of this simple thing.

We decide to go to the river. We make a conscious choice to seek it out, to learn from it, to experience it.

We paddled fifty two miles on Saturday.  It is known as the double-marathon, a logistical, mental, and physical challenge. It was a long way to paddle. It was a series of small moments strung together over nine hours of river time. Almost all of it, I do not remember.

It was deep into the second marathon, that one moment in particular stands out in my mind.  We were out of the rapids. Most of the rough stuff was over. The river was calm. There were a few small ripples on the surface. The sun was beginning to dip near the tops of the trees.  We paddled straight into the evening light, squinting so hard we could barely see. The trees shimmered alongside us in the breeze, and it was quiet. The clink of my wedding band on the shaft of my paddle played a steady beat as the strokes melted away. At times the sun was so strong, I could only manage to stare as far as the bow of the boat. The water gently lifted the boat up and down. We paddled in sequence like this for some time, rounding a bend, sliding onward, passing into the depths of a long shadow created by a high bank.

There are reasons we go to the river.

Early Fall in the Sods

2010-09-07T00:13:00.001-04:00

Bear Rocks Trail

Kerry and I hit the road on Saturday morning. We quickly gathered up our backpacking gear and threw it in the back of the pickup truck for a weekend of wandering around in the Dolly Sods. I was excited to get away for a long weekend after two weeks of being reimmersed in life at school.

We met Katie and Scott in Friendsville around noon. Katie, Scott, and I were set to spend a few hours paddling the Upper Yough. We consolidated all of our kayaking gear and headed for the put-in. There was an early fall chill in the air. A cold front was blowing through the area.

Mogul's New Friends

Mogul made a few new friends in the parking area. One dog was a perfect doppelganger. They chased sticks around while we were suiting up. The Upper Yough was great as always. I saw Travis Overstreet at National Falls, always great to see him. We paddled so quickly we ended up catching up with the release bubble. It was a slow slog to the take-out, but the beautiful day made it more than bareable.

Once we were off the river, we met up with Kerry and headed to the Riverfront Hotel for soup, salad, and delicious homemade bread. Maggie and Jeff were sitting at the table next to us, and we all talked while we ate.

Goldenrod

We hit the road for Canaan Valley, stopping at the local Wal-Mart in Oakland to pick up a few provisions, most importantly a sleeping bag for Kerry. We thought about hitting up the Purple Fiddle to catch the evening show, but decided to build a fire, kick back and relax; a good choice.

Amber Waves of Grain in the Dolly Sods

In the morning we geared up and headed up to the Sods. I had never before seen so many cars on the access road. It was so dusty we were coughing the whole way to Bear Rocks where we ditched the cars. We decided to do a huge loop in the northern part of the Sods, a few trails I had not done before. The vistas and wide open plains in the first few miles were stunning. I could not help but think how badly I wanted to go back and mountain bike the same trails.

Intersection of Bear Rocks and Raven Ridge Trails

We hiked at an unhurried pace, and took plenty of time to take it all in. We were unsure of where were going to camp, given the incredibly large amount of people in the area. We decided the best spots were likely taken, so we settled on a site off trail near Blackbird Knob. It worked out perfectly. We built a great fire, ate some backpacking meals, and wiled away the evening looking at the stars. The cold set in as our fire wound down, and we were eager to get into our sleeping bags.

In the morning we hiked out and hit the road. It was the perfect way to spend the weekend before the start of the school year.

Kerry Crossing the Beaver Dam

Scott and Katie near the Finish

Good company and good times.

Skull Island

2010-08-29T23:15:00.000-04:00

Mark Loefler, Scouting Glen Park Falls on the Black River

Homegrown Locals held its first official, all hands on deck gathering in two years. The boys flew into upstate New York a few days before the wedding so we could paddle the Black River, and camp out on a small island in the middle of the St. Lawrence named Copperas. We renamed it Skull Island in the wee hours of the morning when we became pirates and were trying to defend our turf from a wild pack of invading cousins.

Billy arrived on Tuesday night. He had not slept in days due to celebrating his birthday. He sounded a bit stressed on the phone, so I put his mind at ease and ordered him a limo. He stepped off the plane and met the limo driver Neil who was holding a sign that said STRONGARMS.

Neil dropped Billy off at the Black River and we enjoyed a long playboating session at Hole Brothers. Afterward we went and picked up Mark and Lauren and took them back to Tip Camp. Mark, Billy, and I took the boat out to cruise around the islands for a while. When we got back to Tip Camp Billy promptly passed out.

In the morning we woke up and drove back to Watertown to meet the rest of the crew. Ian, Curt, and John pulled up in Ian's Subaru. We had to move quickly so we didn't miss the release. Unfortunately, Scott was still en route and we had to hit the river without him.

the whole crew getting ready to hit the Black River

The Black River is an awesome run. The river starts off a bit slow, but picks up the pace when it starts to gorge up after Glen Park Falls.

Mark Loefler, Glen Park Falls

Curt Joyce, Styling Glen Park Falls

Ian Buckley, Glen Park Falls

Billy Armstrong, Glen Park Falls

Glen Park Falls was a nice start to the gorge section. We hit a few nice quality class three rapids before pulling off to hit up a fifty foot cliff jump. A few local guides were paddling down river with us. They were super cool and shared the local beta.

Mark Loefler, Backflipping the Fifty Footer

The river kept getting better. The next big rapid was called the Poop Chute, and we all found out why. The rapid is kind of like a sloping waterfall into an offset seam, hole thing, that sucks you down to the bottom and spits you out after a few seconds.

The Poop Chute is Kind and Lets Strongarms Go

The river soon came to an end and courtesy of the local guides, we had an entire shuttle bus waiting just for us at the bottom. It was an amazing day on the river, and a special moment to have all of us on the water together again.

Homegrown Locals

Mark Loefler and his daughter Lillian in Clayton

We hopped in the cars and headed north toward the St. Lawrence. We arrived at Rockledge and picked up some firewood for the night's bonfire. Scott joined us in Clayton, and the entire crew was in one piece. The boat ride out to Copperas Island was really slow, but no one cared.

Landfall on Copperas Island

We arrived on Copperas and immediatley built a fire. As the fire burned, we hopped in the water for a swim while the sun was going down. Things began to get a wee bit foggy after the swim.

Skull Island Revelry

Just when we thought no one else was showing up, fireworks exploded overhead. Kerry's cousins were on their way. At this point we declared ourselves pirates and prepared to defend the island while they tried to make landfall. After a bunch of nonsensical grumbling, we greeted them in merriment.

Apparently the cooler kept moving in the middle of the night. All of us tried to wrestle it, but we lost. We woke up in the morning to a smoldering fire and heavy eyelids.

Just like old times.

Homegrown Locals, French Creek Marina Docks

The Notch

2010-08-29T22:00:00.000-04:00

After almost two months away from the Falls, I finally made my return. I joined Scott Anderson, Sean Devine, Mark Loeffler, and Eric Ornsetin for a few laps on the Maryland side. It was a beautiful evening, and as the sun was setting, Pummel was perfectly lit.

The photo series from the evening:

Sean Devine, the Notch

Scott Anderson, covered up in the Notch

Eric Ornstein, the Notch

Sean Devine, entering Pencil Sharpener

Scott Anderson, entering Pencil Sharpener

Mark Loeffler, entering Pencil Sharpener

Sean Devine, in the Notch

Scott Anderson, in the Notch

Mark Loeffler, in the Notch

Eric Ornstein, in the Notch

Epic Ascent

2010-08-28T00:52:00.003-04:00

Heading into Dean's

I arrived back in town a few days ago after a long summer away. I spent two weeks wandering through Virginia and West Virginia, a week training for the Great Falls kayak race, and then went north to the St. Lawrence river with Kerry. We spent a few weeks getting ready for the wedding, got married, and then flew south to one of the Bahamian out islands for our honeymoon. There are many stories to be told, so I will have to chip away slowly at the task of recording it all.

