Indiana, Illinois and Wisconsin Welcome You

The Midwest Passage Cont'd...

I saw no purple mountains, but the amber waves of grain were everywhere as I plunged onward into the heart of the Midwest. Eager to make up for time I had spent at Cuyahoga, I sped indifferently past the landmarks of Ohio and Indiana. Apologies to the birthplaces of Thomas Edison, and Rutherford Hayes. Another highway billboard warned me that Jesus was coming in May 2011. Apparently, I’d missed the boat on that one.

The miracle of the Eisenhower Interstate System is that now you can go anywhere in the nation, but still inhabit leave the sameness of highway signs and rest stops. (Wow! They’re using a different kind of asphalt in Indiana!) 

Most truckers have probably discovered that driving though thousands of miles of America can get kind of boring, even with The Best of Kenny Chesney in the tape deck. In Travels With Charlie, John Steinbeck was turned off by the interstate’s flat boredom, and did most of his driving on back roads.

While the great author may have had time to look for America and whatnot, I’d need to take a more efficient route in order to get to Wyoming on time for work. I told myself that it was worth it to economize the sightseeing in the first half of the journey in order to spend quality time in the Dakota Badlands.

Still, I decided I would like to stop east of Gary to see the Indiana Sand Dunes National Lakeshore. There was camping there and I was thinking it would be cool to wake up and run along Lake Michigan.

I think I would have stopped if it had been a sunny, beautiful day. Instead, there was a persistent downpour as I left the interstate and navigated a post-industrial hell of fast-food chains and big box stores. Welcome to Michigan City.

Some poorly marked roads took me outside the city limits to where I thought the park was. Just when I was getting ready to think that the dunes were just a sick joke to sucker tourists, I came upon the shores of the great lake. There was a parking lot nearby, which had flooded from the storm. The harsh wind flung the rain into my eyes. Everything was gray and unpleasant.

I ran down to the beach to the water’s edge where I skipped a rock across the waves. I couldn’t see much further than the last splash. Behind me, expensive beach mansions towered over the lake—likely havens for wealthy Chicagoans. It seemed strange that what was marked as a huge national park on the maps, could actually have so many houses and roads.

I got back in the car and began scrutinizing the map. Hours of driving had made a small dent out of the miles that remained. As I shivered wet in the driver’s seat, I decided that I didn’t really give a damn about this place and would much rather keep driving, get past Chicago, go closer to the goal.

Fine, I thought. Let’s rumble. And I left.

I didn’t get back on 90 right away, but took a parallel road in the direction of Gary. The rain picked up again and cut the visibility to where it was all I could do to drive between the lines. After about fifteen miles, the downpour subsided to where I felt comfortable going 40. Through the fading light, I could make out the Gary exurbs, a disturbing land of gargantuan power-lines and smokestacks. The sun setting from behind the clouds gave the sky the rich color of coagulating blood.

Just as I had left the Sand Dunes for other explorers, I decided that The Windy City could wait for next time. I got on 90 again briefly, and then dumped it for 80, aiming to swing west of the city and cut up towards for Wisconsin along 294. Outside the gates of O’Hare airport, 90 and I would reunite, and stay together for the rest of the way west.

First there was the matter of getting past America’s third largest city alive. I steered my poor, rumbly car through the eight-lane monster highway, taking care to avoid veering semis. Though I wanted to double check my map to make sure I was going the right way, the traffic made it impossible to look down without getting killed. I guided myself through about five different interchanges interpreting a morass of confusing signs and a dim memory of what things looked like on the map. Amazingly, I didn’t screw it up.

I breathed a sigh of relief when the big city fell behind and I was back to driving across the endless fields.

The next relevant of course was where the hell I was going to sleep that night. I decided that if I just kept driving, a campsite would show up eventually. Thinking I would be spending that night in Indiana I hadn’t little research concerning accommodations on the road past Chicago. (Notice how I didn’t even think about getting a hotel?)

