No fanfare of trumpets announced our arrival. No crash of champagne bottle unmoored our vessel. Instead the gravel and metal cacophony and the slosh of my left boot descending into a bit of deeper water announced that our voyage had begun. Under light gray skies that teased that the rain may possibly avoid our float, we slid into the water.
Before we left, I asked where they were going to pull us out. "Oh you can't miss it. There is a big white sign at the Circle B campground," I was assured. (At this point we will pause for ironic effect. Perhaps a rack focus on my face looking extraordinarily confident and a musical cue such as a slide whistle.)
Notice the lack of other floaters. It will be important later in the story.
As soon as I turned the canoe down stream Evan asked, "Are we going the right way?"
I hope that it is just a phase, but Evan's faith in my ability to navigate this river teeters on the edge of insanity when it topples into doubt about whether it actually is a no uniform day at school or if he should wear his swim trunks to what is obviously a swim party.. If it is not a phase then I must come to terms with the fact that my trustworthiness lies somewhere between carnival barker and con artist.
With only a hint of sarcasm I calmly assured him that the river only flows in one direction, and since we were on a "float" trip, then going with that flow would be our only option. This did not stop him from asking the same question whenever we would come to a smaller stream joining ours or a fork around a small island.
"Evan, We can not get lost on a river." (insert ironic beat here)
After nearly two strokes with the oar, the clouds grew tired of the teasing and let loose an unspectacular yet steady precipitation. I scrambled to extract the ponchos from my backpack before my lack of steering sent us into the overhanging branches, and for the next half hour we coasted through the intermittent rain.
Evan sat in the middle of the canoe under a Casino Queen golf umbrella that rested on the sides of the canoe making a cozy little shelter if it had not been for the water that sloshed at the bottom of the boat. Occasionally he would complain when Colette's oar merely scraped the surface of the water and splashed an arcing spray in his general direction. This was nothing compared to the ruckus he raised when I struck him in the back of the head with my oar while switching.
Later we would have to use this umbrella, some aluminum from the boat and a Speak 'n Spell to "phone home."
The rain eventually ended and other than my left foot and the tops of my thighs I was relatively dry. We stopped to pee on a log and throw a few rocks. Well I should say Evan and I did. Colette did not move from her seat from the time we entered the canoe until the end of the ordeal .. . I mean trip.
Piloting our craft down stream once again, we passed a group of two canoes from the same rental company for a second time. We had passed them earlier, but they had caught up while we were log peeing and rock chucking. They talked to Evan this time since he had the umbrella up the first time. The first time we passed them he had the umbrella up so they were unaware of his presence. The conversation comforted us by confirming that others were as foolish as we were.
Not long after that we started seeing signs of civilization, fishermen, restaurants and campground.
"What are we looking for?" Colette called back.
"Circle V," I replied.
"V or B?"
"What?"
"Vvvveeeee or Bbbbbbeeeee?"
"I don't know maybe it was D. Just look for a letter with a circle around it. It should also say Windy's Canoe Rental."
From the middle of the canoe Evan asked, "Are we lost?"
"No we are not lost," we hollered in unison.
A sign for 2 Rivers Canoe stood guard over a sandy inlet. A white placard for Alley Springs bounced into view. Jacks Fork's white sign called awkwardly to us, we never saw a sign for Windy's, or a circled letter or anything.
Having faith in our ability to observe, we continued though our two to three hour float had meandered into the third hour and signs of civilization were beginning to dwindle.
"Do you think we should call?" Colette asked.
I am not going to ask for directions on a river. It only goes one way. You can't get lost on a river. We can't miss the sign. "I don't know how we are going to call," I said obstinately. Pretending like I had no idea how to dial 411.
But doubt tugged at my poncho sleeve like an annoying three-year-old. The minutes passed more quickly than the currents and the clouds darkened in a desire to reflect our collective dread. Evan's oar, which had been useless for most of the trip, dipped in and out of the water hypnotically and I noticed that the phone number for the Windy's scrawled in Sharpie on its red blade.
Relieved that I would not have to pay the charge for a 411 call and assuming that whatever diety was in charge of Ozark rivers was sending me a sign, I called.
Piloting our craft down stream once again, we passed a group of two canoes from the same rental company for a second time. We had passed them earlier, but they had caught up while we were log peeing and rock chucking. They talked to Evan this time since he had the umbrella up the first time. The first time we passed them he had the umbrella up so they were unaware of his presence. The conversation comforted us by confirming that others were as foolish as we were.
Not long after that we started seeing signs of civilization, fishermen, restaurants and campground.
"What are we looking for?" Colette called back.
"Circle V," I replied.
"V or B?"
"What?"
"Vvvveeeee or Bbbbbbeeeee?"
