The Curse of the Yello Duck Part IV

I can't remember if this was the first year that Dishman brought his climbing rope or not. He had lived in Colorado for a couple of years with his older sister and had gotten into rock climbing. He is a man that fears nothing, and I literally mean it, so it didn't surprise me that he had gotten into that dangerous sport. He had decided to bring the rope, and rest of his climbing gear, because such items can and do come in handy when trying to set up a large tarp for a rain-fly. In any case it was a good thing he had brought it this year because before too long it was going to come in very, very handy.

As Dishman went to fetch the rope, I emptied my pockets on the shore, heaven forbid I get my smokes wet, and took the first step into the chilly waters. Instantly goosebumps shot up my leg and the rest of my body followed suit. I could only imagine how poor Beans was feeling, or wasn't feeling for that matter. She must have been in the water for at least fifteen minutes, maybe longer. She looked absolutely miserable.

Four steps into the river I almost lost my balance slipping in a slick rock the size of a basketball by my feet. Losing my balance, even just slightly, caused me to drift a couple of feet down river. I had underestimated the strength of the current in my rush to get out to my cousin. Quickly I was able to regain my balance and force my body back up stream. I decided to go back to shore, walk up stream a ways, and then angle myself downstream todays their wedged canoe. It was then that I realized that once we got Beans out of the water we were going to have an even bigger task of getting the canoe out. "Fuck me." I said under my breath.

Having taken a smarter approach to get to the canoe, I was at Beans side in no time.
"How you doing?" A stupid question I know, but I didn't want to ask, "Are you having fun yet?"
"Just lovely." Her words were heavily laden with sarcasm. About this time Dishman was back with his rope. He was about to head into the river with one end when Duckie stopped him. She grabbed the rope and went upstream to get a better angle to reach us.

While we are waiting for Duckie to get to the canoe, I start to examine the situation. The canoe, although wedged on the rock, was wobbling back and forth from the current. Duckie had learn from me well because all of their gear was still in the canoe, soaked, but securely tied in. I glanced over the top to check out the bottom and I saw a huge tear in the hull. Yep, this trip wasn't going any farther than these rapids. I grabbed the stern and tried to pull it against the current to see if I could dislodge it from the rock. It moved a few inches back towards me, but then the mighty Bigfork pushed back and easily won the battle.

No sooner did I turn around and Duckie was there with he rope.
"I'm sorry Beans," she apologized again.
"Shit happens," Beans replied with a shrug.
"Do you think we can get it off the rock?" Duckie asked me.
"Maybe Dishman and I can get it loose, but I doubt it. There's a lot of pressure from the current. I think we're going to have to unload it."
"I'm sorry," she apologized again.
"Hey," I said looking at Beans, "shit happens."

By now Dishman had the rope wrapped around a tree to use as an anchor as the three of us used the rope to pull ourselves out of the drink. I immediately lit a smoke as soon as I quit dripping enough to not drench my pack.

"What's the plan?" Dishman looked out to the half submerged canoe with a hunger for adventure in his eye. I loved the way Dishman always approaches a task with a beautiful optimism.
"Well we figure out a way to get the damn canoe out of the river," I said exhaling a drag. "I tried to move it when I was out there, I got a little wiggle, but that was it. Like I told Duckie, we are going to have to unload it."

Uloading a canoe isn't a difficult task when it it upright an on shore, but half submerged in the middle of river rabids is a completely different story. I knew the second we cut or untied the ropes holding the gear it we were going to have a lot of shit that was going to want to float away into oblivion. I wasn't too worried about the larger items like coolers and totes, although they were bulky, they could be half-assed floated back to shore. No what I was worried about was the little shit, chair-in-a-bags, small utility-boxes, lanterns and propane canisters, plus the other various odds and ends we pack into our canoes. Once we cut the lines and opened up the tarp it was going to be a free-for-all.

We agreed that Beans should stay on shore and the rest of us would go back into the water to start hauling gear. We had the angle down on how to make it back to the canoe without getting taken away by the current. Pretty soon we were once again up to out nuts in the chilly water that was relentless in tying to push us down the river. All three of us got on the stern and tried to use our combined might to free the canoe. And once again the Bigfork kicked our collective asses.