There were a couple parks in northern Illinois where I thought there might be tent sites. I swung off the highway to check one out and found it gated up with “no camping signs.” Deciding I’d rather not get a cop rapping on my window looking for conversation, I got back on the road. As I hit the Wisconsin border, I saw a sign for Pearl Lake Campsite. It was after 10:00pm, too late for most desks to stay open. I’d park somewhere and pay in the morning I thought.

The “campsite” turned out to be some kind of RV retail center. Well screw them. The Road Ranger truck stop was right next door. I wasn’t exactly sure how sleeping there was, but I knew I was through with driving and looking. If this was good enough for truckers, it was good enough for me.

I would have to eschew the comforts of my tent for the passenger seat. I yanked some blankets out from under my hiking gear and tried to sleep. The situation was pretty damn uncomfortable for someone who usually sleeps belly down. Meanwhile, sodium vapor lights cast a harsh orange light through the windshield, requiring me to pull a hat down over my eyes. The cold was enough to put frost on the inside of my windows.

Still, I managed to get perhaps five hours of sleep. When I awoke, there was a bathroom and food conveniently close by. Even better, no one had smashed through the glass and slit my throat while I slept.

Perhaps I owed such good fortune to the benevolent presence of the Beefaroo Lady, guardian angel of the Road Ranger station. She even watched out for vegetarians it seems. The miraculously proportioned roadside icon beamed in the early morning sunlight, savior to all men who travel the lonely highways.  

Golden Cuyahoga

A dull gray dawn washed over the soggy campsite. Slowly, reluctantly, I extricated myself from the sleeping bag and embraced the shivery Ohio morning. It’s always a hell of a time waking up when you’re camping, but it makes you stronger. I’ve found that a cold draught of dewy air is a better stimulant than coffee.

I took my shelter down quickly, so that I wouldn’t be tempted to go back to sleep. Soon I would leave this place forever, but before my departure, I decided that I might as well take breakfast on the lake nearby.

There were no paths going down to the water, but there was a slippery bank of mud with a handy network of roots to grab onto. It was a drop of about 20 feet. I eased myself down slowly, taking care not to skid my jeans.

The silence by the lake was perfect; a mist hovered over the water, softening the trees on the far shore. Gnarls of driftwood lay half-submerged above their reflected twins. Behind me, the stands of maples threw off a deep golden light, suffused with what green autumn had not yet stolen.

I poured my cereal in meditative reverie, and slurped each spoonful with thoughtfulness. Much as I enjoyed the solitude, I found evidence of an earlier customer who sought solace with nature here. The other guy had brought a roach clip however, and probably experienced things rather differently than I did.

After I’d finished my meal, I checked out at the ranger station, got in the Mazda and got back on 80. There would be miles to go until I crossed into the far-famed fields of Indiana, but I was not quite done with Ohio yet.

Within about twenty miles, I pulled over for a morning run at Cuyahoga National Park. The tourism brochures I’d picked up at the state line had assured me that this was a place well worth visiting. It piqued my interest to hear that the place was actually laid out with hundreds of miles of trails for bikes and hikes. Needless to say, this was a far cry from my snobby East-Coast perception of Ohio as an unwonderland of suburbs and strip-malls.

And yet, when I’d asked one of the rangers at the campsite what she thought of Cuyahoga Falls, she told me not to bother visiting.

“Did you ever here about the river that was so polluted that it caught fire in the seventies?”

I had missed the connection. The falls, she said were an unimpressive drop and the river itself was an ugly mud color.

What I’d messed up was that Cuyahoga Falls is the name of a town nearby, and it has nothing to do with the national park. It was the falls on the Brandywine River that I wanted.

Of course the nerd in me couldn’t help but notice that the river shares its name with the river in Lord of The Rings. Right at the start of the hobbits’ journey no less.

Should we then choose to stay within the Tolkien trope, I’ll say that the park reminded me the most of Rivendell. Just like what I’d seen on the lakeshore, the leaves on the trees here were green-gold. As the morning sun climbed higher, it burned away the fog and shone in through the leaves. The canopy filtered the light like a vast stained-glass window, one that suffused the forest with a warm radiance.

