Still a no go on the river flow, but plenty of info on the FNG.

Well lady luck was with us once again today, the mighty Bigfork is still plugged with ice, but with this warm weather it is going to be a sure bet it isn'g going to last all that long. I expect she is going to pop sometime within the next four days. We have some warm weather ahead and the forecast is calling for rain on Saturday, which will help the ice go even faster. I think the lakes still have a few weeks left, but I'm sure some bays are opening up here and there. That doesn't matter to me, what matters is the Bigfrok holding out for as long as it can so we have a lot of water this year. We got another FNG coming this year, hmmm...that has me thinking...I wonder how many years we have had that has a FNG on the trip? Now that is a good question. This is going to be the sixteenth year of the trip, which is stellar in itself. I can't fucking believe we are approaching twenty, but I digress. But to think back on all the trips and try to remember what years had an FNG. First I think I should define what an FNG is. An FNG is an acronym for Fucking New Guy/Girl. This is a person who is on the Bigfork River for the first time in their lives. The role of the FNG is to do all the shit jobs, the crap jobs, the jobs that no one else either doesn't want to do or has laid claim to some other job. Take me for example, being the heart and soul of the trip I have taken the job of Camp Cook. I have a couple of mean recipies that some claim is the only reason they come on the trip. That is probably streching the truth a tad, but I tell ya, anyone that has sampled my River Spuds will testify they are the best damn potatos they have ever had. Another example would be The Mule. The Mule has taken it upon herself to be the one that carries most of the shit up the Fucking-Hill at the Doons. She claimed it and no one has fought her for it. It is a win win situation. However, the FNG is also given the task of hauling the rest of the shit up the Fucking-Hill that The Mule doesn't get. The FNG has to be the one that goes out and gets the firewood for the evening. The FNG has to endure tremendous amounts of shit being slung at them simply for being the FNG. However there is one job, one that is the worst job of all, one that people have gotten into arguments over who has to carry out the chore...and that job is the dishes. For awhile there we had Dishman coming. He didn't mind doing the dishes hence the nickname Dishman. But he may not be coming on the trip again for awhile. I won't go into that though. Back to the FNG. Now since Dishman has been gone, we have been passing the dish-washing job onto the FNG. This year's lucky winner is...Mark, Digger's new man. I don't know his last name but that doesn't matter. What matters is that we are going to have someone along this year to do the fucking dishes. Plus haul shit up the hill. Plus get firewood. The truth be told, we all pitch in with many of these jobs, even the dishes. Even still the General and I tend to take it a little easier than most because we get to claim the grandfather rule. Now the way I see it there have only been four guys on the Memorial Weekend Canoe trip that didn't qualify as an FNG. They are, Me, Jake, Stuball, and Pinner. For me, I have been canoeing on the river for many years before I started this tradition, same goes for Jake. The only reason Jake wasn't an FNG was becaue he was friends with Stuball and Pinner. Both of which lived on the river most of their lives and spent a lot of time canoeing, boating or kayaking. Anyway, we are the original River Runners, even though I'm the only one left, so none of us were FNGs. We just had a different perspective back then than I do now. The General made the trip the second and fourth year; there were also a few years in there where he miss also for one reason or another, however, he has made the second most trips next to me. After that would be Ducky, she hasn't missed one since she started and won't unless she is too prego...hehe. After her would come the Mule and Mini-Hulk for seniority, from there it is kind of a blur. The Rev is up there in years, and Dishman was. Digger is climbing and Shawn is going to make a second attempt, so he is a Kinda-FNG. He came once, but has missed the last five. He will have some shit to do this year, however, I have to admire a guy that loved my River Spuds so much that next morning he was picking the dead bugs out and/or eating around them with a fork. Glad to have him back. Doc will be making his second trip this year, so he will be one of the crew and mabye even earn his shirt...lol. Mine's pink! LMAO Ah shit I think that is a sign that I'm getting a little punchy and it is time to go to bed. I think next time I will have to write about some of the funny things FNG's have done on their initial trip. Untile then I will remaing...Crazy Joe

First River Check of the Year

Hello all, ok who am I kidding, I'm the only motherfucker that comes to this site, oh well, things could be worse. You know for some damn reason I feel like drinking a beer every time I blog on this site, could it be I have a problem? Or maybe this is a subconscious thing because the canoe trip and booze are so closely related. I'm really looking forward to this year, but that is just like every year, even still, I get so excited because I don't know what kind of adventure we are going to have this year. Rain or shine? Windy or calm? Tips or success? Who knows? One this is certain, it should be a heck of a ride. Like I said earlier, we are going to take the old run from years past. Fifteen miles day one, seven day two and one point five on the last morning. The Bigfork landing down to the North Busti road. One night at Busti Camp Site and two and the Doons. Going to get me some of that buried bottle this year I grantee...or how ever the hell you spell it. I do keep praying for water like Ducky and I had that one year. Hmmm...reminds me, I should check back and see if I have catalogued that trip yet in the blog. I know I have referred to it many times, but have I actually read it? To all the River Runners that read this, go back and check, then let me know what you find. I'm still debating if we should camp at the top of the Doons or where we did last time at the start of them, however, if the water is that high again, we will have to camp at the top...damn I hope it happens. Well like the title of this entry says, I checked the river level today, still iced over. A friend of mine said that the Rice river is open and the Bigfork could pop any day now. So as the leader of the pack, I will watch over the river levels from now until the day of departure. I will make sure all is good for me and my crew. It is going to be nice to get back to the Doons this year. I miss seeing that place, even if it is only one time a year. It is like visiting that great friend from your past, the one you grew up with and formed a special bond together. There is something magical about seeing those old landmarks that I first noticed twenty six years ago when I took my first adventure on those waters and fell in love for the first time in my life. In a couple of years I'm going to bring my little ones down the river for their first time, I hope they find the adventure as grand as I did back when I was their age. Till next time I will remain...Crazy Joe

The Shit We Lost

Man I fucking hate warm whiskey! Talk about a punch to the gut. So how the hell are all of you that don't take to time to read this? I suppose you have stuff that is more suiting to your time, but this is some classinc shit and is worth a looking.