"I don't think we are going to move it even if we get it unloaded," Dishman commented after our third attempt.
"Well if we get it emptied, maybe you and I will be able to lift it up and flip it over the rock, dumping the water out."
"I don't know," Dishman said sceptically. "With the current and weight of the water, we are probably looking at 800 pounds or better."
"I didn't know you were good with math." I said with surprise.
"I'm not. But I know a SNAFU when I see one."
"Let's just get the shit out and then see where we are." Duckie said as she started to untie one end of the rope. The second she got the rope loose, the river caught the tarp and filled it up like a sail in the wind. A small tote with extra rope, bug-drug and other camping items dislodged and threatened to sink to the rocky bottom of the Bigfork. I snatched it up just before it drifted out of reach.

"We have to be more careful," I said looking at Duckie. "Or we are going to lose a lot of shit." I noticed that I had the fifty gallon black Hefty bags in this particular tote. Sweet! I thought as I carefully emptied the water out and pulled out the black roll. "We can use a bag or two to load up all the small stuff," I said handing Duckie a black bag. "Just be careful it doesn't fill up with water."
"No shit," she said snatching the bag.
"I'm just saying..." but I let it go. Duckie wasn't in the best of moods, which was understandable.

Little by little we would open up the tarp and add all the small things we came across into the bag. Then without warning, it happened.

While we were concentrating on containing and bagging all our little camping gear items, we had failed to notice that the red bread and chip cool was slowly dislodging itself from the confines of the tarp. With a slap from a ripple caused by the fact we were standing in the middle of rapids, the red cooler popped out and took off down the river.

"Dishman! Grab that cooler!" I yelled as it quickly floated off. I wouldn't believe it had I not seen it.

Dishman practically jumped out of the water, how he got that much lift is beyond me. I mean the guy is built like a brick shit-house, but damn it was a hell of a vertical. The truly amazing part was that he landed on top of the cool like a pouncing cat. Both Duckie and I stood there in wide-eyed and mouth agape as we watched our cousin ride a cooler down the Highway One Rapids.

At first he was on top, riding the red cooler. Then he hit a rock, but instead of falling off her held on and suddenly the cooler was riding him. Bouncing off yet another rock he was now on his side, with his head pointed down-stream, but still hanging onto the fucking cooler. Somehow he righted himself and was once again on top. This varied pattern of who was riding who continued until passed under the bridge and collided with the big snag of trees and brush on the other side.

"Holy shit!" I said pointing. "Did you see that shit? He rode that sonofabitch the whole freakin' way."
"Only Dishman could pull off a stunt like that." Duckie said with amazement. "I wish I had my camera."
"That would have been sweet." I agreed.
"Was it just me or was he yelling woo hoo?"
"Knowing Dishman, probably."

After hitting the snag, Dishman got his fee underneath himself and stumbled his way to shore, pulling the cooler behind him. With all the banging and crashing into rocks, I was amazed that the cooler had stayed shut the entire way. Later, when we opened it up, both the bread and chips were dry as a bone and in perfect shape.

Later, when we asked what the hell he was thinking, Dishman said that it seemed like a fun thing to do at the time. He knew that once he lept onto the cooler he was going to have to ride it out because the current was too strong to fight. He was right because the part he went through was all white-water.

About a half-hour after Dishman's rodeo ride down the rapids on a bucking red cooler, we had all of girl's gear on shore and was attempting to free the empty canoe from the rock. Just as Dishman had predicted, we were unable to do much more than move it a couple of inches. Duckie and I looked at each other, thinking what the other was thinking, we had only one option left. We had to go to the Brula's and see if one of us could get a ride to Effie and get some help from Dad.

The Brula's moved to the Effie area from Tower in 1986 or 87 and bought a place on the river about a quarter mile from the rapids. Both Duckie and I were close in age to their children, and their son and I had take Tae Kwon Do classes together, so they are good friends of the family. This wasn't the first time, however, that we have had to ask them for some assistance. A couple of years earlier we had to borrow a couple of life-vests from them since we don't allow anyone to go unless they have a vest. It is an absolute must when it comes to shooting rapids.

