Curse of the Yellow Duck Part Duex

I can't believe that it is already March, and tomorrow will mark a third of the month already gone. We are roughly ten weeks away from this year's canoe trip. I know I have mentioned the itch starting, but as the days become longer and the soft warming rays of the spring season streches thier fingers across our great state my yearning to feel the blade of my paddle push against the cool water's of the Bigfork really starts to intenseafy.

I'm now in the mode of thinking about the trip daily. It's not all the time that I think about the trip, yet. If it wasn't for several other event's that happen in May: Logy's birthday, Mother's Day, opening of fishing and the end of the school year, canoeing would truly be all I thought about. As crazy as it may sound, but on the eve of the trip, every year, I'm as excited as an eight-year-old on the eve of Christmas. It is all I can do to contain myself once we pass the fishing opener. Still, I'm digressing from the second part of the story of the Yellow Duck. I only mention the growing anticipation of the trip because this is the time of year that I start to recall all the stories of the trip. I doubt that all of our tales will make it into this digital log, some are a little too X-rated for the kiddies, but I won't get into that. Sometimes what happens on the river, stays on the river. But anyway...

The following morning we awoke with dry mouths, pounding heads and bladders that threatened to leak if they weren't relieved ASAP. A typical morning after on the river. It was a beautiful morning that day, we had blue skys above, the birds were singing and playing grab-ass in the trees. Down river from where we camped the shores of the river open to a dew covered field and the morning sun was turing the dew into soft whisps of the fog that floated in the low areas. The river also had spider web fine mist hanging couple of feet above the water.

I think Dishman got up and stoked the fire as soon as he was done with his piss. I followed suit with the pissing busines and headed for the water cooler. I slammed half a bottle and lit a smoke. Duckie and Beans emerged from their journey in the woods, and Beans was actually looking good for having partied intot he wee hours of the morning, and with her not being an outdoors person, I was truly impressed. I mean Dishman looked like shit and I new I probably looked liked shits ugly cousing puke. Duckie's eyes looked like little red road maps and her face had the, "fuck I drank too damn much" look on it. I asked what her secret was and I think she said something about taking a Zantac pill before bed and it helps with not having a hang-over in the morning. I'm not a hundred percent sure that us the correct pill, but I'm at least eighty. Anyway, I know I popped about 1600 mg of tylenol with the rest of my bottle of water and headed back to my tent. I looked at Duckie and said wake me in half an hour.

Half an hour later I emerged from my tent feeling like a million bucks covered in shit. I felt better. While I was out the rest of the crew sat around the fire and smoked grits with gulps of water. They also seemed to be feeling a little better. The girls had washed up and Dishman was starting to pull things out of eggs and bacon. We cooked the meal while the girls tidied up the area, getting things ready to load back into the canoes for the days journey to the Busti campsite. Within two hours we were fed, packed and pushing off the shores of the Rice Rapids campsite. I sunck a glace over my shoulder and whisper, "see ya next year".

I have heard the cliche of the only thing for sure in life are "death and taxes", well I can add something else to that list for me. As sure as the sun rises in the east I will get my fucking canoe stuck somewhere at the end of the Rice Rapids. It is a mathmatical certainty that it will happen every year we go through them. I have no idea why either. I always follow the same path as everyone else and somehow I seem to find the one evil rock that grins as I approach. It knows that here comes a sucker that I can screw with. To date I have never tipped in those rapids. Actually up until last year the only time I had tipped was at the end of the Mulldoons During Duckies first year. The worst part of that one was I was completly sober that trip, but I had two chowder-heads from Nymore in my canoe that year and the dude sitting in the front was color blind. The crash went something like this:

"Stebe, where are the rocks?
There everywhere dude!"
Mind we are in white-water here so one has to shout, but I couldn't help but notice the touch of fear in his voice.
"What way do I steer?
Dude I can't tell! I'm fucking color blind!"
This is when we hit a rock that turns us sideways. We get hung up on this rock and instead of leaning away fromt he current to keep the canoe upright, Stebe and Adam lean towards it. The second the lip of the gunwall submerges I feel the canoe rap around the rock, sink to my waist in the water and look up to see my sister and her friend three feet directly in front of me about to run me over. Then came the coniption-fit...but that is another story.

So Dishman and I got stuck at the end of the Rice Rapids, big fucking deal. Duckie and Sabrina made it through without incident. We continued through the day sipping casually on our beers and shooting the shit about whatever crossed our minds.

As morning slipped into afternoon, so did some grey clouds into our sky. The air cooled slightly and I knew from previous experience that rain was to follow. Sometimes it was a simple passing storm that lasted from five to fifteen minutes, other times it would got into the night. There have been more than one tirp in which we made camp in the rain. I told everyone that they might as well get their rain gear out and put it on, or at least have it handy to don quickly. I had also learned during the early years of the trip to keep your rain gear close at hand because a rainstorm could break at anytime in the spring and nothing sucks more than having eight miles to go before camp and dry clothes.

The rain came and went in spurts. Nothing really lasted so the trip was still rather enjoyable. I know we joked back and forth about taking the duck from his natural habitat and that he was the reason for the rain. Like I said the rain wasn't bad, but it gave us something to talk about.

As we got closer and closer to the Highway One Rapids, the rain seemed to lighten and the sun was threatening to break up the clouds. About a half-mile from the rapids we came across someone fishing from shore. Duckie recognized the person, so they pulled off to stop and chit-chat for a bit. Dishman and I just kept going. We kept up a slow, casual pace and wound our way down the river to the rapids.

Part Three to come soon. Till then I will remain...Crazy Joe.