The fine scent of the living earth rose up from where it had been locked away the night before. I breathed it deeply as I ran

There were indeed paths to explore. I followed the banks of the Brandywine for a while, and then wandered up into some hills. I found a gravel road that led into an empty field where I realized that I was trespassing in someone’s backyard.

After I had satisfied my craving to explore, I wound back to the river and up to Brandywine Falls. There is a slick wooden walkway for the spectators, with stairs leading down to a viewing platform in front of the drop. I took time out to walk out and admire the scene. The falls are about 60 feet tall and are pretty, if not quite at the level of Niagara Falls’ grandeur. It was nice, but I realized that it was getting close to noon and I had already spent far too much of my time enjoying Ohio.

A Spooked Out Night Run in Ohio

The Midwest Passage Part I: 610 miles logged.

I pulled into the West Branch Campground under a pasty autumn sky that was dimming fast. I had spent the whole day driving I-80 from the city, through Jersey and Pennsylvania and finally, across the border into Ohio. The campground was in the town of Ravenna, just east of Akron. There are perhaps 200 sites in the park, set up alongside a good-sized lake. To get there, I had to drive about five miles off the intestate to turn onto an entrance road that led down to the main camping area.

With Halloween approaching in about three weeks, the park rangers seemed to have enjoyed themselves decorating the roadside. Here was a tree filled with mangled scarecrows. Spider webs had been hung out of the tree branches, orange inflatable pumpkins glowed along the roadside. The Styrofoam tombstones served to remind we travelers that sometimes death is riding next to us in the left-hand lane, veering in our direction as he types out a text message and eats a sloppy sandwich with the other hand.

The road went down for about a mile and a half or so before it arrived at the check in station.

“Are you the one who called in a while ago?” the ranger asked.

“Yeah, that’s me.”

“I didn’t think it would take you that long to get here from Penn.”

“I, uh, overshot the exit—ended up getting a little lost.”

She gave me a map of the grounds so that I could go find a tent site that I liked.

“Say,” I asked, vaguely curious, “What are you guys doing with all the Halloween stuff up? Is there a haunted hayride here or something?”

“Yes,” she said, “But we don’t start those until Friday.”

I went and found a good enough looking spot to tent and then wandered back to the station to pay the $22.00 tenting fee. 

Some trail maps on the wall caught my eye. Though it was getting dark fast, I thought that I might be inclined to try a run. The ranger recommended that I try the horseback trails, which are flat and smooth going. This sounded good because it meant I wouldn’t be as likely to trip and break myself if I couldn’t see where the hell I was going.

After I had set up camp, I decided that I should probably stick to the entrance road because the light had almost entirely left. I grabbed a headlamp out of my car and headed off. The moonlight shone down through the clouds, casting its witchy illumination upon the landscape. Fall looked like it had just got started here. Most of the trees still had their leaves, while the crickets chirped in the woods. The warm, humid air reminded me of the end of summer around late August. 

But there was a creepy undercurrent as well. A steady mist fell from the sky, clung to my skin. It drifted in ghastly whirls across my headlamp beam. Then there were the scarecrows, hanging out, being dead in the branches up above.

It was pleased at the creepiness of it, glad to be experiencing something different from the earlier monotony of drifting from rest stop to rest stop. Never mind that tomorrow I would be back to doing exactly that.

In comparison to driving, running makes a place seem far more real to me. It covers more ground than walking, but unlike travel in a vehicle, it connects the perception of distance with real effort. Outside the car I can be aware of many things that I would have overlooked otherwise—sensations like the suspicion that there might be something somewhere out in the darkness. Watching.

But I did not turn back to the well-lit campsite. Instead, I went turned off down the horse trail, where they would be holding the haunted hayride. I didn’t even need the headlamp, with the bright sky illuminating the path. The surface was gravel and free of stones or roots that I might trip over. I did however splash my way into the odd puddle.

  

Beside the sounds of nature, I could hear some cars going down the highway nearby, as well as somebody blowing stuff up across the lake with perhaps the world’s biggest cache of illegal fireworks. A dull red glow lit the sky from the direction of Akron. As I ran out, the highway noise faded, but the glow endured. A cluster of swamp snags looked properly menacing against the hellish atmosphere.