Duckie was the one to go and get a ride into Effie. Dad was still at work, but I knew that all we needed was his come-along. A come-along is a type of hand-winch that provides, well I don't really know the specifics, but I do know it is a shit-load of leverage. I also knew that if we could get that we could easily use Dishman's rope and a tree for an anchor to pull the canoe from the clutches of the Bigfork.

Roughly four hour later Dishman and I, Duckie and Beans, were sitting around a warm crackling campfire in dry clothes, sipping on some beautiful Jameson and Coke's. The Irish Whiskey was doing wonders to warm our bones. The thundering roar of the Highway One Rapids filled the air. We had decided to spend one last night camping, even though we were done canoeing. Duckie had brought back our Dad and with help of his come-along we pulled the canoe out. Being that we were also close to home home, we were able to replace all the soaking wet items with dry ones from Mom and Dad. As I said before, the canoe was shot, but what was crappier was that it was a rental. But what were we to do, shit happens.

Duckie said when they got to the rapids, she picked her Vee and let the current pull them in. About twenty feet into the rapids they nudged a rock on the left and the bow bounced off just enough send it to the right side of the rock that the canoe was trapped on. Well, when the canoe was turning sideways she panicked and attempted to jump out of the canoe so she could right it and keep if from tipping. Seemed her foot got caught on something and only half her body made it out of the canoe, however, the half on the inside did exactly what she was trying to avoid; that half tipped the canoe into the current and well, you know the rest.

I suppose you are wondering where in the hell that damn yellow duck comes into play. Duckie had been the one to find the duck and take it from the river. The duck was in her canoe when she tipped, free floating, not tied down. Some how, some way, that little yellow duck got trapped behind the stern seat and was there when we winched the canoe to shore. Duckie and Beans were the first ones to tip a canoe on the trip since I had dumb and dumber with me that time at the Doons five years ago, remember this happened in 2004. In 2005 we didn't bring the duck with us and made it without incident, but 2006 was a totally different story. That year we brought the duck and well...I'll save that for another time. But this is the story of the beginning of the Curse of the Yellow Duck.

Until next time I remain...Crazy Joe.

THe Curse of the Yellow Duck III

There is something about shooting rapids that is so Zen. It pulls all your concentration into a single, unifying task to successfully navigait the crashing, splashing white-water that roars all around your tiny watercraft. It is terrifyingly beautiful to watch one's bow plow into a three foot high cresting wave, completley disappear under that wave, then blow out the other side like a surfacing sub, sending drenching sprays of water into your face and occasionaly the piolt in the back. Sometimes a rock is deep enough to allow the bow to pass over, yet the middle isn't. Suddenly the canoe will list to one side or the other and instinct will instantly shift your weight to keep the canoe upright all the while feeling the bottom of the canoe shudder and grate across the top of the rock. The floor even raises up a little; many times I have watched my gear lift up in a rippling wave under the tarp from front to back as the canoe scraped over a rock. This is all happening while also riding a killer adrenalean high.

The navigator, or person in the front of the canoe has the task of telling the piolt, the person in the back, which way to steer the craft. A good navigator will call out directions well in advance to allow the piolt to make the proper adjustments to the dircetion of the canoe. In many cases the contol is an illusion, because one never truly knows what is under the surface of the churing waters. Nevertheless, the adrenalean provides hightened reflexes and reactions to the problems presented while in the whtie-water. Commands bellow over the roar of the river:

"Hard LEFT!! STROKE! STROKE! STROKE!...HOLD!! THREE HARD ON THE RIGHT!!!"

Then, before one knows it, the angry water is calming down. Fluffy dabs of off white foam dot the smoothing waters or collect in little inlets along the shore. In most cases there are a few rocks that pock-mark the water and have to be navigated around, but nothing like the main set.