Kerry, Cape SantaMaria

The trip to Long Island in the Bahamas was incredible. Kerry's best friend Lindsay was kind enough to offer us her family's house on the beach. We rented a car and explored the island. The island is eighty miles long and only four miles wide. The Bahamas are home to one of the world's largest concentrations of blue holes, essentially large underwater cavern systems and sinkholes. Dean's is the deepest in the world, close to seven hundred feet deep. We traveled down to Dean's twice. The first day we arrived we threw on our snorkeling gear and swam toward the edge of the abyss. Blue holes are super eerie places. Large concentrations of fish hang around the outer edges of the holes. The ocean floor goes from knee deep to several hundred feet within several yards. Dean's is about thirty yards across. When the sun shines directly on the hole you can see clearly to the other side. Kerry and I swam the perimeter first before I ventured into the middle. I was honestly kind of nervous as I flippered my way from one side to the other. There is an incredible sense of quiet and calm, but mostly an overwhelming sense of an unknown world that feels like it might swallow you whole.

On the far side of the hole, a limestone cliff rose about forty feet out of the water. The limestone was incredibly sharp. A rope ladder hung from the top, and after climbing it a few times to take the plunge from the top, I could not resist the temptation to try and climb the rock. A spire hung from the ceiling, about four feet in diameter and reached down about fifteen feet above the water. I climbed the pitch next to the spire until I was even with it, and then leapt toward the spire and tried to hold on. I missed on the first few attempts, and decided to abandon my efforts for the day.

Kerry and I headed into a small little village called Clarencetown to grab some dinner. We met a potcake

dog named Happy, and ate fresh conch salad from the Rowdy Boys of Long Island. We thought about spending the night, but decided to drive back north. In the morning we woke up and headed south again. I wanted one more shot at climbing Dean's. We ate lunch at a place called Max's Conch on the way down. As you might imagine, we ate more conch there.

Potcake Dog, Happy

Most people go to Dean's to snorkel and free dive. I imagine it is quite possible no one has ever climbed the route I was attempting there. It would seem a strange idea for any climbers to venture to Dean's because it the only climbing around. The idea of being the first or one of only a few to climb at this world class place was incredible.

Sunset at Rowdy Boys

I put on my snorkel gear and headed to the cliff on the far side. I made my way up to the dyno, but fell on the first two attempts. It was pretty difficult climbing and I knew the dyno was going to take everything I had. On the third attempt I finally nailed it. I was super psyched and began climbing up the rest of the spire. I reached the top and was able to rest under a large roof. There were a few dicey looking holds that would have been bomber if I knew they would not crack, but I was not sure. I decided to make a huge throw for the top. I took a few deep breaths and leapt out to reach above the roof...

and fell.

The water was crystal clear and before I surfaced I opened my eyes, surrounded by fish.

Kerry and I decided to call it an early day and headed back to the house on the north end of the island.

It was an epic ascent, and one of our first adventures as a married couple.

I will never forget it.

New Friends and New Horizons

2010-06-19T23:37:00.000-04:00

Tim Madison, 'Grace Under Pressure'

Over the past two months I have been out on the Potomac almost every day. I started a kayaking program with a few students at school in early March, and have been out on the water on a regular basis ever since. I took a solid break from paddling this winter, and it turned out to be a great idea. I returned to the water this spring with new inspiration and motivation to enjoy the water.

In the past month I ran close to forty laps on Center Lines, and recently as water levels have dropped a bit have had the opportunity to fire up Virginia side again. Today, I set out with Tim Madison and John Greer. Tim is from Georgia and arrive in early June. Eric and I showed him down the Falls. He was super stoked and we have had some great paddle sessions since then.

Today was no different. It was a beautiful, hot day out on the river. The level was hovering around 3.2, maybe a bit below, so there were plenty of options. We started off running a lap on Grace, before heading over to the Virginia side. Tim and I ran the Virginia side a week earlier and fired up the 'Crack' around 3.4. I never thought I would say this, but at 3.2 things are starting to feel really low out there. We ran the left line at U-hole, and all had smooth lines through S-turn. I squeezed through the 'Crack', and John followed. Tim was fired up to run the meat of the 'Spout'. He would have none of the typical right to left move and decided to try his luck plugging it straight down the middle. In the eddy below, I watched him shoot of the lip, paddling ferociously through the air and forty fiving into the deep dark lair of the unknown. He shot up to the surface and was violently pulled back into the curtain. He hung on for a few moments blasting the bottom. His boat was cartwheeled four of five times with audible thrashings. It seemed like a long while before his head popped up twenty yards downstream with a huge smile stretched across his face. His boat filled with water and was finally released from the Spout's jaws.

John Greer, 'Grace Under Pressure'

John coralled Tim while I chased his boat down. The bow was nearly bent half from being tossed around, but it luckily he was able to climb back in and keep paddling. John had to bust a move, but Tim and I had some more time, so we scoped out the Alpine line. We hiked back up and fired it up. The wave through Z-turn was sweet, and the 'Point' boated easily. We were stoked when we reached the bottom. We finished up the day with one more run down the Virginia side.

Tim Madison, 'the Crack'

I'm taking the next two weeks off from boating. I'll be on the road with students running a summer program through Virginia and West Virginia. The time off comes at a good time. I took a really big shot to my ribs a week ago and am still in a lot of pain. I flipped below Grace and took it hard from the rock in the runout. It still hurts to roll. I am hoping it will be in good shape by the Falls race.

Me, Squeezing through 'the Crack'

Peace.

Tapirs

2010-06-09T23:39:00.000-04:00

Just a few more days of school and the freedom of summer. The past two weeks have been great. Lots of Fishladder and Centerlines laps... finally starting to get comfortable with some water in the river. Definitely looking forward to running the 'Crack' when it gets down a bit more. This summer should offer up lots of boating opportunities. Hoping to get some time on the 'Green' with Gnarls, the 'Black' in upstate New York, the 'Ottawa', and a trip to the 'Rado. It's been great to get a lot of time on the river with Ornstein since he's been in town. Hoping to get some new pics up soon. Until then, here's a picture of Strongarm's new girlfriend. What a nice ass!

Old Friends and a Quick Roll

2010-05-17T00:30:00.000-04:00

Over the past two weeks the Potomac has offered more than its fair share of new and exciting adventures.
Pags and Steveo introduced me to a new cliff jump. I stared at this behemoth many times over the year, but had not seen anyone jump. Pags eagerly led the way up the rock outcropping to the sloping pitch towering high above the river. It was at least fifteen feet higher than the normal jump across the river. I lept off the rock and did my typical disoriented flailing free fall. I failed to pull my arms in tight an ended up getting dewinged. Think of landing with your arms out like chicken wings and then having them wrenched suddenly and painfully upward with an incredible amount of force. That is getting dewinged.

Center Lines have been in at good water levels. Last Thursday I follwed Beakes down for a quick lap and then headed over to the Virginia side for a park service meeting about river access at Fisherman's Eddy. Beakes and I walked into the meeting geared up and dripping wet. The room was packed with the usual suspects. The conversation went back and forth about how to handle the enormous log jam creating a dicey walk down to Fisherman's Eddy. The park service was concerned people would follow kayakers down, and end up in a bad situation. Multiple solutions were discussed, and ultimately the park service seemed genuinely interested in creating a situation favorable for kayakers.

After the meeting I met up with Scott, Sean, and long lost Monica Gokey at the Irish Inn for a few beers. We caught up and shared stories. Monica and I made some plans to meet up and boat the next day. We ended up meeting John Greer for a few laps down Center Lines and Fishladder.

On Sunday it was more great lines. Scott, Monica and I hit up Center Lines and Fishladder. I got subbed out in the hole on the lead-in to Grace on my second lap and ended up nearly going over the handlebars over Grace. I gave a big brace, flipped, hit an offside role and continued straight down through the Ledges and Fingers.

Big rain in the forecast. Wedding is a few short months away. Looking forward to a big reunion of dirtbags. Together once again in the same place.