The Bigfork is a wonderful beauty, like a woman she can give great pleasure of unbelieveable pain, leave you with a smile and a feeling of triumph or soaking with a bad attitude. She has given some of the best memories of my life and some of the toughest lessons I have learned in life. One of those lessons is the unfailable truth that no matter how careful we are, how well we tie our gear into our canoe's, how much caution we take to make sure all our shit is secure, the Bigfork alwasys finds a way to claim something every year.

Ok, it isn't true that we have ALWAYS made sure our stuff is secure, those early years were such a joke compared to what the trip has evolved into these days. I know we lost something on the first year, but that has been so long ago that I can not recall what it was. Lets just say we lost a beer. That is also a given on our trip that a beer will be lost to the river being passed to another person via canoe paddle, but I'm not talking about brews, I'm talking about gear. Every canoe loses at least one beer a trip to a tip-over, not canoe but the brew inside the canoe.

I do recall what was lost on the second trip of the traditon. I was running with Jake that year as my navigator, and as I have said, the old days were power drinking days, drunk before we hit the water until the morning of the get off, which is usually because we had nothing left to imbibe. So it was the last day of the trip and we were pulling into the Muldoon landing to dock the canoes for the evening. This is the place that is located at the base of the "Fucking-Hill".

Anyway, the General was already there having gone through first. I can't remember if Stewball was behind us or already at shore, but it doesn't matter, he isn't a part of this tale. Jake and I were fucking wham bam basted by the time we got to the doons. I think between the two of us we had polished off a case of beer and a half dozen shots of some booze. Either whiskey or vodka. Needless to say we were feeling zero pain, with smiles hanging over the sides of the canoe.

We shot the first set of the Doons with no problem, we were fucking pros, at least in our minds. Jake would spot the rocks and I would manuver us around with ease. We had some good current that year. So we come up to the shore, ease into it and come in smoothly. The General grabs the front and steadies it so Jake can get out. Once he does, the General steps back to let Jake take over, big mistake. I tell Jake to pull me up so I can get up and crawl over the gear to land and help pull the canoe up. Well this is where things go bad. Good old Jake grabs the front of the canoe and lifts it up to his chest. Now picture a canoe as the lever on a fulcrum. He lifts the front and the back sinks, and sinks fast. Before I know what the hell is going on, I'm sitting in the fucking river, almost up to my arm-pits.

It took a moment for the situation to sink into my drunken skull. And I thought, "That son of a bitch just dumped me in the fucking river...mother fucker." About that time I realized that I could get up and walk to the shore since I was soaking fucking wet. I get up and our of the canoe, and at the moment I realize that my lantern, or rather my PARENT'S lanter had floated out of the canoe and was threatening to sink into the murky depths. I made a few clumsy attempts at retreiving it, but those were just pipe dreams, shots in the dark...and the lantern drifted into oblivian. Claimed by the Bigfork.

Well the General started to laugh as Jake started to apologize. I was so fucked up that I didn't care either way. I knew the folks would be pissed, but I wouldn't have to deal with that for another 36 hours, so I was golden.

I think it was the following year that I lost a nifty little portable radio on a simular incident, however, I didn't get dunked into the river, I believe I was pretty sober when it happened. We were pulling the canoe from the river and I forgot to secure it or put it away...and blub...blub...blub it went. Playing "Living After Midnight" as she sank.

Well folks, it is getting a little late, so I must say goodnight. I will finish this topic with all the memories I can muster...

Until then I will forever remain....Crazy Joe.

The Beauty of Tradition

I'm going to start this entry off by being honest. I have recently gotten into a little bit of a writing mode in my life where I'm fascinated by the written word and all the fantastical power that is contained within them. I'm not going to go into some big spiel about this or that when it comes to writing, nevertheless, I have been racking my brain on things to say about this trip. Sixteen years man, a lot of shit has happened. Fights, fucking, friendship, adventure, and the occasional injury or forest fire are much of what has taken place on the river. I have reached a point, however, where I'm not sure as to what I should write. I have several factors that are working against me, number one is time. Like I tell my students, "Time waits for no man", meaning as the days and years pass, I'm going to forget this that and the other when it comes to remembering all the fucking adventures we have had. Number two, booze. For most of the years of this trip I have not been in a complete drunken stupor, but as I look back on all the trips, they sometimes tend to blend like a kaleidoscope to where I'm not sure what happened when or even the how. Last of all there is the fact that not everything that happens is worthy of the written word. For sure there is something that happens every year that is new and exciting, but as I reflect, I find it tough to come up with material to write about. It would be nice to get together with the crew and discuss this trip with a little bit of detail so I can take notes and reference it when I become low on ideas. So for all the River Runners that read this, which better be all of you cocksuckers, I would hope that you could share with me, or add it to the blog yourself, some ideas to share with whoever. This brings me to the topic of tradition.

This trip was started on a whim and has since transformed into something that has become meaningful to a lot of people. Every year there is a buzz that begins sometime in February and continues to grow like a pregnant woman until the birth of that year's trip. It sneaks up and happens so fast that if we blink, it is gone and we can only put in our time to wait twelve months to give birth again. But the true beauty lies within the people, not the tradition itself.

For me this trips marks the end of school, which at this stage of life means I go on vacation for the next three months. It means I am free to use the time at my leisure and so with it what I want. It symbolizes FREEDOM. Nevertheless, like I said before, that isn't the true beauty of this trip, it is really the people that make this trip special. They are the ones that make this trip worth taking every year.

It is such an awesome to see everyone arrive at my folk's cabin the night before the launch. We give the traditional hug and how-ya-doing greeting as the smiles light up the faces of old friends. We shoot the shit and discuss the year's route as we go through our gear. We talk about what we are going to "leave behind" this year because we are forever "down sizing" the shit we take in our canoes. There is such a warm feeling to this meeting that at times it almost makes me want to cry because the friendship and love is so sincere. I know, I know that sounds pretty fucking sappy, but there is truth to those words. If you were to ask any River Runner if there is even a spark of truth to that idea, they will have to say yes.

There is something to be said about bonding with thy fellow man on trips into the wilderness. Sure we are not doing this to test our survival skills by an means, we got gear with that would have made any mountain man of the early days of America praise the Almighty, but we do this to increase our bond with our close friends, even if it is down on a subconscious level. If this trip wasn't a special deal then none of us would want to come back year after year, no matter the conditions. We go even if it is going to be hotter than the blazes...we go even if we know it is going to rain most of the time...we go even if the river is going to be low and we have to work our asses off to get anywhere...we go because we enjoy the company and love that we feel from those we surround ourselves with.

