Tales from the Doons: The General vs The Hill

As I have stated before, The Muldoon Rapids are a staple of the trip. In the fourteen year history of this trip we have failed to hit it three times. Twice we failed to make the Muldoons because of those cursed Highway One Rapids. They are tricky, trecherous and an all around pain in the ass to negotiate. The other time we didn't make it there was because of dry spring which made the water level on the river so low we didn't dare take our canoe's down it for fear of wrecking them on the many rocks that would have been exposed. For some reason rocks and canoes just dont' get along. That year we went camping on a little lake I know back in the boondocks. Someday I may get to adding some of those stories to this blog, but as of now I'm going to concentrate on the ones that stem from our adventures on the Bigfork.

Because we have stayed at the Mulldoon campsite the most on our trip, a lot of crazy shit has happened there, and will continue to happen as long as we are able to stroke our paddles. It is the place where Duckie and I have our buryied bottle of Windsor, which is going to be replaced this year with a bottle of that fine Irish whiskey, Jameson. Maybe Duckie and I will rebury the Windsor and leave some clues on this blog for anyone that takes a trip downt he Bigfork to find.

This particular story took place during either the 2003 or the 2005 canoe trip. For some reason I want to say 2005, but I could be wrong. To the other River Runners that read this, if I am wrong could you please make the correction.

It was a typical night at the Doons. We had arrived early enough for the Mule to easily get our gear to the top of the fucking hill from hell. Remember from past entries the hill that is close to a football field in lenght and has a very steep grade. Some years we have the fortune of a little rain to make the hill slicker than snot, but this wansn't one of those years.

We had no problem setting up camp. Dishman and some of the other newbies had collected up enough firewood to last through most of the night. The General and I proceeded to imbibe the spirits as we prepared our yearly meal of steak and Rajin-Cajin-Potatoes. The General usually does the steaks while I prepared the delectiable RCPs. Rajin-Cajin-Potatoes, many have told me, is one of their highlights to the trip. Many years ago I developed a recipe for this dish, while on the trip and it had become another one of our traditions we carry out every year. Someday I will post the recipe, but for now I will tell you that after I combine all the ingredients into two different allumnium foil wrapings, I do a seperate one every year for Mini-Hulk because someone doesn't like onions. Then I place these raps next to a hot bed of coals and roast the dish to perfection. Like I said, just an average year at the Doons.

I'm sure I have mentioned what this campsite looks like, but I will try to devulge a little more about it. Obviously it is at the top of a huge hill, but the vista is definatley one of the best on the river anywhere on the river. Lush spruce trees line the bank on both sides of the campsite barring the campsite itself. In recent years small trees has begun to grow up and block this view, so hofully the DNR will come in and trim so of them away to open it back up to the bubbling waters below.

The campsite itself is not very big, It is only big enough for three or four smaller tents. When I say small I mean three to five people tents. Anyone that has camped knows that these are highly inaccurate measurements becuase it only takes into account the number of people that can lay down in a tent to sleep; somehow they seem to forget to factor in people's gear, so in reality these tents are basically two-man tents. The tents go on the outskirts of the campsite and in the middle we have the kitchen area and then the sitting area around the fire-ring. The remainder of the tents are a little north of the main camping area. Several years ago, when we had our first big crew, we set about clearing some brush and rocks to make this area to accomadate everyone's needs. Since then, the DNR has helped to maintain this area by keeping in clean and clear of debry. However, on certain years, like this year, we had a lot of people, so space around the fire at night becames a valuable comdity.

The west side of the campsite is the one that faces the river, which also means it is the side with the hill. Now, we don't have to walk up this part of the hill to get to the site, for that we take a path that is south of the site. This path actually starts at the beginning of the rapids, but we usually shoot them right away and then land about two hundred yards downriver, which is at the base of the hill. Although the trek up the south end of the hill is a bitch, it would be a placid past-time compared the what the hill is like just west of the camp area. The hill starts about five feet from the fire-ring and plummets down to the river at a 65 to 70 degree angle. It doesn't take long for the terra firma to run out. If there was no hill, the campsite would only be fifteen twent feet from the river.

With our bellies full we an our spirits high, we settled in for a night of partying and getting crazy. Of course we had the tunes going, so some of us were making fools of ourselves as we danced and pranced to the beat. I know a bottle or two of puckers was going around the horn, with each of us doing our best help polish it off. Eventually we settled down a little and eveyone was sitting around the fire shooting the shit and tellins stories from years past. Like I said before, the space this year was limited, so some people ended up sitting close to the edge of the western hill. If I remember right, the General and Grand-pa were the two closes to the edge, one was on each side of our semi-circle.

A little while longer into the festivities, although that is hard to gage considering that we party pretty much non-stop on the trip, just at different levels of moderation. But at the Doons, moderation is given a chuck down the hill and eveyone lets loose. Anyway, the General had to go take a leek or get something from his canoe at the bottom of the hill. Whatever it was, he got up and staggered away from his chair down the hill, plucking a hanging lantern from a tree as he went.

"Member General," I said in a slurrish glee, "if you shake it mor'an twice yer playin' wit it."
"Well," he said pausing to turn wobbly, "someun's got to." He gave us his chipped toothed grin and turned to bumble down the hill.

A few whoops and hoots from the bottom of the hill later, the General returned with a beer in his hand and a smile on his face. He carefully, or at least as carefully as he could, re-hung the lantern in the tree and shuffled back to his chair. I noticed that he was standing really close to the western edge of the hill, so just to be a smart-ass I said: "I'll give anyone a hundered bucks to give the General a nudge down the hill." I got a couple of laughs from the crowd and the General just shook his head.

What happened next happened so fast that there was a moment of complete and total silence from our group as our inebriated brains took a couple of extra seconds to process what our eyes had just witnessed. The General went to sit down, or rather plop down into his chair. What he failed to realize was that when he had gotten up he had bumped his chair just enough so the back left leg was suspended in mid-air over the hill. When he ploped all I remeber seeing are these two feet suddenly sticking straight up in the air, holding for the briefest of moments and then both the General and chiar dissappeared from sight.

All of us sat there, THUNDERSTRUCK!! Then it hit us all at once. The General had just fallen down the hill, not just any hill, the big fucking hill. The absolute worst freakin' hill anyone could fall down while on this trip. As Mini-Hulk, the Mule and Em sprang into action, Duckie and I looked at each other and could not help but bust out laughing. The next thing we saw was goood old Dishman come flying in and over the edge of the hill he went.

What we saw when we got to the edge was the General about ten feet down holding onto a little sapling for what looked like dear life. The look of fear was so great that I was surprised that he didn't shit his pants. Below him was Dishman, trying to untangle his chiar from some brush.

When all was said and done what could have been a true tragedy turned out to just be a funnier than hell story. The General said that when he went over all he could think of was grabing anything he could to slow or stop his decent. Fortune smiled on him that night when he grabbed that sapling on his first attempt. Had he missed he would have went ass-over-tea-kettle again, picking up speed and possibly impailing him on a branch or something.

From then on, whenever someone sits by the edge, they always check to make sure their chair leg isn't hanging over the edge. So always look before you sit.

Untile next time I will remain...Crazy Joe.