migrations.
After a while, I double back to the launch site but there
is still no sign of Dan. I pull the kayak and listen to commuters bomb down the little road, kicking up dirt. After another half hour, an old station wagon with a canoe lashed to the top careens off the road and into the parking lot and the entire Driscoll family tumbles out. The family mood can best be described as frazzled, if not agitated. Something tense is passing between Dan and Donna. (It isnât hard to imagine that waking the whole family at six so that Dad can go canoeing might not be the most popular idea.) They apologize for their tardiness and I excitedly describe the death of my cell phone. I am completely ignored as a minor marital skirmish ensues about whether or not Dylan should be allowed to wade in the water (which he is already doing). While that is going on, I peek, with dying hope, in the carâs windows to see if there are any cups in the cup-holders. Just then Donna walks up behind.
âIâm sorry we were running late,â she says flatly. âWe didnât have time to get coffee.â
âThatâs fine,â I say with a big smile.
I want to kill her.
While I contemplate the gloomy prospect of a decaffeinated morning, Dan inspects the banged up bottom of the kayak, slowly shaking his head. But neither of us is in the mood to dwell on the negative, not when itâs morning and we have a day on the river in front of us. Soon the bustling momentum of preparation takes over: getting the canoe down off the car rack, throwing the kayak back up, packing the canoe, looking at the map to plan out our next meeting point with Donna. She rejects our first suggested rendezvous, which confirms what I already suspect: She will be a decidedly un-Sherpa-like Sherpa. I think of my friend Ian, who was my first choice for the
job. He is a childhood pal, an outdoorsman, as devoted as a puppy, and, had nepotism not reared its ugly head, he would have embraced being part of the adventure with the sort of goofy enthusiasm the job requires.
Lack of caffeine, no doubt, is darkening my thoughts, and as we push out onto the river I wonder if an early beer might alleviate the inevitable headache.
It turns out that I donât need the beer, or the coffee, at least not right away, since the river itself, and the exercise of paddling on it, will soon enough serve to lift my mood.
Dan has a different avenue toward transcendence: No sooner have we paddled around the first bend and, in Thoureauvian fashion, left family behind, when he announces that itâs âtime for a little eye opener.â With that he whips out something that smells of skunk, and lights a bowl. This is where Dan parts ways with Thoreau, who preferred âthe natural sky to an opium-eaterâs heaven.â
âYou can thank Ronald Reagan for this,â he says. âThanks to his drug laws we started growing the best bud in the world right at home.â
He offers the bowl. I have plenty of friends like Danâdoctors, lawyers, stockbrokers, competent professionals allâwho seem capable of using pot as mild relaxant. Thatâs great for them, I suppose, but my system is a little different. One puff for me and our idyllic paddle would transform into a Conrad-like journey into the heart of paranoia. I politely decline.
We paddle quietly for a while on the green shadowy river, and then, as if on cue, a young deer, tawny and hesitant, emerges from the woods, freezing when it sees us. It is a
stunning sight there by the bank, and we lift our paddles and let the current carry us, trying to stay as still as the animal. Once we round the next bend we laugh and hoot at our good luck.
âYou see, that wouldnât have happened if we werenât attuned with the river,â Dan says.
I nod, though Iâm not so sure. The deer was pretty easy to see. But Iâm not about to argue. I listen as Dan launches into the first of the
After a while, I double back to the launch site but there
is still no sign of Dan. I pull the kayak and listen to commuters bomb down the little road, kicking up dirt. After another half hour, an old station wagon with a canoe lashed to the top careens off the road and into the parking lot and the entire Driscoll family tumbles out. The family mood can best be described as frazzled, if not agitated. Something tense is passing between Dan and Donna. (It isnât hard to imagine that waking the whole family at six so that Dad can go canoeing might not be the most popular idea.) They apologize for their tardiness and I excitedly describe the death of my cell phone. I am completely ignored as a minor marital skirmish ensues about whether or not Dylan should be allowed to wade in the water (which he is already doing). While that is going on, I peek, with dying hope, in the carâs windows to see if there are any cups in the cup-holders. Just then Donna walks up behind.
âIâm sorry we were running late,â she says flatly. âWe didnât have time to get coffee.â
âThatâs fine,â I say with a big smile.
I want to kill her.
While I contemplate the gloomy prospect of a decaffeinated morning, Dan inspects the banged up bottom of the kayak, slowly shaking his head. But neither of us is in the mood to dwell on the negative, not when itâs morning and we have a day on the river in front of us. Soon the bustling momentum of preparation takes over: getting the canoe down off the car rack, throwing the kayak back up, packing the canoe, looking at the map to plan out our next meeting point with Donna. She rejects our first suggested rendezvous, which confirms what I already suspect: She will be a decidedly un-Sherpa-like Sherpa. I think of my friend Ian, who was my first choice for the
job. He is a childhood pal, an outdoorsman, as devoted as a puppy, and, had nepotism not reared its ugly head, he would have embraced being part of the adventure with the sort of goofy enthusiasm the job requires.
Lack of caffeine, no doubt, is darkening my thoughts, and as we push out onto the river I wonder if an early beer might alleviate the inevitable headache.
It turns out that I donât need the beer, or the coffee, at least not right away, since the river itself, and the exercise of paddling on it, will soon enough serve to lift my mood.
Dan has a different avenue toward transcendence: No sooner have we paddled around the first bend and, in Thoureauvian fashion, left family behind, when he announces that itâs âtime for a little eye opener.â With that he whips out something that smells of skunk, and lights a bowl. This is where Dan parts ways with Thoreau, who preferred âthe natural sky to an opium-eaterâs heaven.â
âYou can thank Ronald Reagan for this,â he says. âThanks to his drug laws we started growing the best bud in the world right at home.â
He offers the bowl. I have plenty of friends like Danâdoctors, lawyers, stockbrokers, competent professionals allâwho seem capable of using pot as mild relaxant. Thatâs great for them, I suppose, but my system is a little different. One puff for me and our idyllic paddle would transform into a Conrad-like journey into the heart of paranoia. I politely decline.
We paddle quietly for a while on the green shadowy river, and then, as if on cue, a young deer, tawny and hesitant, emerges from the woods, freezing when it sees us. It is a
stunning sight there by the bank, and we lift our paddles and let the current carry us, trying to stay as still as the animal. Once we round the next bend we laugh and hoot at our good luck.
âYou see, that wouldnât have happened if we werenât attuned with the river,â Dan says.
I nod, though Iâm not so sure. The deer was pretty easy to see. But Iâm not about to argue. I listen as Dan launches into the first of the
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