I hope that through all the shit, all the goods, bads and uglies, those that are part of the crew will forever come on this trip. I want to pass it along to the next generation, my kids and the kids of those that enjoy this trip every year. I want them to feel the love and fellowship I feel when I gather with those that mean the most to me in my life outside my family I have at home. So no matter what, as long as the Lord above lets me, on Memorial weekend, of every year, you know where you can find me and the rest of the RIVER RUNNERS...celebrating another year on the Bigfork River with those that matter most.

Until next time I will remain...Crazy Joe

Crazy Joe, Stewball and a Gallon of Coleman Fuel

Damn, what a ride...hehe.



It is so hard to write about this trip at times because so much has taken place and so much has been forgotten. What do I write, what do I say...I know I have not said it all, but I hope that everytime I get on this blog someone takes the time to stop in and read. Little is worse than having your words go unoticed and forgotten. FMR...heheh.



No in all honesty I have a shit-load of stories to share with either myself or the select few that take the time to read my crap.



Tonight I think I'm going to tell the story of how Stewball and I almost burend down the Fuckin Doons!



This was one of the early trips, and I do believe it was the second trip of the tradition because it was the first one that the General came on. I say this because this was when I was drinking like a fish and on the third trip I did not drink in light of my few years of sobriety. I had a nasty night with a utility knife and my arm, but that is neither here or there.



It was our last night of camping because we were at the Doons, and back in those days the Doons were alwasy the last stop because they hold the absolute best camping site on the Bigfork, even if the hill to get there is a huge BITCH! But those that follow this blog know about the hill that posesses the campsite like a temptress that must be earned. That and by the time we reached the doons we were so low on the brew and the other necesities of life like food, that we had to get off.



On this particular trip I had been in a piss poor attitude because of the booze and other factors in my life that I care not to divulge. For some reason or another I was being a dick to the General because I would argue and insult him at every chance that made itself available. He could not get in a word or tell one of his raunchy jokes without me being a total ass and ripping him like he was my bitch. He would tell his famous midgit joke and I would rip him for having penis envy or some shit like that. No matter what was said it was a war of words and anamosity. I really think that had the General been drinking we would have had came to blows; of course my intlectual ass would have been handed to me I wouldn't have gone down without a fight. Nevertheless, I should make with the story...



It had been a bit of a rainy day and we had a lot of wet clothes hanging over the fire that evening. Well maybe not over the fire, but we did string, or rather the General had strung up some line for all of us to hang our dripping clothes up so the wind that was blowing though the valley dried what we had to offer. While most of the nice line (I say that because this was some expensive rope) was over regular land, part of it did go over the campfire; and this factor provided the fun for the night...hehe.



Well it was early in the morning and Stweball and I were still up sitting up around the fire because we had some vodka lefte in the half-gallow jug and a collection of beers left to swill before we passed out. Back in the day I was able to go like a motherfucker and still drive the chic home in the morning so she didn't get into trouble. But that was a night that I will never forget until they are ready to put me into the ground.

.

I know I have told a good portion of the story of when the General lit that field on fire, however for those of you that read and never take chance on the trip, his attempt at buring down the forest was the second attempt...and kind of pitaful compared to the first. Well that is a strech of the truth if there ever was one. While my attempt at a forest fire was good and harry, my fire didn't require a helecopter to come in a dip from the Bigfork to extinguish the flames. In hindesight, which most people know is 20/20, Stewball and I were luck as hell that the land was as saturated with rain as it was, or we would still be doing some time.



So there we were, Stewball and myself sitting around the fire talking about sex, drugs and rock-n-roll. I know that is cliche`, but that is the mother-loving-truth. I remember we got into an argument because Stewball was talking about Ducky being a lesbian. I know, pretty dumb, but nevertheless, we almost through fist-a-cuffs because of it. I mean I had stood up to defend my sister's honor and was ready to take Stuball down the hill and drown his ass in the river. He finally conceded into what I thought was a great agreement. He wouldn't say no more shit about Ducky and I wouldn't break the vodak jug over his mellon. I know it was a lot of the booze talking and us being stupid. So when that arguement was done with we needed something to do to pass the time. That is when I thought of it.

I noticed that the wash-line was over the fire and thought that it would be cool to get the flames high enough to melt the rope. The problem was that that the line was a good five feet from the flames and the firewood we had, while enough for the rest of tghe trip, still wouldn't be enough to get the flame to the desired hight. Stewball made the suggestion to add some would to the fire to build up the flames a little to see how close we could get. So we picked though the logs to select the ones that felt the driest and best to burn at a quick pace. Just like I suspected we still came up a good three feet short.

"What we need is some Boyscout Water," I slurred as I scanned the campsite.
"What the fuck is Boyscout Water?" Stewball look preplexed.
"Gas man," I said. "You know how when ya toss gas on a fire it goes whoosh. That would do it man. Flame to the heavens."
"How about the Coleman fuel?" Stewball pointed to an area next to the General's tent. An evil smile spread across my lips...
"Perfect," I said stumbling over the the can. I was very pleased to find that the can was almost full. Plenty of fuel to get the experiment to work.

Now I know what you might be thinking. We took a poored the fuel directly on the fire from the can...come on? How dumb do you think we were. We were good ol' boys from the north who learned to buld a fire by the time we hit second grade. We knew the danger that fire and fuel pose, so we did what any experienced fire-maker would do, we made tore the lid off the top of a beer can to use as a means to toss white gas onto the fire.

Stewball made the tossing can and I got the lid off the can. I clumsily poored some into the can and Stewball gave'er a toss.
"WHOOSH!! Flames shot up and licked at the rope and for a few seconds the entire campsite lit up like it was daytime. When the flames died down I examined the rope. It had turned it from a dirty white to completly black, but it did not look to have melted at all.

"Hit'er again!" I said grabbing the can for a refill. And so we repeated the process a few more times. Each time we got the same results: WHOOSH!! LIGHT!! BLACKENED ROPE BUT NO MELTY MELTY! After the fifth or sixth time I was pissed and it had gotten personal. I figured it was going to be little of a problem to melt a simple rope. I mean how fricking hard could it be. This is where we made the mistake. Stewball said we weren't putting enough fuel into the can. We had only been filling it about half-full, so he suggested to fill it to the top. What we didn't take into account was that it would take just a fraction of a second longer to empty the full can as it did the half-full can. No factor in the fact that we had also grown a little sloppy with the rules of fire safety, which were about to be chucked from the moving vehicle all together. In our hasted to try the new and imporved idea, I set the metal jug of white gas a wee bit too close to the fire.