Suddenly, I became aware of a white light filtering through the woods—headed in my direction. A dull rumble was on the air, growing louder as it approached. It was a freight engine, moving westward down the tracks. The shadowy bulk of the train ran alongside me on the other side of some trees, pushing toward Chicago in the night. For about five minutes, the thunder of the engine and the wheels drowned out my footfalls and all else. The railcars screeched and groaned as they went along, making their way like some procession of the damned.

After the train, I kept going for  perhaps ten more minutes until I arrived at a cul de sac in an open field. It seemed like as good a place as any to turn around. Approaching the road again, I saw an owl swoop down off its branch. The shadow whirled away into the night to look for whatever helpless animals it could devour.

I had thought that when I got back to the road I would simply head back to the campsite where I would jimmy open a can of beans open for my dinner. When I returned to the pavement though, I was far too wired. It was the adrenaline of running at night, the adventure of starting west. Instead of going back, I turned right, determined to explore the park roads until I was satisfied. It took me quite some time.

23-Year Old Runs Away From Home

 Child Services put out a missing-persons advisory Saturday for 23-year old Tom Fagin of Ledyard CT, last seen behind the wheel of a teal-green 1993 Mazda Protégé on the interstate, heading in a westerly direction. The runaway stands six-foot, is identifiable by the poorly groomed beard and hair that go with his disheveled, generally disordered appearance.

Over the last year, friends had noticed that Fagin would talk increasingly about leaving the East coast for work.

“He never shut up about going west,” said one friend who preferred to remain unnamed. “If you said you wanted to do something next week, he usually said that he couldn’t make it because he planned to be out climbing Mt. Rainier or something. Personally, I’d always figured he was full of if, but I guess he finally got his ass in the car and decided to do something.”

While it has notoriously been difficult to pin-down details about Fagin’s plans for the future, there is speculation that he may in fact be headed for Gillette, Wyoming (pop. 30,000) to work as a news reporter. The isolated city, wedged between the Black Hills in South Dakota and Wyoming’s Big Horn Mountains, is known for its brutal winters, which will shrink the odds of survival if Fagin does not find shelter. 

In his departure, Fagin has left a loving family and a wonderful set of friends who he’s going to miss a lot. Many of these people are already scattered out around the country pursuing their dreams and ambitions. It wasn’t even possible to say goodbye to everyone, before leaving, which sucks.

But wouldn’t it be wonderful if one of them decided to land in Gillette Wyoming some sunny day perhaps to climb some mountains? Chances are, he’s going to be out there for a couple years. In that time, hopefully he’ll get to cross off a couple peaks in the Bighorns. Oh yeah, and go see Devil’s Tower—just like the crazy guy in Close Encounters.

Vote For This Beard!

If there was a time to use this blog for political purposes that time is now.

Basically, my friend grew an awesome beard and you will vote for it. First however, allow me to set this in its proper context.

Last year, myself and 11 of my peers ran in New York's Ragnar Relay. The race stretched 185 miles, extending from Woodstock New York, over the Catskills and down to finish line, near the Tappan Zee Bridge outside the city. We ran in the day; we ran in the night. We ran our guts to the ground and we won, beating out 216 other teams.

Along the way, we stuffed ourselves in vans as we shuttled runners to various relay points, bonding over shared body odors and runners' camaraderie. We called ourselves the North American Distance Squad (NADS for short) and there has never been an organization that I have been prouder to be a part of.

Now, with our silvery-blue batons of victory and commemorative race medals/bottle openers we're pretty happy about last-year. We were also lucky enough to win free entry to the 2011 race. With that race start set for May 13th, we are training hard to prepare. The new course has been extended to Bethel New York, making the run over 200 miles and hillier than ever.

As for the beard, that's my buddy Dave, responsible for organizing this year's and last year's race. When he learned that the race had put out a contest to see who could grow the best mustache, he took it upon himself to grow the fine mosaic of facial hair that you see at the top of this page. If he wins, the NADS will get free entry (and hopefully a victory) for the 2012 race as well.