Cheat River Festival 2010

2010-05-17T00:02:00.001-04:00

In the week preceeding Cheat River Festival, I set out to resurrect the grease car. My ambitions were simple: buy a battery and get it started. I accomplished this task fairly easily with a mission into the depths of overboard commercialism known as the Rockville Pike. I picked up my battery and got and got a quick bite to eat at the Peruvian chicken shack. One hour later, the new battery was in and I was driving the grease car. It felt great; a little like I was rebuilding a lost dream.

Unfortunately, the dream died a quick death.

Friday was race day. One hundred and fifty kayakers in one big lump waiting for the signal. The Cheat River Massacre is the largest mass start downriver race in the world. It was my first time racing in any race. The rapids on the Cheat are fairly simple. Folks usually plod their way down at a leisurely pace of three to four hours. Race times are much faster, usually in the order of ninety minutes or less. This is pretty quick considering the course is twelve miles of fairly consistent class three/four whitewater.

Steveo

The only thing standing between me and the race was the three and half hour car ride out to Albright. I drove out to Calleva to meet Steveo, Pags, and Simon. We loaded boats and hit the road. Steveo decided to ride shotgun with me. All was well until we started into western Maryland. The interstate starts to rise and fall with some fairly steep grades. As we neared Albright, the car seemed to get a little slower with each passing hill. By the time we hit the backroads, she was barely moving. I switched on and off between the defunct grease mode and diesel for the last ten miles. We pulled into the campground in Albright and the car stopped running. We rolled to a halt and hopped out. We made it.

Steveo and I could not believe it. I knew the car would make it out, but it now looked like the grease car, this legendary machine, was not going to make it home. The idea of losing the car in the middle of West Virginia was too much too bare at the moment. We had only ninety minutes to race time.

We geared up and hit the water. The flag dropped and we were off. It was an awesome experience. Pulling out from behind the bridge pilings, surfing the wakes of other boats to catch a bit of a free ride, and heading into rapids without really knowing what was coming. It was definitely a different way to run a river. I immediately loved it.

After the first few miles the race stretched out into groups. I was next to the few same guys for the rest of the way, passing and occasionally being passed by a few boats. We headed into the last set of big rapids and a dude with aviators sunglasses came up next to me. He looked pretty familiar, but I was not sure where I knew him from. Directly in front of me was an aquaintance from Ecuador, Brad Buddenburg. Billy and I paddled with Brad and his wife Katie when were paddling in the Quijos Valley a year before. It was great to see him on the river. I ended up finishing right behind Brad, and ahead of the mystery aviator man. It turned out to be Tyler Houck, one of Curt's buddies from the Columbia River Gorge. Tyler had a great race finishing second in the short boat class.

After the race we grabbed a few free beers from a keg in the takeout parking lot near the Jenkinsburg bridge. It was literally the greatest beer to ever hit my lips. It was a local brew, nothing too fancy, but the atmosphere and my incredible thirst made it memorable.

Parking Lot before the Race

Most of the racers jam into a big yellow cheese bus to head back to the campground. Pags and I stood in the back as the bus inched its way out of the canyon. Every bump had us plastered against the rear window. The kids sitting next to us were getting rowdy and drinking Coors.

We were pretty tired after the race. We pulled our cars under a big Willow tree near the put in, cooked some food and fell asleep pretty quickly. In the morning we woke up and headed to the Upper Yough.

We had a great day on the Upper Yough and saw more than a few familiar faces. On the way off the river I passed an awkward bunch of hooligans who turned out to be old friends. Travis Overstreet and his gang of southern Virgnia boys came to the Fest ready to tear it up as usual. I caught up with them for a few minutes, chatted on a few glory stories and headed on. Pags, Steveo and I caught a ride with Simon and these guys from D.C. I didn't know. When we got back to the put-in, Pags and Steveo had to head back home. I had to stay because the legendary grease car was on the side of the road near Teeter's campground refusing to start.

Simon and his two friends gave me a ride back to the festival. We took the scenic route home, stopping to shoot a .40 gauge pistol at some beer bottles in the middle of the woods. The beer bottles were drunk and causing a ruckus. We had to show them who was boss.

I was not sure what to do about the car. I did not want to resort to towing it, too much money, but the only other option was selling it, and I was not sure how I was going to work that. I decided to mull it over for the evening. I camped near Scott and Katie. I walked around with Travis for a while at the festival until he decided it was time for him to go to bed. I ended up hanging with Sean Devine for the rest of the evening. We commandeered and empty pavillion style tent, chairs, bag of free beer and pretzels and wiled away the rest of the evening listening to some killer bluegrass music.

In the morning, Scott and crew hit another run through Cheat Canyon. I stayed behind to deal with the car. I sold it to a guy named Doug. He came and towed it away in the rain. It was a sad moment. The legend was finished. I drove Scott's car to the takeout to pick him up. On the way I discovered the Drive by Truckers. They are my new favorite band and track eleven on their album 'A Blessing and a Curse' informed me life was going to be a world of hurt. I agreed.

Over the years I've had some epic car rides, but that afternoon the car ride back with Scott turned out to be one of the best. Great conversation and great music that did not let up until we were back home.

It was another amazing Cheat Fest. They usually cannot be beat, and this year was no different.

The link below will bring you to the race results page if you're interested.
http://www.cheatriverrace.com/2010RaceResults.htm

End of the Line for the Grease Car

Fishladder Series

2010-04-26T15:54:00.002-04:00

The weather was perfect on Sunday afternoon. I met Mark and Scott for some Falls laps. After a run through the Fishladder and a lap through center lines, we started talking about the lack of a Fishladder link on the Americanwhitewater page. The Fishladder consists of six slides in quick succession. It moves quickly and is often much less photographed than the rest of the lines on Great Falls. We decided to take on the afternoon project of photographing each of the six major slides in sequence. We plan on heading back out again, but here is what he have so far. It's hard to imagine a better way to spend a Sunday afternoon.
(The first shot is not from the Fishladder, but I had to pay homage to Scott's sweet boof)

Scott Anderson, 'Grace Under Pressure'

Scott on the first slide of the Fishladder

Scott, second slide of the Fishladder

Mark Loeffler, second slide of the Fishladder

Third slide, 'Under the Bridge'

Mark, fourth slide

Mark, fifth slide, 'Around the Corner'

Long view of the last slide

Last Slide

Big

2010-04-19T01:51:00.002-04:00

It was big.
Scott called me on Friday afternoon.
'You wanna' run the Fishladder?'
'Definitely. I'll meet you at there at four o'clock'.
I called Pags to see if he was game. He was in the midst of driving a school bus back to Calleva. I assured him not to worry. I could fully outfit him with gear. He was down.
I usually shy away from higher water levels. I am trying to break the habit, move out of my comfort zone.
We ferried around to warm up, boofed over the dam and headed downstream. I followed Scott in to the first slide. I hit the wall stroking hard, backentered near vertical and threw a huge brace to keep myself from flipping. I pulled into the relative calm of the river right eddy.
Pags was coming in hot. He hit the wall with full force and stopped dead in his tracks. In an instant he was facing upstream front surfing the first slide. Scott and I looked on with a small sense of urgency. We didn't really want to entertain the idea of a swim. Pags eventually surfed over the top of the pile, a bit stirred, but not too shaken.
Scott headed into the second slide. Pags and I elected to check out the river right line known as 'Tight Squeeze'. We had never seen it before. We approached it quickly to find a large log blocking the entrance. We banged over some rocks and started to appreciate the name of this short section.
We met Scott above the thrird slide.
'We'll see how it goes'.
He disappeared into the center of the huge wave. Pags and I sat for a brief moment, contemplating the size and speed. He took off. I paused for another moment and let go. I blanked out as I hit the wave face. I came through hurtled toward the river right wall and straight into the fourth slide. I ducked under a fallen tree with downhanging branches and launched into the river left eddy. I admitted my gut wrenching fear as we laughed at the absurdity of the size and speed at higher water levels.
We discussed the fifth and sixth slides. Scott and Pags wanted to run straight through. I thought I might eddy out above. A few short seconds later we were careening around the corner and headed straight into the last slide. I looked right and decided to follow them straight into it.
In mid-slide I watched Pags surf the top of the pile. He blew out as I smashed into the ten foot wall of water. I crashed on through and eddied out screaming at the top of my lungs. I sat in the eddy with Pags. We just looked at each other and yelled. We looked at the sky slapping our hands in the water next to our boats. Smiling. Smiling. Laughing, smiling, breathing sighs of relief and gratitude.
In the midst of it you can feel it.
It makes sense.
Sometimes the only kind I know.