"I don't know maybe it was D. Just look for a letter with a circle around it. It should also say Windy's Canoe Rental."
From the middle of the canoe Evan asked, "Are we lost?"
"No we are not lost," we hollered in unison.
A sign for 2 Rivers Canoe stood guard over a sandy inlet. A white placard for Alley Springs bounced into view. Jacks Fork's white sign called awkwardly to us, we never saw a sign for Windy's, or a circled letter or anything.
Having faith in our ability to observe, we continued though our two to three hour float had meandered into the third hour and signs of civilization were beginning to dwindle.
"Do you think we should call?" Colette asked.
I am not going to ask for directions on a river. It only goes one way. You can't get lost on a river. We can't miss the sign. "I don't know how we are going to call," I said obstinately. Pretending like I had no idea how to dial 411.
But doubt tugged at my poncho sleeve like an annoying three-year-old. The minutes passed more quickly than the currents and the clouds darkened in a desire to reflect our collective dread. Evan's oar, which had been useless for most of the trip, dipped in and out of the water hypnotically and I noticed that the phone number for the Windy's scrawled in Sharpie on its red blade.
Relieved that I would not have to pay the charge for a 411 call and assuming that whatever diety was in charge of Ozark rivers was sending me a sign, I called.
Though relatively ineffective in propulsion, this oar worked great as a phone directory.
"Uh yeah, we are past the Jack's Fork canoe pull out, and I think we might have gone too far."
"Are you done?" she asked.
"Yeah, right now we are by a bunch of horse stables."
"Alright. I'll try to get a hold of Rick and see if he can pick you up."
I hang up and steer the canoe to a landing and wait to be contacted.
"What did they say?" Colette asked.
"They said they would come and pick us up."
"So we went too far didn't we?"
"Maybe just a little, but we are not lost. You can't get lost on a river. Eventually you just end up in New Orleans. They are supposed to call back."
And they did. We were told to stay put, and they would be down to pick us up. A few minutes later I got another call saying that they couldn't get to us, but they would go down river and pick us up in about 1/2 a mile. "Don't leave until I call you again, or you'll go right by us."
So we waited.
And waited.
And the phone rang. We headed out, and it started to rain again.
"Look at it this way," I said "it can't get worse."
"Yes, it can. It could start to thunder."
"We are almost there. Don't worry."
"That sounded like thunder," Evan exclaimed.
For those of you that have read my Mesa Verde post, you know that Evan is deathly afraid of thunderstorms and attuned to any low rumble, but this did indeed sound like thunder. It wouldn't stop sounding like thunder either. It lasted for at least fifteen seconds.
Colette made me call again to make sure that they were there and we hadn't already passed them. I knew that Colette was not comfortable with being on the river for the rest of her foreseeable future especially when we could only foresee it lasting another five minutes, so I called immediately. I didn't want to explain again that we can't get lost on a river, and to be honest I was starting to doubt it this truism. Calling was not an easy task with the rain falling and the tendency for the boat to drift like a badly aligned car every time I took my oar out of the water.
When I finally managed to dial, they assured me that we would be seeing them any minute.
We were going to get out of the river one way or an otter!
Just when Evan and Colette (and possibly me) thought we would never leave the river, we saw two guys to our left screaming, "Over here."
I steered the boat the best that I coud and paddled as hard as I could so that we would not drift past them. We ran aground on a gravel bar so I jumped out to push. At that point I figure that I would just guide them in the rest of the way. What I did not figure was the depth of the river. I should have been Mark Twaining that shit because I was suddenly in water up to my navel.
I lifted my jacket up like a Victorian woman walking through horse manure and kept my phone dryish, but my jeans and wallet couldn't have been any wetter.
During all of my phone conversations the general tone had been that this was a relatively common occurrence, and I had reassured Colette that this was not a big deal. Unfortunately as soon as our soaked selves were in the truck Colette asked.
"Uhhhhhh," the driver paused trying to find a polite way to say it and failed, "no."
The purpose of the road we were on is still a mystery to me. It could not possible exist just to pull us out of eh river, yet I saw no other reason for it to be there. Of course when I say road, I mean a level area along the base of a bluff.
We rattled and bumped back out to a paved road and from that point we were only two minutes from where we left the car.
"Can you recommend a good restaurant?" Colette asked.
"There's a steakhouse just across the bridge. Take the first left, but if you run out of pavement you've gone too far."
I assured him that though we had just recently gone to far, we would find the restaurant. Unfortunately, we missed the first left and went to far. When we finally found the steakhouse, it was closed.
We finally ended up stopping a a burger place. Our waitress was extraordinarily nice bringing crayons so that Evan could work on his Junior Ranger book. However, her "what are you stupid" look when she heard we had been on the river dropped her tip by a couple of percent.
For the hour or so that we weren't
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