I filled up our toss can to the gills, Stewball took a swirsh from his drink and picked up the can. Sloshing a little down the sides he starts to poor the dealdy fuel onto the fire. Things kind of slowed down for a bit here. Of course there was the obligator WHOOSH!! of flame and because Stewball was still dumping when it hit, he caught the can on fire. Well the first instinct for a person who's hand just became engulfed in flame is to chuck the whatever they are holding that is on fire. And chuck he did, right onto the top of the open can of white gas. A microsecond later he has a cooler open and his hand in the cooler. I on the other hand watch as the toss can, or rather what is in the toss can, explode all over the Coleman fuel and light IT on FIRE!!

This is one of those times I kind of wish someone else had been up and video taping this. I know we could have won some money on America's Funniest Videos or The World's Biggest Boneheads. There is no doubt in my mind my face held that famous "OH SHIT!" look. This is where I took a big old dump on fire safety. For some reason or another I got this bright idea to "toss the can into the river before it exploded and took out use and the Muldoon campsite. So in my druken stupor wisdom I covered up my had with my flannel, grabbed the Coleman fuel by it handle, wound up and chucked that sucker with all my might down the hill towards the river.

Stewball and I watched the can. We watched as this can did an ever so gracefull swirl in the air. Like some kind of cosmic spiral it spun through space, working its way down the hill. And the entire time it is doing this, it is pissing out a stream of lit fuel which is setting the hill on fire. About the time we realize exactly what the fuck is going on, the Coleman can hits a tree which inturupts its flight and sends it crashing to the edge of the river...while setting the tree on fire also, no biggy.

We turned and looked at each other. We shared an "We Are Fucked" moment and then jumped over the side of the hill towards the fire. Here is where our luck turned for the better. Remember I had said that this was one of the rainy years, so we got pretty lucky that the fire didn't last all that long on the hill. On the flip side though, the hill is really fucking steep, so when we jumped we tumbled and slid past some of the fire. The wet leaves were like tring to stop on grease. Luck for us there is also plenty of sapplings to break and slow falls. I got a little luckier than Stewball, while I stopped in the middle of the hill, he really didn't stop until he was close to the bottom. He went to work on the dying fire down there and I worked on the parts that were around me and above. Within five minutes we had the fire out and were clawing our way back to the top of the hill.

On the top again we took our seats around the fire, cracked another brew, and sat in silence for a few minutes. I guess we were in a little bit of shock. The beer tasted good and clamed the nerves. Then I spoke...

"How's the hand?"
"Hurts a bit." Stewball held up his right hand and it did look red, even in the dim light of the fire. "It's really going to hurt in the morning." He took a long drink from his beer.
"I think we are both going to hurt like hell in the morning." I slammed the rest of mine.
"Never did melt that fucking rope," he nodded towards the scortched line above the fire.
"Nope," and I just shook my head. I looked down at where the can had been sitting, and all the grass and leaves we burnt black. "Got lucky with the rain though."
"Yep," he said handing me another beer while he cracked a fresh one for himself.

We shot the shit for awhile longer as we demolished the rest of our booze. Recalling the fire event over and over. But the booze supply was low and we were beat. It didn't take long to polish off the rest and go to our tents to pass out for a couple of hours till it was time to rise and shine so we could get off the river.

Before I end this story I have to say the General was a little pissed about the Coleman fuel. When he asked what happened to the can, Stewball and I just laughed our asses off. I said it was sitting at the bottom of the hill. Of course he wanted to know how it got down there, so we took turns regailing the story. Brother John and Snakes laughed to beat the blazes. The General just kept muttering shit about respect and crap. He was right though. What we did was not very respectfull, not to mention dangerous as hell. We never did go down and see if the can was still there the next morning. The hill had already kicked our collective asses once, I wasn't about to give it seconds.

Every year we camp at the Doons this story comes out a least once. I'm sure this year will be no exception. We will also recount the time the General went ass-over-tea kettle down the hill. And no doubt the one where Dishman had to save my stumbling ass from going down it that other year. Good times. I can't wait...

Until next time I wil remain...Crazy Joe...

What a winter!!

After yet another long ass wait for me to write something else on the blog...I am once again back and ready to share some words of wisdom to all the people who fail to read what I write. I can't wait to get out on the water this year because we have gotten so much fucking snow this winter I have a great feeling in my bones that this is going to be a year for the record books. I know Ducky must be thinking the same thing. We have waited for over a decade for snow like this to raise the murky waters of the Bigfork into legendary levels. I can't believe that the one time, when it was only Ducky and I on the trip, we had a water level that was so high I couldn't stand in the canoe when we went under bridiges because the bridge would have caught me in the chest and it happened to be the only year that we didn't bring a camera. I shouldn't say that because in the early years we didn't have a camera, just a shit-load of booze. Nevertheless, that year it was only her and I is the year I regret the most not having a camera. But like I was saying, this year we may just have that water level like we did so many years ago.

I am praying that our spring take a little while to get here because that will translate into a high river level, that and a whole lot of rain. The snow has been crazy this year. We have gotten more snow this year than I think in the last four years combined. Needless to say the Memorial Weekend Canoe trip has been heavy in my mind for the last few weeks. Although I have only really talked with Em about the trip, and a touch with Digger the other night, I think this may be the year we try to make the Bigfork to the Doons run we were so fond of several years ago.

With a great river level we will have a wonderful current that is going to do a lot of the work for us. We should be able to cover the fifteen miles or so from Bigfork to the Busti campsite on the first day of the run. Then it will be a short seven mile trip to the Doons the next day where we can enjoy two nights at our beloved campsite. I know it has been nice not having to get up on the last day of the trip, load all our shit into the canoes, paddle through the Doons and then pull out at the North Busti Bridige, but I don't really give a rip. I want us to go back to our old site and have a good old time like we have done so many times before. Yet there is still one problem.