See you on the river.

North Cackalacky

2010-04-05T01:17:00.000-04:00

So, there we were. Boulders to the left. Trees to the right. Sun overhead, staring down the throat of the snarling beast of a dragon. Wilson's Creek.

Alright, alright. No drama. Here's the real deal.

Curt Joyce, Ten Foot Falls, Wilson's Creek

Me, Ten Foot Falls

I took off from the lovely little metropolis of D.C. on Thursday morning and headed down to meet up with Warthog. He recently returned from a long epic little sojourn to New Zealand chasing some lil' kayking philly. He was gone for months, and I was eager to hear his stories of rivers and romance. He did not disappoint.

We met up at Dixie Caverns, a bit past the 'Noke, ditched his truck, threw his gear in mine, and hit the road. We filled each other in on life, our latest adventures, and our plans for the upcoming months.

We drove for hours until we hit the booming town of Boone, North Carolina. We were hungry and made the appropriate refueling pitstop at a little restaurant called Galileo's. We decided this was our 'spot' in Boone, and returned days later for another meal on the way home. After dinner we drove some more, and then some more, and then just a little bit further. It was hours later that we ended up smack dab in the middle of darn tarnation in the woods of Appalachia at the doorstep of Bruce Gray's cottage, country store, and trout pond.

Triple Drop, Wilson's Creek

We walked in around ten o'clock at night, surprised that he not only existed way out here, but was also open at such a late hour. Bruce was behind the counter. Way behind the counter sitting on his couch. We quickly realized this was also his home. Bruce appeared to be enjoying a little of grandpa's old cough medicine and jibed us with some congenial conversation. We heard more truisms in ten minutes than one might hear in a lifetime. Bruce was not only a shopkeeper and trout farmer, but replete with philisophical wisdoms beyond the abilities of our tired river dreaming brains to bear at such a later time of night.

He offered to let us camp in his backyard next to the trout pond for free, because he wanted us to know that 'in this whole crazy fucked up world, that he, Bruce Gray, was the one damn individual that gave two shits about us'.

Razor's Edge, Wilson's Creek

He then offered us beers and let us join him behind the counter next to his glorious piping hot wood stove. We chatted some more as Bruce told us about Barbara and breakfast in the morning while he played video poker on the television with one hand.

We said goonight and headed out to put up the tent next to the trout pond. Mogul was joining us on this adventure and was running around chasing the thousands of tadpoles littering the ponds edge.

It rained through the night, but we woke up to sunny skies and warm weather. Perfect. We headed toward Wilson's and a great morning on the river.

The river was recently declared wild and scenic. It easily lived up to such an honor.

Paddling out of Razor's Edge

When we were finished we headed over to the Watauga back near Boone. The weather changed dramatically and by the time we arrived it was cloudy, near snowing and about freezing. Curt met up with his friend Drew and they bombed the gorge in an hour or so. We then headed over to Johnson City, Tennessee to hang with a few of Drew's close friends. We drank some beers, played a little disc golf, and ate some pizza. We transferred to another bar, but I was beat and fell asleep with the dog in the back seat of my truck. We went back to the house and I passed out on the couch. Drew and Curt headed out for another round.

In the morning I explored Johnson City with Mogul who was happy to be out of the truck for a while. After a breakfast of baby shower cookies we headed for the river. I am still confused about what in the hell a nipple brush is. It seems really weird.

The Watagua is a classic North Carolina river. It's a beautiful gorge and offers continuous, challenging whitewater. In terms of difficulty it's been described as something a bit harder than the Upper Yough, but a bit easier than the Upper Blackwater. No matter really, just an incredible day of quality time on the river.

The weather was incredible, sunny and warm, but the forecast was for more rain and the worst the next day so we decided to head back to Roanoake. We crashed at Curt's mom's house that night.

In the morning we chilled over a leisurely breakfast before I hit the road for home.

Great to see some new rivers with a good old time friend.

Lots more to come now that the weather is finally getting warmer.

Until next time.

Mogul

Belize

2010-03-01T14:28:00.000-05:00

Time for another flashback. This past June, I took a trip to Belize with twelve students from Landon. The trip followed the success of the previous year's trip to Peru. This time we were off to Belize to explore issues of climate change, and complete a service project in the coastal city of Dangriga while hosted by locals of the Garifuna culture.

Our first glimpse of the jungle

The trip was a success. We started off with a swim in the Sibun River, eighty degrees of beautiful tropical river in the middle of the jungle. We hitched a ride on the back of a truck pulling a trailer. We stayed a few days at the Monkey Bay Sanctuary, and went looking for animals in the middle of the night. We were a bit too noisy and came up empty handed.

The Sibun River

Hitching a Ride

Sunrise at Monkey Bay

Empty Hammock, Monkey Bay Sanctuary

Laundry, Monkey Bay Sanctuary

We left Monkey Bay, and explored the caves of Mayan princesses. We swam into the cave and ventured a few miles back following a stream in a huge underground cavern. Unbelievably, our guide led us to the remains of Mayan princesses over a thousand years old.

The Road to Mayan Princesses

Mayan Princess Skull

We spent some time in the Pine Ridge Reserve, exploring many swimming holes and hiking to Big Rock Falls.

Sunset, Pine Ridge Reserve

Big Rock Falls

Following our stay in the Pine Ridge Reserve we were off to visit some Mayan ruins, followed by our stay in Dangriga where we helped repair a statue and paint the local museum.

Xunantunich Ruins

Local Boy Fishing

Swimming in the inland Blue Hole

The Local Girls, Dangriga

a Boy and his Horse, Dangriga

Young man, Dangriga

Painting at the Gulisi Garifuna Cultural Museum

Painting

Friends

A Helping Hand

Finally, we finished our trip with a stay on a remote Caye, and even got the chance to hunt for a few spiny lobster.

Remote Caye

Paddles like a dream

It was short and sweet. I am definitely looking forward to this summer's adventure in Tanzania.

Relaxing, Belizean Style

One More Speed Star

2010-02-28T22:49:00.001-05:00

Heading west again through Kansas

Upon our return from West Virginia, we arrived back in the D.C. area to a city buried in snow. The roads were still in bad shape on Monday afternoon. The snow was several feet thick, buses were stuck, and there were plenty of abandoned cars. We put the Jeep into four wheel drive to make into our neighborhood, pulled in front of our house, grabbed some shovels and started digging a path toward our front door.

Digging out in Maryland

We settled in for a day, and waited for the next blizzard to strike. Unbelievably, another blizzard was headed straight for the region. The snow was almost as high as the fence around our yard. The next storm brought nearly as much snow, and incredibly high winds. I went outside to shovel every few hours to try and lighten the load once the storm was over. Kerry and I needed a few groceries so I headed out to see if the store was open. I could barely see several feet, and there was not a car on the road. I pulled in front of the grocery store and thought it was closed. I parked in front, hopped out, and pryed the mechanical door open. Apparently the store was open. I was one of two other shoppers in the store.

My friend Jeff telephone that evening. He asked if I was still on to drive to Colorado with him. I have to be honest, in the midst of the second blizzard and after an unbelievable ski weekend, the prospect of twenty-six hours in the car did not seem so great.

The storm let up, the roads cleared (a little), and we were on our way. We left on Thursday afternoon around three o'clock, and arrived in Colorado at five thirty the next day. It was rather insane. We stopped in Charlottesville to pick up some victory cigars and a bottle of whiskey, and another time for dinner. The rest of the way, we stopped only for gas.