As you can, see, the beard is groomed to match the Ragnar symbol on the bottle. The howling wolf and moon imagery should speak for themselves. The picture proves that Dave isn't really into doing things half-way. That'll be our attitude when our shoes hit the ground race-day.

Go NADS!

Here are Dave's instructions:
First become a fan of the Ragnar page by selecting "Like" at the top:http://www.facebook.com/TheRagnarRelaySeries?sk=info

Then you can search for my picture or find it at the following link:http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10150141131224403&set=a.10150098014584403.281412.46637589402&theater
Please click "like" on my picture. I’m the one with the purple singlet and the wolf in the background.

Rednecks On Ice

It's been a while since I've gone on any trips worthy of these hallowed blogger pages.

Yesterday however, I was in upstate New York visiting my alma mater and found myself looking at a hefty chunk of free time as I waited for everyone to get back from the track meet.  With cross-country skis, crampons and ice axes in my car, it was Choose Your Own Adventure day. Deciding between skiing or mountain climbing in the Adirondacks, I decided I'd rather ski because it was safer to do alone, and required far less driving.

My sites were set on Great Sacandaga Lake, a 29-mile long body of water, which is about 40 minutes to the northwest of Schenectady. I'd never been there before, but figured that it would be a good place to see some new sites, get cold, and get some exercise. As for exactly where I was skiing from  where and how far I was going, I winged it. By the end of the day, I'd logged about 15 miles, and got a chance to witness the man-cave culture of those that live out their winters on the ice.

I took Route 30 up from Amsterdam to the town of Mayfield. The first challenge was finding a place to park the car. At first, I figured I'd just pull into a boat yard and go from there. The first one I checked out was gated off, and at the next one, I guy came out to tell me that I had to get off the property. The walls of snow on either side of the roads made it impossible to simply pull to the side anywhere. After a lengthy period of frustrated wandering, I finally pulled into a post office parking lot about a mile away from the lake. Fortunately, it was right next to a snowmobile trail heading in the direction that I wanted.

I got all my stuff in order—parka, gloves, face mask, gaiters to keep the snow out of my boots, a backpack to carry my camera and provisions. Most of my calories that day came from a box of Malt-o-Meal® frosted-flakes from Stewart's (Join the value cereal revolution!) along with some fig newtons and a pb&j. I hadn't counted on it snowing when I set off, but I more or less had the gear I needed.

The trail lead me through some fields and then down to a marina. Intermittently, I had to step to the side to make room for a snowmobile gang. Once I got out onto the lake, I had far more room and could stay out of everyone's way. The lake gets to be about four miles wide, creating an impressive image of frozen desolation. The wind was still blowing when I took to the ice, moving the snow in winding rivulets along the surface. The whirling flakes cut visibility but I could make out an island with a couple of pine trees about a half-mile away and skied over to check it out.

On the other side, I got a view of one of the fishing settlements, which looked like a bunch of garden sheds on the ice--plenty of them probably were. Like the squatters of old, they were spaced out on the ice at respectful distances so that they could each tend their plots of ice with tip-up traps. In all likelihood, they had been out their since the wee hours, brews in hand, waiting for the flags to pop up, signaling that they had a bass or pickerel on the line. That particular corner of the lake must have a reputation for more fish activity than the others in order to justify it's popularity. Probably a lot of the fisherman cast their tip-ups using sonar to determine their best spots.

Outside the main cluster however, there were plenty of outliers, the lonely cabins. I swung by several of them as I skied up the lake and found they were mostly empty. I was able to ski up and gawk at some of the handiwork. Many were prefab, trailer affairs; others showed some ingenuity. Vinyl siding was a popular theme in Sacandaga architecture. One looked as though someone had slashed up some porta-potties and reassembled them into a bigger box. Many were hand nailed with boards. Chimneys came out of the roofs so that the men might be warmed by fire waiting while they drank. The owners stuck reflectors to the sides of their dwellings--probably a good idea, considering the consequences of a collision with one of the snowmobiles flying up and down the lake through white-out conditions.