The last time we were at the Doons we had been beat by a group of local goons that happened to be canoeing that weekend. We didn't get our regular spot so we made camp at the start of the Doons like we did on the second year of the trip. This year, if we are the first to make it, we need to decide if we are going to haul the shit up the fucking hill or stay at the bottom. However, if the river is like it was that one year, we will be forced to camp at the top because the bottom will be flooded...I think. Then again, if it isn't flooded, do we stay or do we haul. Part of me doesn't want to have to haul the shit, but the other half wants the good campsite that overlooks the rapids. If we do stay at the top, I think one of our little projects should be to clear some of the brush that is blocking the view. We should make it majestic for all that travel the river.

As we draw closer to this years excursion, like always, I will be visiting this blog more and more adding stories from years past and continuing ones that I have already started. I just hope some people will find it upon themselves to search for this blog and read some of what we have done.

Until next time I will remain...Crazy Joe

The Trip To LIttle Minnow

Just got off the phone with the Rev. He is on his way to the General's to pull the dock and work on deer stands for the November hunt. He is doing quite well, which is a good thing. One of the few regrets I have about living and growing up in Northern Minnesota is that I didn't get so see a lot of my relatives all that often. I really do miss many of my cousins that I'm close to, but with a wife and kids it is tough to find that oh so precious time to connect. With some luck we may be able to hook up some this fall and/or do somew hunting and fishing. But I digress...back to the story.





After retreiving the camera, we were on our way down the Bigfork, hungry for a wild adventure, or at least a little action. We had two sets of rapids to take on this day, Robb's and Hauk, neither of which the General or I had ever experienced. There is something wildly exciting about shooting rapids that have never been done before simply because one never knows what to expect. We had adjusted the equipment in the canoe to balance it out a touch better than we had it the day before. Although it was alright, it still felt like it leaned a tad to the left, which any canoeist worth their salt would tell ya it is a bad combination to have an unbalanced load while shooting through rapids. Even the smallest of rocks can easily swamp or tip a canoe that isn't ready for the challange. But like I said, we made the necessary corrections and was ready for whatever the Bigfork had to throw at us.





We only had 8 1/2 miles to go that day until we got to Little Minnow Campsite and only a mile and a half to the Robb's Rapids. The current, although not really strong, was doing a good jop at pulling us down the river so I thought in the back of my mind that the day's rapids would be an exhilirating time. Nevertheless, since the first set was coming up soon, the General and I discussed what we were going to do when we came to the first set. He wanted, if possible, to film the action on his video camera as we shot through Robb's since they're were only going to be about fifty feet long. I said I had no problem with that as long as there wasn't too much white water to where I would need my copiolit to help with the paddeling so we could keep the open end of the canoe up. He completley agreed.





It didn't take us long to reach the Robb Rapids. It was then that I knew the river was a lot lower than I had anticipated. Instead of white water all we had was a little bit faster current and a lot of rocks poking thier heads way above the water. The General took out the camera as I expertly weaved us in, out and between the wet, green scum coverd rocky obsticles. The only real action came when we neared the end and the General told me to go right, then left, then right again. If someone from the shore could have been standing there filming, it would have been like watching a ballet on water the way I manuvered the seventeen foot craft around like it was a toy boat in a bathtub. It was later when we watched the footage of that part that I realized the General has a few things to learn about shooting a movie. I thought I was going to witness some of my best canoeing skills at work turning out to be a jumpy, hard to follow view of the thirty feet of white water I brought us through. (General, if you read this I just have to say that you need to use the zoom less and focus on the wide angles more.)





Once through Robb's Rapids we had it pretty easy going. The cruised along the water taking consistant strokes with the paddle, at least I was, and meandered our way through the new territory. There was about a dozen places we passed by that I would have been proud to have called my home. I thought to myself, "I hope these people appreciate what they have here because few in our world, let alone our country, have something of such magnificent beauty to call home."





We continued like that for the next four miles as we took in the lush greenery of the trees, the golden rustle of the hey fields, the peaceful serenity of the landscape as we lazily drifted along. Once again I ended up doing a lot of the paddling, yet I didn't care; I was just happy to be on the river.



It wasn't until after the Hauk Rapids that we truly got away from the wild rice. It wasn't the fields and fields that we navigated during the first part of the river, but there was enough to feed a lot of people during a cold winter. Nevertheless, a mile or so before Hauk's, we came around a bend to a vast opening in the trees. There was a nice looking rambler with a couple of garages and some rag tag looking farm equipment in the yard. A scruffly looking white mutt of a dog began to bark and run towards us. He was doing what all good little dogs with a little man complex try to do, protect what is his. Before poochy could get halfway to the river a portly old fella stepped out on the deck and in the tradition of Minnesota Nice, gave us a kindly wave and hearty hello. I have always enjoyed meeting the people on the river because other than the year of the fire, we have always been welcomed with arms wide open. He asked us where we were headed and how long we planned to be on the river, commenting on how nice the level was for this time of year. The General in turn introduced us and gave the friendly stranger the low down along with the information that we do the river evey Memorial Weekend. He wished us well on our journey and said the Hauk Rapids should be little to nothing, even with the water at the level it was at.

Before long we were upon The Hauk Rapids and there were exactly what the old man had said, nothing to write home about. I weaved in and out of the rocks while the General made good on his filming. I thought these would be a lot of fun with some high water...maybe some year the River Runners will have to start our Memorial Weekend trip from Dora lake just to hit the rapids at their peak. Although I will be the first to admit that going through rapids scares the fuck out of me, I did miss the thrill of a good shoot. Guess I will have to wait until the spring of 2011 to get my fix.

It didn't take much more than an hour to make it to Little Minnow Campsite. We had marked so good spots to paddle back up stream the following day to do a little fishing. We came across some really nice rocky terrain that held a promise of the walleye, but that wasn't going to be until tomorrow. What we wanted was to get to Little Minnow, set up camp and sip a few cold ones next to a roaring fire while some classic rock tunes filled the cool summer air. But that tale will have to wait for another day...

Until then I will remain...Crazy Joe

The Next Morning 9/28/2010

Well as you can see The General is only human after all. I suppose playing the role of The General "I can go for almost 48 hours without sleep" Rich can only last so long. After I had finished munching on some grub and cleaned the place up a littlee to keep the bears away, even though I knew the chance of one showing up was slim to none, I roused the General with a good shout. He slowly looked up and half opened his eyes. "I'm crashing man, you sleeping under the stars tonight?" He inhaled deeply and said "Nope".
By the time I turned the last lantern off he was almost snuggled into the old fart sack, and sleeping before I finished zipping up the tent.