Haggard at the Colorado Border

We were haggard by the time we arrived in Boulder, but we cleaned up and headed out to grab some food and to meet good ol' Billy Strongarms. I had not seen Billy since he left a few months before to move to Fort Collins, so it was good to reunite for the weekend.

After dinner and meeting up with Billy we crashed at Jeff's apartment in Broomfield. We woke up and hit the road. We stopped in Berthoud Pass to hike up and ski/ride down. It was an epic way to start the day. Unbelievably so, for the second time in two weeks, I was getting my chance at another virgin moment. I had never before been to Colorado in the winter, and to earn my first turns in fresh powder was an awesome experience.

Billy scouting it out with some local on Berthoud Pass

After our adventure on Berthoud, we headed to Winterpark. It ended up snowing most of the day. It was windy, so the bowls at the top were closed, but I caught my first glimpse of Colorado skiing. I was hooked. My legs were definitely not in shape and burning by the end of the day, but I couldn't wait until tomorrow. I was hoping the bowls would open up and I would have a shot at above the treeline skiing.

That evening we were starving, and went to the local Winterpak Pub for some food. We pre-gamed with some victory whiskey in the car. After dinner, we decided to try our hand at Big Buck Hunter, a video game in the bar. Two hours later we were still playing, and decided that it was our new favorite post skiing endeavor. We headed over to Ben's condo to crash. As usual, it was great to see Ben. The three of us fell asleep watching 'Point Break'.

Billy Armstrong carving fresh tracks, Bethoud Pass

The next day, the weather broke. We headed out to the slopes for another round of insane skiing. Ben gave us a great tour of the mountain and brought us through some amazing tree runs. We skied together all day. I got my wish around lunchtime when the winds quieted down enough to open the lifts to the bowls. We tore off on some crazy bowl runs down into the trees, over and over again. We were one of the first groups on the lift and skied until close.

The road to Winterpark

We said goodbye to Ben, and headed back to Jeff's apartment in Broomfield to catch some sleep. Billy drove me to the airport in the morning for an early flight home. We'll all get the chance to reunite again this summer at the River. I cannot wait.

Jeff Chrisler after skiing Berthoud

The Snow Lillies

2010-02-28T21:58:00.002-05:00

Snowbound

Kerry's birthday was February 8th. We decided to head out to West Virginia to celebrate in good ol' Appalachian style: blue grass and Whitegrass.

There was one major twist in our plans, the second biggest blizzard to hit the region this season. Kerry had to go to school in the morning, but I was lucky enough to have the entire day off. Landon closed in anticipation of all the snow. I spent the morning throwing our gear together, snowboards, skis, gloves, snowshoes, and dog food. This was Mogul's first big road trip, and we were not sure what to expect. We decided to take Kerry's Jeep so he could chill in the back while we drove. We are essentially convinced that Mogul is the God of Snow. We picked him up during the first snowstorm of the season, decided to name him Mogul, and it has since been the snowiest winter on record.

We were hoping to beat the blizzard and leave by noon, but we were three and a half hours behind schedule. Everyone in D.C. loses their mind when snow is on the way, ransacking grocery stores and getting in accidents even before the snow starts. So, Kerry was stuck in traffic for two hours trying to get home. Oh, the joys of the city. Finally she got home, we threw Mogul in the back of the Jeep and we were off, just as the snow was starting to stick to the street. Eight and a half short hours later we made it to West Virginia.

The trip is usually a little under four hours, but by the time we reached I-68, the road was completely covered in snow. We barely made it out of Cumberland, sliding on a forty five degree angle for a mile to make it uphill. When we reached the top we were pulled over. The officer thought we did not have the Jeep in four wheel drive. We did, but apparently it was not working so well. We ended up putting the Jeep in four low and drove about twenty to thirty miles an hour to make it there.

When we were close to Wisp, the backloads had at least six inches or more on them. There was no one else on the road. We stopped to get gas. No other cars at the station, but there were four snowmobiles. Not your typical scene in Western, Maryland.

Not your typical scence in western Maryland

We had been in the car for around six hours at this point and were absolutely starving. We pulled into the Black Bear to grab some food. It sits across the lake the fuels Wisp's snowmaking. Not necessary these days. We couldn't even see the slopes less than a quarter mile away in the midst of the blizzard.

After dinner and a beer we headed back out into the storm. We only had forty five miles to drive, but it took us two more hours. We had to stop every twenty minutes or so to get out and clean the wiper blades and knock the ice off the windshield. I took a few minutes to stop and stand in the middle of the road every now and then to appreciate the storm. Everything just seems a little bit better when it's snowing.

Alas, we made it to Thomas. Never before has Thomas felt so out in the middle of nowhere. It was magnificent. There were several feet of snow pile high alongside Main Street. We pulled up in front of the Purple Fiddle, and it felt like we were home. We walked in to live music and a packed house. We were exhausted so we grabbed our key to the guest house and headed inside to hit the rack.

When we woke up it was still snowing. I took Mogul for a wicked awesome snowshoe down the street. He was buried with every pounce, but loved every minute of it. Kerry woke up and we grabbed some breakfast and the Flying Pigs Cafe. Mogul was invited in since there were no other customers. It was a quiet weekend in the Valley. Everyone cancelled their plans because of the storm. Mogul ran into the kitchen of the Flying Pigs and decided to dine on the sausage that didn't make it into our breakfast. We paid for this later when he threw up in the car while we were at Whitegrass.

Getting pulled out of a ditch

After breakfast we headed off to Whitegrass. On the way we picked up some new snowpants. My old ones kept wetting out on me, and I didn't feel like having a wet ass all day. We were almost there. Not quite though. I took it a little too wide leaving the parking lot, thought I was on the road, but realized quickly it was a snowbank because the car was on its side. Kerry and I were laughing in the car and had to climb out through my door. Luckily, a tow truck was driving by. They promised to come back and pull us. They held true to their word, and finally we were on our way to some sweet pow pow.

After all these years, I was still a Whitegrass virgin. Well, virgins no more! Our first time at Whitegrass will never be forgotten. We skied all day long and summited Bald Mountain in the afternoon. It was perfectly peaceful and the ride down was hilarious. We half sledded sitting on the backs of our skis, and half crashed in head high drifts of powder. We made it to the bottom in one piece and grabbed some after ski beverages at Whitegrass before heading back to Thomas to eat dinner at Syrianis. After Syrianis we headed to the Fiddle to catch the Black Lillies, our favorite new band.

Entrance to Whitegrass

Kerry heading off on Three Mile

Deep tracks in fresh powder

Staring off toward the slopes at Canann

The Summit of Bald Knob

Fresh and Quiet

The Valley

The Purple Fiddle

Kerry cruisin' through the trees

Crashed out in the deep stuff

In the midst of it all

Sunday morning we were at it again. We downhilled all day at Timberline. We skied in some of the best conditions I've ever seen in the region. The woods were wide open. That night, we left the Fiddle and headed to Canaan Valley Resort so we could watch the Super Bowl.

The drive to get there on Friday night was an adventure in itself, but combined with our first time at Whitegrass, the Black Lillies concert, and insane day at Timberline, it turned into a weekend that we'll remember for a lifetime. Canaan Valley never seems to fail on delivering unforgettable times.

Downtime

2010-01-18T18:09:00.001-05:00

Three day weekends are incredible. Kerry and I took Mogul to a consultation for dog training. He slept patiently at our feet while we mused over the various options for training him into a well behaved adult. The verdict is out, but it seems like it might be fun.

Afterward we headed to our own consultation with Father John, the priest who will marry us in August. We discussed how we want to go about 'preparing' for marriage and walked out the door with a pile of paperwork, and a book on married life. On Saturday evening we went to Kerry's Aunt's house to visit with the Cassidy side of the family.

Sunday was a dreary rainy day. We woke up late and spent the day watching football. We finally left the house for thirty minutes to pick up a pizza in Rockville. We were both happy the Vikings beat the Cowboys.