Whoops and shouts fill the air as everyone that makes it through says a little prayer for the safe passage and celebrates by cracking open a fresh brew. This has to be done because no open beer has ever made the ride without tipping over.

As Dishman and I came up to the Highway One Rapids, Duckie and Beans were nowhere to be seen. We discussed waiting for them but then decided to just shoot the rapids and wait for them on the other side. This way we could get some stellar pictures as they came through later.

Out of the three sets of rapids we shoot on this trip, the Highway One Rapids scare me the most. I don't know why since I always get stuck at the end of the Rice. The Muldoons are by far bigger and longer the Highway One, however, they cover a corner in the river, which tends to make them more intimidating. This could be coupled with the fact that more people have tipped on the Highway One's than all the others combined. Up until last year, I never had a problem, but they still freak me out.

Well Dishman and I sized up the situation as the river quickened and pulled us closer and closer to the raging waters. The strongest vee of water started a little to the left of center, drifted to the right a little and then we had a choice to take the left or right side under the bridge. I figured we would take whichever one had us in the best pull as we came up on it. We ended up taking the right because the bow was pointed in that direction and that was where the river wanted to take us. Of course when it spit us out on the other side of the bridge we had to cut it hard, hard left to keep from slamming into a log-snag that was caught up on some rocks.

Just like past years we were through he rapids before we knew it and offering up our shouts of joy to whatever creature would listen at the moment. Chicot, went our victory beers as we each enjoyed a well deserverd brew.

After slamming half my beer I manuvered our canoe to the right-side of the river. I bumped the bow into the soft, mucky earth and let the current of the river pivot our canoe so we were facing upstream. Having a prime view of when Duckie and Beans took the ride, we pulled out our camera's and waited. And waited...and waited...and waited some more. Finally after another beer and a half of waiting I started to get a little concerned.

"They should be coming anytime now," I said to Dishman.
"Wonder what's taking them so long?" He replied.
"Well I don't see any shit floating through, so I don't think they tipped." I commented.
"Lets just pull up on shore so I can take a piss." He said over his back. That didn't sound like a bad idea because I had to piss also. I jammed my paddle into the muck and grabbed a small bush on the shore to steady the canoe enough for Dishman to get out. Once out, he grabbed the bow to steady it for me.

We pulled the canoe half out of the water and each found a bush in need of some watering. I Finished before Dishman so I decided to walk up the hill to the bridge. I figured if I stood on the bridge I could get a really good shot of them going in and coming out of the rapids.

I got to the top of the hill and when I got halfway across the road I discovered the reason Duckie and Beans weren't coming. Fifty feet into the rapids sat their canoe, sideways, on its side, half submerged under the water caught dead center on a rock. I could see that the canoe was buckled hard. To my relief I saw Beans standing in the water next to the the bow of ther broken canoe and Duckie was almost out of the river, struggling hard against the current. Fuck this is going to suck.

"Dishman!" I yelled. "They rolled, get your ass up here!" Having my camera handy I snapped off a few shots. I don't know if Duckie has a copy of any of these photos, but I will make sure to get one up on this sight so you can see what I saw.

I had no sooner finished taking my pictures when Dishman reached my side.
"This is going to be an adventure." He said with a grin and bounded off down the other side of the road. Duckie was now on the shore, bent over resting from her battle against the waters relently current. I followed right behind Dishman. The closer we got to Duckie the more colorful her language got. She was spewing profanities that would have made a Andrew Dice Clay blush.

"We're so fucked Joe," she said half out of breath when we got to her. "The canoe is fucked. It ripped along the bottom. There's a huge gash in it. We're not going anywhere."
"What about Beans?" I motioned towards our cousin who looked like she was done with canoeing for the rest of her life.
"We need to form a human chain to get her out. The current is too strong for her. She tired to walk to shore and almost got swept away."
"I can go get my climbing rope and carabeiners," Dishman offered. "We can use it as an anchor to get her out of the water."
"While you do that I'll wade out to her to see if maybe I can help her in anyway I can" I said. "You rest." I told Duckie.

Well, it is getting late so I will finish this story her in the near future.

Until then I will remain...Crazy Joe.

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.