I awoke a little before 7:30 the following morning and thought a hot cup of coffee would go great after a good healthy piss. I glanced over at the General and he looked like he hadn't moved since the night before. I think he may have opened his eyes when I zipped the tent back up, but I'm not sure. I decided to let him sleep in as much as he wanted because there was no real hurry for the days adventure. We had all the time in the world to get to Little Minnow so rushing was not a priority.

After coming back from the tree line with an empty bladder and a strong hankering for a warm cup of java, I had to stop and take in the moment. A pair of ducks, I think mallards, was swimming down the river as a loon called from somewhere in the rice paddy. The sun was gently warming up the land and casting dancing sparkles on the river's surface as a soft breeze kissed my face. I stood in marvel of God's creations and thought that there was absolutely no place I would have rather grown up. I love Northern Minnesota.

It didn't take long to get the coffee going, but by then the wind had picked up and the river valley was tunneling it right into our campsite. With the coffee on I proceeded to stoke the fire a little so we had a place to burn the garbage. I only feed it small at first and then once I had a steady flame I added some larger pieces. I kept and eye on the coffee, but still wasn't seeing any steam. Then I heard a pickup.

I lit a smoke and watched as two dudes pulled up with a john-boat in the back of a maroon crew-cab Ford. They looked to be in a hurry too because before I knew it the boat was in the water and one of the dudes was parking the truck. He hoped out and literally ran to the boat which the other guy had already had fired up. They took off up river and as they got to where I had a good view of them, I was a bit shocked to see the guy in back standing, holding onto the tiller of the motor. The really weird part was that the prop shaft was long and looked like it was coming off the back of the motor at a 45 degree angle. I later found out from the General that that is what is called a beaver motor. The guys looked at me and waved, so I waved back. I watched them weave back and forth up the river through the big rice paddy until they reached the tree line and disappeared. I looked over at the coffee...still nothing so I stoked the fire with a little more wood.

I grabbed a bottle of lemon lime Gatorade, my notebook and a pen. I felt like doing a little writing at the time, so I did. It wasn't a lot, and I will probably share it here sometime, but not today. The Gatorade was ice cold, but still wasn't a good cup of coffee. I decided to investigate the problem. I always keep the top off until she just begins to boil so I can turn it down and prevent an overflow, however, as soon as I got to the table I realized what my problem was. The wind, although not bad at all, had picked up enough that most of the heat from the propane stove was being blown away. Unlike my good old Coleman stove that has a built in wind block, the General's collapsible stove dose not which meant I had to make one. It was more a pain in the ass than it was tough. Needless to say ten minutes later I was once again sitting in my chair toking on a smoke and sipping a cup of black silk coffee.



Around ten the General finally had to get up. With a solid eleven hours of sack time, he spent the first in his chair the night before, he was ready and able for another day on the river. By this time I had grub going and was working on my second cup of joe. The dudes when had gotten on the river earlier with the beaver motor had already returned and were long gone.

We shot the shit while I finished cooking up the grub. We ate a meal of sausage, scrambled eggs and toast...wait a minute. We didn't have toast...the General had forgotten to bring it, a fact I never let him forget. I don't think I'm ever going to let him live that down, even though it was something kind of minor. The big kicker was that he said he thought I was going to bring it until I had him check his list and eat his words.

It wasn't long after breakfast that we got into gear and decided to get the show on the river. It wasn't that we were in a hurry, but I think we were both a little excited to get back on the Bigfork because this was all new turf with things to see we have never saw before. It was a touch amazing on how quickly things went back into their designated spots and homes when one does really downsize. Like I said we only brought what we really needed to have a comfortable trip. Within a half hour all was packed and we were working on securing the tarp to the top of the canoe.

We had decided to film our launch and then pull over at the landing so the General could run back and get video camera. Sad to say that we hung the camera in a tree and as we were launching a gust of wind shook the tree and knocked the camera shot off the mark. We got some, but not all. Next the Trail to Little Minnow.

Until then I will remain Crazy Joe...

Crazy and The General

Time gets away from a person, so much so that a man can find it hard to find time to attend to his legacy, which is something the river trip is to me, that adding stories and updates to this site can be a downright challenge. For the first time since I was a pup in elementary school I was able to make it onto the majestic Bigfork more than once this year. Of course there was the normal Memorial Weekend trip with the Bigfork River Runner crew that was a blast to say the least. Well, what I remember about it anyways. It seems that the Jag and I no longer can be companions on any journey of any sort. Seems like when we get together there are long spans of time where I keep going but my memory takes a nap. Scary to say the least. This kind of leads me into this time's entry.
For many years now The General and I have I have discussed hitting the river sometime later in the year if we have a substantial amount of rain to bring or keep the river's water level up, and this year turned out to be a year in which the plan finally came to light. I guess we had decided early on in the summer we would go no matter how much rain, but we were blessed with more rain than we have had in as long as I can remember. Rain came in droves and kept the level up that we decided sometime in late June that in August we would put our canoe in Dora Lake, the Bigfork's source, and canoe to the first crossing on Highway 6. As the summer sped by we decided that the last weekend in August, before I had to go back to work at the school, would be when we would take four days to enjoy a passion we both share, the simplicty of a Bigfork River trip.
It started out spectacularly, the weather was a dream,lots of sun and a touch of a breeze, something we were grateful for since the first leg of the journey consisted of us having to paddle our way across the main part of Dora lake to the headwaters. We loaded my Core Craft canoe with the bare essentials, barring the padded cots we had for sack time. There was also a slight change on the dynamics of this journey. For the first time in his life, The General choose to play the role of the navigator while I stayed with my roles as the stern-man. Needless to say I did a majority of the paddling.
Once across Dora Lake, we came to the river entrance and noticed a great big gob of dead rushes that blocked our entrances. We built up some speed before we hit the mess and lost a lot of it on our initial contact. To sum up the experience it was like trying to paddle through a patch of wet cement. However, being the pro's that we are, it was little more than a minor speed bump. From there we continued to a tremendous amount of low lying country that was nothing but wild rice fields. So much so that we really didn't come to their end until the first camp site...Harrelson. There isn't a lot to comment on for this part of the trip because the scenery didn't change a lot and there was a little more work in the stroking that I would have liked, but nothing we couldn't handle. The most excitment came when we were forced to choose one of three paths and ended up choosing a dead end to where we had to break new trail through the rice field to refind the river. That a a point when we were using pop cans to relieve ourselves and a great gust of wind came up and almost barrel rolled us. I swear the water was a mere inch from coming in wher the wind tipped us to the left. Being experts our bodies instinctivley shifted weight to compensate for the loss of balance. After our hearts slowed we had a good chuckle, another beer and headed on down the river to find our first campsite of the trip.
Within a few hours we were where we wanted to be...Harrelson Campsite. The site was a true gem with a generous chunck of soft green grass and plenty of space for a large group of canoeists to camp. The only real downfall was that the landing and the campsite were a good 100 yards apart. The General, however, took it upon himself to break through the rushes to land the canoe closer to the camp ground.
We made camp and tipped a few cold ones before having a meal of brats and chips. Then since the General had been up for almost 48 hours, we crashed and got a good nights rest for the second leg of the trip.