This morning we woke up and decided to head out to Sugarloaf for a hike. Sugarloaf is in northern Montgomery County. Mogul happily played in the leaves as we wound our way to the top of the mountain. We spent a while at the top, mostly engaged in conversation with a ten year old boy wearing a helmet who knew the exact elevation of most major mountaineering summits in the world. An entertaining young man to say the least.

Paint Creek

2010-01-18T03:09:00.002-05:00

There are many tales I have yet to tell, but for whatever reason one of the first that comes to mind is a day on the river last spring. I took one my students, Ben, out to West Virginia to follow up on the work that Shannon and I started the year before. It was an incredibly gorgeous day, warm weather following a big rain storm the night before, right in the heart of spring.

The two of us were winding our way toward Kayford Mountain when we took a wrong turn off the interstate leading into Charleston. We ended up beside a swollen Paint Creek. I spotted a nice looking waterfall from a bend in the road, and immediately stepped on the brakes. We untied the boat, I threw on some gear, and tossed Ben the camera.

And Now...

2010-01-18T02:47:00.004-05:00

Staring into nowhere, North Dakota

A lot can happen in one year. In just twelve short months a man's life can dramatically transform itself not just once, but a seemingly endless number of times through a number of epic stories and adventures. It's not until relatively recently, perhaps now, that I am finally taking the time to begin to reflect on all of it. There are a few devoted friends who occasionally hop on Homegrown to check out the latest, and for quite a while there has been little more than a few meager posts that do a rather terrible job at depicting some of the experiences I've had in the past year of my life. In a little more than a year's time I did the following:

Unearthed the vagaries of mountain top removal coal mining in West Virginia, spending weeks sleeping in an abandoned cabin, and nearly dying going ninety in a Suzuki Sidekick with a guy named 'Crazy Charles'. (May 2008/2009)

Drag Line on Kayford Mountain, West Virginia

Traveled to Colorado for two weeks kayaking (June 2008)

Avalanche, Oh be Joyful Creek, Crested Butte

Traveled in Peru for a little more than a month, living in a small rural valley name Chilca for three weeks with 11 students building a guinea pig barn out of mud bricks. At one point I spoke to myself on fairly frequent intervals while driving through the Atacama Desert overlooking the Pacific Ocean to break the silence of no radio. (August, 2008)

Somewhere in the Altiplano, Peru

Traveled to Ecuador with my amigo Billy Blanco, otherwise known as Captain Strong Arms (he attempted to start his own blog called Strong Arms, but do to competing readership from the Perpetual Flow, he was unable to keep his ratings up and discontinued his writings) We evaded falling to our deaths while climbing out of the Oyacachi River on a mudslide, and crashing dirt bikes in the shadow of a fiery volcano. (December 2008)

Street Scene, Quito

Toured Ushuaia, Argentina in Patagonia for a week before hopping on a boat with a bunch of crazy wide eyed folks from all around the globe, and tooled on down to Antarctica with Robert Swan and 2041. I learned what it felt like to dance in blue underwear and ski gloves after vomiting in fifty foot seas. (March 2009)

Flew to Mallorca for a wedding atop a cliff overlooking the Mediterranean, and became violently ill eating mariscos (shellfish) on a pizza in a small town, vomited and diarrheaed my way into a local urgencia where the doctor took a large gauge needle and shoved it in my ass check to keep me from dying (May 2009)

Mallorca

Jetted down to Belize with twelve students. Swam into a cave filled with skeletons of Mayan princesses, paddled a dug-out canoe, sank to the bottom of fifteen foot deep pot-hole in a river, and was foiled by the ganja ninjas of Dangriga.

Big Rock Falls, Belize

Bought a tiny house in suburban Maryland (never in a million years imagined I would do this, but I must admit it has worked out quite nicely) (June, 2009)

The new spot under renovation

Attempted to restore the grease car to good health, but failed miserably after making the bad choice to once again have someone else look at the car because I could not find the time to do it myself. The 'repairs' did not pan out, and I found myself setting sail across the country for a month and a half in a Jeep, kayak on top, and bikes on the back. At one point I filmed a terrorist completing his morning training exercises near the South Platte River in Nebraska. (June and July 2009)

Great Sand Dunes, Colorado

Spent three weeks in the Thousand Island Region of New York at an old river house, decided it was in my best interest that I buy an antique diamond engagement ring at a local antique show, take the girl I want to marry out in a tiny old Boston Whaler under a full sky of stars in a shallow bay, shined a flashlight in the water, pretended I saw something in the water, dove overboard, emerged soaking wet, and asked her to marry me. She promptly replied, 'no way', but somehow we are getting married anyway. (August 2009)

The River

Return to Maryland and start the 2009/2010 school year.

I have spent the past several months:

Remodeling my house with Kerry, crashing my kayak on Great Falls and swimming out of the most dangerous drop 'Grace Under Pressure', contemplating returning to graduate school (application is due March 1st), walking out of the Big Sandy because it was ten degrees and I could not put my spray skirt back on after hopping out at Wonder Falls, loving one of the greatest additions to my life, my dog 'Mogul' (yes, named after ski bumps), fearing my grandmother's nearing death, obsessing about how to make my life more sustainable because I had a larger carbon footprint in the past year than most people on the planet do in an entire lifetime, and finally but not least, generally reflecting on my own sanity.

Mogul in his usual sleeping form

Phew! That is quite a lot for a little more than a year's time. I started 'Homegrown' long ago. It was originally entitled, 'Kayak Harder' after a little joke between me and a buddy of mine when we decided to run the half marathon shuttle for the Upper Youghiogheny River before we boated. I was mildly hypothermic before we put on the river, and had to spend thirty minutes bringing my blood back to normal temperature in the passenger seat of some generous soul's mini-van.

I started writing for the simple reason that I like to write. This has always been reflections on my life and its various diversions. Somewhere along the way, I felt I needed to have a cause, a greater message, something that I was trying to say, something that I felt deeply that I was trying to show other people. I wrote a mission statement.

Rereading the 'mission' of Homegrown Locals is warming, but alas in the end, it is simply just me. The idea of Homegrown has always been notional. My attempt at making sense of a world that offers very little. It is me, the people I love and care about so deeply, and the cleansing, nurturing power of the great outdoors, rivers, rocks, trees, caves, snow, and sky. It about trying my hardest to live my life with a little soul, and an undying sense of adventure, whether it's class V, or a walk with my dog.

So, for all my well intended words of inspiration and environmental awareness, Homegrown is much more. Sometimes maybe it's enough just to be me. My thoughts. My truth. I am going to keep giving it my best shot.

And now...

It’s time to catch up on some story telling.

Enjoy, and keep it Homegrown.

Spain

2009-11-24T00:24:00.001-05:00

View from Valdemosa

Last May I was lucky enough to get the opportunity to spend some time in Mallorca, Spain. It was a year since my feet felt my climbing shoes, so any real deep water soloing mission was out of the question. I could not bare to look at Es Pontas, Sharma's artistic masterpiece, without at least throwing some shoes on and pretending to climb a tiny piece of it, so I opted to not even take a glance. Instead, I spent several days wandering through tiny villages paved with cobblestones, visiting a few nude beaches, and taking in a wedding set atop a thousand foot cliff overlooking the Mediterranean; complete with sheep and ringing bells in the background of course.

Crystal Blue

Mountain Top Removal

2009-06-04T08:59:00.002-04:00

A little more than a year after beginning a project on mountain top removal coal mining with students, the short film is finally complete!

Ice Bridge Ruptures in Antarctica

2009-04-06T14:26:00.002-04:00

An ice bridge linking a shelf of ice the size of Jamaica to two islands in Antarctica has snapped. Click here to link to the story...

Reflections

2009-04-03T00:24:00.005-04:00

The summertime rain fills it all in
The fire and the smoke confusing me again
and it's you
The echo and the breeze floating through the trees
The river and the wind washing through the leaves
and it's you
The cloud and the cave create a secret puzzle
The hollow and the stone
The silence of a bubble
and it's you
The wonder and the dream seeping through the cracks
The laughter and the smiles dripping down my back
and it's you
The ice and the dragon fighting in the dark
The silhouette of birds painted by the sun
and it's you
The street vendors knives, his brilliant display
The shoe polish drips, the tattered rags rip
The nickel falls into solemn hands
and it's you
The engine moves with careful poise
The captain speaks in mumbled noise
The waves crash with grace
and it's you

Inspire Antarctic Expedition 2009 Film

2009-03-30T11:00:00.002-04:00

Antarctica

2009-03-30T10:41:00.002-04:00

Ushuaia, Argentina

2009-03-16T00:12:00.002-04:00

The End of the World

2009-03-15T23:20:00.004-04:00

We are all from far away places. We stand at the end of the world. Still, we stare further south, down the Beagle, across the Drake, and into the depths of something entirely unknown. In the chaotic frenzy of our cluttered world, we cling to a constant sense of connectedness, forever investing our time in many things, and in the end failing to truly be a part of any single one of them.

Tomorrow we set sail. Tomorrow we let go. Tomorrow we move forward. Tomorrow we begin to understand what it means to reattach ourselves to everything real. We get to feel our lives.

Tomorrow we begin the journey to Antarctica.

2041: Inspire Antarctic Expedition 2009

2009-02-27T12:47:00.008-05:00

The winter months are finally beginning to draw to a close. The weather has been consistently cold this year, affording a few great ski weekends, but making it a little less than appetizing to hit the river in such cold weather conditions. I am leaving in less than two weeks to join Robert Swan and 2041's Inspire Antarctic Expedition 2009. It's hard to believe I am actually going to Antarctica. The expedition runs from March 14th through March 27th. The group departs from Ushuaia, Argentina and will cross the Drake Passage, some of the roughest seas in the world, before beginning exploration of the Antarctic continent. Read below for additional information about the the organization 2041!

Who we are

2041 was founded by polar explorer, environmental leader and public speaker Robert Swan, OBE; the first person in history to walk to both the North and South poles. Swan has dedicated his life to the preservation of Antarctica by the promotion of recycling, renewable energy and sustainability to combat the effects of climate change.

Our Mission

With five years to go until the third ‘World Summit for Sustainable Development’ in 2012, where the existing Kyoto Protocol for the Environment will expire, the threats of climate change has become apparent to us all, nevermore so than after Al Gore’s eye-opening ‘Inconvenient Truth’ helped clarify and focus the issue of climate change to a global audience.
It is our mission to build on this by informing, engaging and inspiring the next generation of leaders to take responsibility, to be sustainable, and to know that now is the time for action in policy development, business generation and future technologies.

Why 2041?

2041 is the year of the review of the Environmental Protocol of the Antarctic Treaty. Our aim is to work towards the protection of this treaty, so there is never a need to exploit the last great continent on Earth for minerals and fossil fuel.

Ecuador

2009-01-20T23:03:00.003-05:00

Ecuador´s New Constitution

2008-12-17T18:02:00.002-05:00

The article below is from the New York Times.

September 29, 2008, 8:34 am

Ecuador Constitution Grants Rights to Nature
By Andrew C. Revkin

News accounts of Ecuador’s vote on Sunday approving a new Constitution mainly focused on how its terms could help the country’s leftist leader, Rafael Correa, an American-educated economist, gain and hold more power. Details are in Simon Romero’s article on the Ecuador vote and its implications.

But as I mentioned last week, the Constitution includes a novel set of articles that appear to be the first in any Constitution granting inalienable rights to nature. Cyril Mychalejko of UpsideDownWorld.org wrote an interesting column exploring the political subtext and explaining how realities on the ground in that turbulent country may limit the significance of the language. Still, the wording alone is fascinating, as is the simple fact that the provisions were included.

One passage says nature “has the right to exist, persist, maintain and regenerate its vital cycles, structure, functions and its processes in evolution.”

[UPDATED:] The language in these provisions was written by Ecuador’s Constitutional Assembly with input from the Community Environmental Legal Defense Fund, a Pennsylvania-based group providing legal assistance to governments and community groups trying to mesh human affairs and the environment. The group says it has helped more than a dozen communities in New Hampshire, Pennsylvania and Virginia draft and pass laws “that change the status of ecosystems from being regarded as property under the law to being recognized as rights-bearing entities.”

My guess is that Edward O. Wilson would love to see this language adopted everywhere.

Simon Romero, my colleague covering the news, told me in e-mail Sunday night that this particular provision “has been derided within Ecuador” given the history of pollution from state-run and private oil companies in the Amazon and the government’s need to keep oil flowing to sustain the economy.

Earlier this year, Nick Kristof, our peripatetic Op-Ed columnist, filed a column and nice video from the Ecuadorian Amazon showing one approach to economic development shaped around the living forest.

What’s your take on the Ecuadorian Constitution?

A Day in the Life of Two Gringos

2008-12-17T17:33:00.003-05:00

So... Armstrong and I made it to Quito in one piece. Billy does not like to fly much. Usually, I do not like to fly either, but for some reason our flights into Panama City and Quito did not phase me. On the plane I was trying to drink some water out of my new filter bottle, but was having some trouble. I took the bite valve out of my mouth to see what the problem was, squeezed the bottle a bit, and absolutely soaked the guy sitting across the aisle from me. I literally sprayed the guy for ten seconds. I just watched the stream of water leap across the aisle in utter disbelief. He was a big dude. Thankfully, we both just started laughing hysterically. Other than this little incident, everything is going according to plan. Our transition from the airport to the Crossroads hotel was easy, and the atmosphere around the airport was nowhere near as chaotic as I anticipated.

After we set up shop at Crossroads, we went out to grab some dinner and a huge pitcher of margaritas. No sleep, altitude, and alcohol equals going back to the hotel and falling asleep at five thirty in the afteroon and waking up fourteen hours later.

We woke up this morning and hit the streets, grabbed breakfast in a local neighborhood near ´old town´, and walked our way into a few huge churches. Quito is suprisingly clean, easy to navigate, and amazingly beautiful. A taxi full of local girls shouted as they drove bye, ´Hey gringos´. This happened again a few minutes later by a shopkeeper sweeping the street. Billy proceeded to ask me, ´... come on Mayer, can´t you just be a little more blanco right now.´ This comment will likely continue for the next two weeks.

We made our way back toward our hotel through a giant central park. We haggled over some artwork with a shrewd little women. I did most of the haggling. Billy can only look confused right now, and his head hurts from trying to follow every conversation.

We continued on to a local mountain outfitter and planned a trip to climb Cotopaxi. After we squared everything away, we spent some time bouldering on the homemade climbing wall outside the shop. We´re leaving in the morning for the jungle. Apparently, we have only one major military checkpoint to go through before we need to get off the bus in a small town called Borja, follow a dirt road down to a bridge, cross a river, hang a left, and pick up our kayaks.

Piece of cake.