Till then I will remain...Crazy Joe

New Storys coming soon

Hey everyone, sorry it's been so long. There are many new storys and adventures we have done in the last year. Will be back soon to start the tails of the river. Till then I remain Crazy Joe

The 2009 Launching

Well, this was probably our most successful year in a long time on the river. I think we may have broken the Curse of the Yellow Duck. Everyone made it throught the rapids this year without a hitch. As a matter of fact, the only time I hit a rock was with my paddle towards the end of the rapids at the Doons. Other than that we sailed right through the roughest parts of the raging water without incident.

The trip started out great. We were able to meet up at the cabin early Friday morning with The General and Rev with 98% of our gear ready to go. We had to do a little dinking around to repack a few items that were either duplicates or needed to be downsized. Next we got mine and Duckie's canoes loaded on the Generals trailer and soon we were headed to the town of Bigfork to buy license for the Canoes. I can't believe that Duckie and I have owned our own canoes for three years now. It was about that time that we realized that the General and Duckie both had forgotten to grab a CD player for the trip. So while I was buying the license, they were searching for a CD player to buy for the trip since Duckie had burned a shit load of new CD's. Sadly though, none were to be found, however, Duckie called our Mom and she was able to borrow one from one of the doctors at the hospital. Funny thing is that I don't think he knew about it, but that doesn't matter because we returned it to him in the same shape we got it.

After messing around in Bigfork for about an hour, we were off to the Highway One Bridge, this year's launching point. We chose to start there this year becuase we wanted to skip the Highway One Rapids. It seems like those rapids have clamied more people than the Doons have. They are considered a smaller class of rapids but are by far harder to navigate. We figured that if we started there this year we would at least have a fighting chance at a good run. Yet our hearts sank a little when we pulled into the launch site.

Sitting there, with canoes ready to launch, was a group of four men ready to take their journey down the Bigfork. The General chatted with them a little and found out that there were headed for the Muldoons their first night, the same place we were headed. I'm not going to lie when I say it pissed me off a little bit. I know the river is open to all that may want to enjoy its cool, relaxing waters, but I felt like they were stepping on our toes a little because this is suppose to be the River Runners weekend, not some other band of local-yocals. I knew that since they were going to be the ones to leave the landing first, they were going to be the ones to get the good campsite at the top of the "Fucking Hill". I just kept thinking to myself that we wouldn't have to tackle that fucking hill with all our gear, so it wasn't such a bad thing this year for the Mule to miss. Once the other group on the river took off, we were able to get our canoe's off the trailer and into position to be loaded.

It truly is a poetical thing to watch our crew load our canoes'. We take a majority of our shit, throw it all on the landing infront of the water-crafts and then begin to methodically place every item into a specific nook or cranny of our vessels. Whenever people stop in to watch, they gaze in total amazement as we find a way to stuff ten pounds of shit into a five pound bag. It never fails to impress me how well we load our gear into our canoes so as to maximize all the possible space within the skinny space allowed. By the time we finish loading, our canoes look like this:

The piolit and navigator usually have room enough to sit somewhat comfortably with little to no gear right below their feet. Most of the piolits have some gear right behind them, while both peole have gear located under their seats. Between the two people is a lump of gear covered by a tarp with a spider-web of rope and bungees holding everything into place just in case of a roll-over. On top of the tarps are the usuall, life-jackets, a spare paddle or two and a possible jacket, in case the wind picks up and things get a little chilly.

This year I was the designated "Beer Bitch" for the first day of the trip. This meant that I had to have access to my cooler so whenever someone wanted a cold one while making our way to the Doons, I could oblige them.

About twenty minutes after our choosen start time we pushed off from the shore and started this year's trip. Duckie was in my canoe, while The General had Digger in his, and this year Rev was going it solo till the following day when we were scheduled to pick up Princess since she had to work that night and could not get off to join us for the start. A hundred yards down the river I cracked my first brew and boy did it taste good. I knew right then that this year was going to be a great year for the trip.

To Be Continued...

Till next time I will remain...Crazy Joe

Can't believe it is over all ready!

Well the trip is done and over with for the year. We all had a great time. The river was flowing fast , the beer went down so good, the fire stayed in the ring and new friends were found on the river. So now for 13 years the Bigfork River Runners have conquered the mighty river and we pray that there will be many more for those of us going again. Pictures and more post will shortly follow in the next few weeks so stay tuned.

Duckie is Here to Blog a Bit....

Well as you have probably noticed the canoe trip is almost underway. I can't believe another year is almost upon us. We are down a few people this year, two due to the Mini-Hulk and the Mule expecting their first little one in only a few weeks. The Mule and I decided no one wanted to have the responsibility of delivering that one on the river, although it would be a first. They will be missed this year, the Mule especially the first night when we have to get up that fucking hill at the Doons. At least next year my mother had already offered to watch the Mini-Hulk Mule so they should be back next year barring any other little ones in the works. They other important one is Dishmen who cnould not get off work. Damn those little furry creatures and their offspring. I meant the mink Dishmen helps with not the Mules and Mini-Hulks kids, come on now. Still at least his wife Dishmen's Woman can make it. (I hope we can give her a better name after this because that one sucks.)

So we are down a few, not anything unusual still the General is gonna be there, I only hope he leaves that fucking CD at home or at least in his truck! As for me I get to canoe with Crazy Joe for the first time in about 8 years. It was the Year of the River!! If you have ever been or ever will go on the trip Crazy Joe and I will talk about that year. The year that you couldn't stand up in the canoe while going under the bridges with out getting hit in the chest by said bridge. The year there were no little Doons rapids before the campsite. The year that we flew past the Doons Campsite because the current was so swift and it took us 15-20 min to paddle back up river only a few yards. The Year that the Doons were nothing but white water and the waves reached 3-4 feet above the canoe when we were in a trough. Now that was a freaking AWESOME year to canoe. Sadly Crazy Joe and I were the only ones that went that year. But this year, at least for the first day 1/2 I get to be with Crazy Joe and I am looking forward to it. As long at the Jag is NOT passed around 5 min into the trip.

Now comes the question...Are you ready? Hell no I am not ready I have about 1/2 a million things to do before I have to drive to pick up Dishmens Woman. Being that I have to work these last few days before the trip I am having a bit of trouble getting everything done. I was going to buy a new tent this year being that the last few I have bought did not work out and had to be brought back. I have to do laundry before I can pack so I have at least 2 loads left to do. At least this year the food has already been brought up North by Crazy Joe so that is one less thing for me to deal with. I am hoping to get a ton done tomorrow before I have to go to work and then do a few more things on Thurs before I leave.

So with that I bid you good by and hope when Next I blog I have stories to tell and pictures to post. Have a Great Memorial Day Weekend and maybe we will see you on the river.

The General and I have talked

Today the General and I had a discussion about this year's trip. We are definitley starting from the Highway One Rapids and canoeing all the way to his land past the second crossing of the river on Highway Six. He just bought 140 acreas with a nice chunck that is river front property.

We talked about two different locations for campsites. This year's is going to be where he establishes a work base for the future construction projects. It is going to be a quick job done basically so we just have a place to put the tents this year. Nevertheless, next year we are going to have a spot that is just killer the way it is set up. We will actually have a stream that we run up to get to the campsite. It is going to be TITS to say the least.

We also talked about who is going on the trip this year. Well, Em and I have broke up so she will no longer be a part of this tradition, however, in a few years I hope to be taking some of my kids on this trip to give them a taste of true camping. Anyway, the crew we have so far this year is The General, Duckie, Crazy Joe and a friend of mine. This person is going to be this year's FNG. That is ok though, it is always awesome to introuduce the joy that is this trip to someone new.

So that is about it, I have provide the tenitive schedule of what we are going to be doing this year on the trip. I will provide more details as the game plan developes.

Until that time arrives, I will remain...Crazy Joe.

The Planning Hath Begun...

Well, the planning for the trip has officailly begun. The General gave me a call the other day and invited me to go check out his property he bought on the river last fall. He picked up 140 acres with a good portion of that right along the riverside. The General is interested in my opinion on where to put in the campsite along the river. We plan to try, and notice I'm leaving room open for some fucking shit to happen this year to prevent us from finishing out trip. Since the Year of The Duck, which was 2004, we have only made completed the trip twice. One year the water level was too low to canoe and, well you know about the cluster-fuck we created last year. Oh, that is right, I never finished last years story. I think I will have to do that here in the near future.

It has been a couple of weeks since I started this entry, and since then I have been able to go and check out the General's land. Let me say that I was throughly impressed with the land that he has purchased. The land has everything a man from the great state of Minnesota could ever want, nicely wooded ares, a decent stream that cuts right though the middle of it, so killer spots for deer food plots and stands, but the best part is that a half mile of the land runs right along the river. Oh how sweet it is.

Well, I'm not sure on the numbers this year. I know we will have four people for sure on the trip. There will be the General, Duckie, Myself and this year's FNG Sandra Bloch. This will be quite interesting since Sandra hasn't really done this type of camping before in her life. Sure she has camped, I mean very few people from our state don't get our at least once in their lifetime, however, I don't think she has ever really roughed it like we do on the canoe trip. I use the term "roughing it" very loosly considering all the crap that we bring with us down the river. This year, as I think I have stated before, we are going to down-size our operation to try and take the bear minimum of what we need. The General is even talking about sleeping on the ground. He is so gun-shy about tipping, ha ha how does it feel fucker, that he doesn't want anything in his canoe that isn't truly essential to our journey. Personally I think he is crazy to not even bring a cot or air-matress. He is no spring chicken and I know that if I don't have something to put between me and the cold, hard, rocky ground, I would be waking up with more pain than just the normal hang-over. Still, once we get the final number set, I will provide a list of the gear that we plan to take this year.

I'm hoping that I can find a few other people to go on the trip with us. If anyone is interested in going on this trip they should get in touch with me via the Jag Bomb comment section of this blog. I would be more than happy to provide some more intimant details about our excursion into God's country. It is also a proven fact that the more people we get to go on this trip the more fun we have in the end. So any takers, let Crazy Joe know.

UPDATE OF THIS POST
5/11/09
I started this post about a month ago, but haven't found the time to complete it with all that is going on in my life right now. We have confirmed five people going on the trip and we are looking for a sixth or even more people to go. My buddy from work, Adam, isn't going to make it for personal reasons. Tracy hasn't given me a go or no go yet. I did contact Dishman about a week ago and he was up for it if he could get off and Kelly had gotten the time off already, so she was in too. Well, Dishman had to bail, but his wife is still coming. So she is the new adition to the list. Duckie suggested that she ask Dishman's sister Jen if she would like to go, but that is still pending. Duckie is going to check on some othe people. I'm going to talk with the General and see if cousin Joshee can make it. I also asked Sandra if she knew of anyone that wanted to go on the trip. However, anyone that reads this blog, if you are interested in going, let me know asap.

I spoke with Duckie today and we started to hammer out the details of the trip and how we are going to "down-size" our gear this year. I'm going to take less clothes this year, but that is about all I'm going to do to downsize. But, I'm going to sit down here one of these nights and make a list of gear that I will need. I"m hoping to get my favorit tent repaired and ready for the trip. If not I'm going to be using "old red", which is a good tent, but nothing like my "spider-tent". But I digress.

As with any year there is a lot to do before the trip takes place. I'm starting to think that the planning is half the damn fun. I think I'm going to get to the list and maybe strat packing some of my clothes and stuff. I'm going to be back a lot more in the upcoming days to keep everyone posted on the Fourteenth Annual Memorial Weekend Canoe Trip with The Bigfork River Runners.

Till next time I will remain...Crazy Joe

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.

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.