Home

2008-11-19T13:13:00.003-05:00

Sometimes its all pretend, this life we live

My boots have walked for many days, soles are worn thin

Like mine, cracked in sunshine, wind, and rain

The flood grows with time, like the tears in my eyes

Childhood days spent listnening, to fire engines and leaves

It's time to let go of this melting stream of dreams

So they say, it's better off this way

You can rest your heart

But I swear, I won't believe it's true

Because I can feel fire in snow

And so can you, if you let go of the fear in your throat

Step to the edge, grab my hand

And we can finally fly home

Tree

2008-11-13T10:47:00.002-05:00

Thoughts on Rainy Days

2008-11-13T10:22:00.003-05:00

'Glow'

Silly sliding sideways down ramps of slick asphalt in the dim glow of lamplight
Wander bending skyward through black space and white gold stars
Horizon growing, speculating self loathing
Mind floating, never ceasing stopping flowing
Blue, red, green, thunder rolling steady going
Wonder where the next time takes me
Waiting watching, central nervous system short circuit
Blades mowing, smell of grass in spring
River tumbling, white froth turbulent echoing
Letting go, stable spaces, bales of hay
Pumpkin carving, faces melting, children crying, steel smelting
Gases building, planet warming, fathers on their knees
Praying, begging, hoping, wishing ,wanting yearning for it
Mouths opening, rain never falling
Corn cracking, dry heat illuminating dark corners
One more day with open arms we fall apart
Tears dripping and silence failing to keep us on our feet
Click clack rat a tat
Buttons pressing, functions working, mathematical genius
Mysteries fading, trees keep sleeping
Mothers being love
Death and destruction, sorrow and despair
Eyes gleaming, basket weavings, tapestries and gentle care
Figuring on steady soft winds whistling to take it all away
Days in absentia
Minds creaking, rocks leaking, sky sweeping
Seasons drifting, skin lifting
Whirlpool grabbing, hurricane thrashing
Edge of a building, we are jumping
Form disappearing, crazy clearly
In the disappearing glow

'A Different Wager'

The wars we wage
We wage them on ourselves
Toward the turning point of no return
Staring deep into the outer constellations
Wondering why we arrived at a point of empty space
Oh the wars we wage
Destroying ourselves piece by piece
Thinking of all the reasons we have to continue on
Building around the absence of compassion
In the shadows of debt and guilt
Scary moments when light illuminates walls once shroud in a different cloth
Tattered gray rags turn into colorful murals of blue, orange, yellow, and red
Turning our heads for a moment, we are still
Forever contemplating our place here on earth
It should be postponed

Wating until tomorrow
Happy to comply
Watching things slide slowly out of control

Night

2008-10-16T12:16:00.002-04:00

We cannot stop darkness from filling empty space, but a mere flicker of light transcends the nature of absence. Our hearts grow faint, and as the ice gets thinner, we begin to slide into the chasm of a dark black void. Struggling to see, we cling to what we know, hoping we arrive safely on the other side. It is always the journey that transforms us, those moments sliding through space. We scratch and claw the air, nothing to hold on to, hurled in unforeseen directions, and whipped by the branches of misguided mistakes. We arrive with a sudden jolt, dumped on the soft wet mud, transformed, and riddled with new questions. We climb the mountain, and do it again. This is our nature.

Once Upon a Time When the Wind Blows

2008-09-29T13:47:00.004-04:00

In the moments when the rain falls and smears the muddle into puddles of brown, I stare into the mist, and breathe in the quiet breath of the storm. The rain softly slides into spaces of silence and grace as it drips off the the blades of fading green leaves, suspended in moments of artistic brilliance. The chocolate water paints itself into a froth of foam and indecision, yet moves forward with enigmatic determination.

Great friends share a house full of laughter as the colorful glow of the day etoliates into the darkness of night. A new day tomorrow, and a new chance to see the water dance again.

In bright tones of sunshine, in the midst of an ominous parade of dark skies, the wind softly blows blades of grass in a soft whisper of sense. Time is stone, and the waters lap our feet. The sun hits our necks, and turns our skin a more distant brown. Words are exchanged with the subtleties of vibrant emotion. Smiles, stones, and sun. Once upon a time when the wind blows, we understand we are all here for each other.

In all our decisions, in all our choice, in all our brilliance, in all our tears, in all our joy, in all our moments, if we could only understand that we need be nothing more than the wind blowing blades of grass in the faded summer sun and crisp fall air.

Perhaps we might understand that we cannot truly know. Perhaps we might be happy.

Swell

2008-09-11T15:46:00.008-04:00

In all of our many moments in life, every now and then one comes along that offers something fresh. An open beach in the mellow glow of the pre dawn light. The never ending expanse of sea wandering off into distant horizons. The faint shadows of sea birds painted on wet sand, and the sound of a deep swell echoing in the sweet salt air. Boards plastered with a fresh coat of surf wax, the characteristic smell allowing your mind to dream in anticipation. The first set rolls in and wraps itself around your ankles. The board floats quietly beside you. A few steps further and you enter the break zone. The chill of the ocean sets into your pores. You lay down and begin to paddle. The first wave crashes over you. A million claps of thunder reverberate inside your skull. You reach the lineup and you can feel your soul smile. Your arms burn as you paddle to catch your first wave. Your feet rhythmically dance their way into position. You are standing, dropping down the face, and leaning into your first turn. It is at this particular instant, in this single moment, that you are truly in it, fully draped with the color, feel, and flow of your own life. In this moment, without even realizing it, you understand why your are alive, and laughter fills the void.

This one's for Drew...

Difficult Run Flood

2008-09-11T15:23:00.002-04:00

The Nugent

2008-09-05T09:54:00.006-04:00

In another moment of glory, we finished a beautiful paddle on the Upper Yough in Garret County, Maryland, only to find that Ted Nugent himself would grace the stage in Seven Springs, Pennsylvania that very evening. Billy and I looked at each other, and our smiles grew deep and wide. We turned and looked at Mark, our dear friend Mark, who knew very well the type of evening in which he was about to participate. He just stood and laughed. He was game.

The Upper Yough itself was without major incidence. I was able to run a few new lines including the boof at National Falls. I caught a long hole ride in Zinger, but was able to finally draw myself out, much to the chagrin of an onlooking pack of boaters. On Sunday, the mighty Savage was a bit different.

In any case, we finished our run of the Upper Yough and embraced the glorious news of the Nugent. We dined on truly tasty cuisine at a local vegetarian restaurant on the banks of the river. They brought bowl after heaping bowl of salad, soup, and fresh baked bread. We spent some time with Scott Anderson, Dave, and Jason, all guys from the Potomac. Billy and I paid homage to the great Nugent throughout the meal.

The sun was moving toward the horizon as we finished dinner, sprays of clear mellow light littering soon vanishing carpets of green. We headed toward Seven Springs.

We arrived to find the concert in full swing, tattoos, brews, plenty of biker dudes and gun racks in the parking lot. Twenty bucks a ticket, and the concert was quickly nearing an end. I spotted an entrance through the woods, and decided to clamber down a steep bank to have a better look. I sat quietly, perched on a small knob, watching the yellow, blue and red concert lights illuminate the leafy green canopy of trees. Mark and Billy soon followed. We named our wooded perch the 'Nuge Knob', and after a few moments of revelry, we decided it was time to make our entrance.

We emerged from the woods and walked straight into the depths of a sea of trucker hats, bandanas and a few eloquently sculpted mullets. Our eyes gazed upon the stage, the illuminated eys of die hard fans, and we caught our first glimpse of the Nugent, adorned in full Indian head dress, a giant mural of himself, muscle bound and intent, as he pointed at the crowd Uncle Sam style. In the same instant his fingers danced across the strings of his guitar, as he belted out the uber cult classic, 'White Buffalo'. Suddenly a compound bow appeared, an arrow was aflame, and he sacrificed his guitar for a good hunting season. Nothing short of pure artistic brilliance and magic.

The crowd dispersed and we were soon back in the car wandering toward New Germany State Park. Billy and Mark slept on the ground. I suppose I was determined to construct my tent in the wee hours of the morning. I awoke to the noise of Mark's voice, ushering me along, so we could achieve the glory of the 'hot' camp. I moved quick, and we were successful. A delicious breakfast of biscuits and coffee from the King of Burgers and we were headed to the put in for the Savage. The weather was gorgeous, blue skies, cold water, and warm sun. I decided it was fun to swim out of sticky unexpected ledge holes, especially when speared in the chest by oncoming Scott Andersons. We rescued three people. One clung to the safety of my arm as he leapt from a tiny tree in the middle of the river. I jumped off a rusty abandoned bridge into shallow water, and Mark did back flips from a riverside rope swing. A soon to be ultra classic weekend.

The Nugent never dies my friends... the Nugent never dies.

Peru Juntos

2008-08-25T12:42:00.002-04:00

Peru Solamente

2008-08-21T11:12:00.002-04:00

In the End...

2008-08-11T17:41:00.009-04:00