These buildings must have cost countless hours and/or thousands of dollars to build. Surely, they had yet to recoup their expenses through fish meat alone. Perhaps proceeds from fishing contests supplemented some of their income but this is an inadequate explanation. Obviously, these buildings are a point of manly pride amongst their builders, an extension of the boyhood impulse to build the tree-fort in the backyard. Each had a name and address printed near the door. Many fishermen took the time to adorn the structures with colorful trinkets like American flags and messages: "Wanted: Hot Babes. I'm Cold."

I peered through the windows as I went, looking at the different lures, canned food. Without fail, their was a bag filled with empty cans of Busch or Miller.

Soon after the island, the sun came out and the the snow stopped. The wind stayed steady though. Come lunch time, I decided that there was no point in sitting out in the cold with shelter readily available. I took off my skis and walked into an unlocked structure. Admittedly, I was a bit nervous that an infuriated redneck might burst in and kill me for an intruder, but I figured that I was justified because I'd never been inside one of these houses and wanted to try and better understand the culture it was a part of. This place was particularly well furnished, with hand-constructed wooden walls, a gas lantern, wooden furniture and cookware. There were photographs of the owner and his prize catches ($125 for second place in a fishing contest). The walls were a record of the catches that my absent host had made on the lake. There was also a stack of porno-mags to help pass the lonely hours. Otherwise, there wasn't much worth looting and little reason to have a lock on the door.

It was nice to be in, because the wind picked up something fierce as I munched on my pb&j. When things died down, I went back out and started North. Soon, the sun came out and I got some nice views of the Southern Adirondack Mountains. A guy with a huge green kite and a harness was zipping around the lake with the gusts of wind. He gave me a friendly wave as he shot past. It looked pretty damn fun. Later, I saw another guy with the same set-up. All kinds of weirdoes on this pond and only one nut in cross country skis!

Despite the fact that I was probably as different from the boarders as they were from the ice fisherman, I feel that we were all here for similar reasons. As much as I can poke fun at the ice-fisherman and their habitats, it's arguable that my decision to drive up to Mayfield and ski the ice alone was just as irrational. There's something appealing about the vastness of open space though I think it pulls on each of us in different ways. I enjoy skiing, hiking and kayaking; others go outside with snowmobiles and ATV's. I've felt the same draw whether it's to the top of mountains or an empty desert.

I read a book by E.O. Wilson recently who theorized that humans admire open space because it is reminiscent of the Savannah we emerged from. In these environments, it is easier for us spot predators and resources. I like the idea, but I'm not sure that I felt anything like belonging out in the cold, weird place. If anything, what I liked most about being there was that I was able to survive and thrive in a place that seemed so unfamiliar and harsh.

Just as the fishermen had to practice a kind of self-reliance to stay out on the hostile ice (before they got home to their warm beds and SportsCenter), I enjoyed the independence of moving on the ice on my own. As I slid out miles away from land, I had to know that I had the energy and the wits to get back where I'd come from.

I was probably about six miles into my journey when I started to turn into loop so that I could check out some of the other islands. Meanwhile the wind was picking up. Instead of going around the island, I decided to ski through it in order to be sheltered by the trees.

Doubtless, I was congratulating myself on my self-reliance and mystical communion with the Forces That Be, when the wind became harsher. The snow became deeper too, slowing my progress. The powder whirled around my ankles as I tried to make my tired body go forward. I looked to the west and saw a white wall bearing down on me. Shit.

The island, which I had passed on the start of my journey had been a useful landmark, now the flying snow had completely obliterated it from view. I reflected upon the wisdom of using a compass for these kinds of things. The lake was narrow enough so that I could still see both sides and more or less figured which way to go by staying parallel to the shore. I was in no real danger of getting screwed by the elements, not with shore so close and with plenty of fish huts nearby.

Still, I didn't want to add mileage to my journey by aiming for the wrong place on shore and having to adopt an indirect route. My ass and thighs already burning from the hours of skiing. Operating with the best knowledge that I had, I decided to keep my course in the general direction I had been heading. I got lucky, because after about forty-five minutes, I was able to make out the clump of trees of the island I had passed earlier in the day. It took me about another half an hour to get back to the cluster of ice houses, but at least I knew that I was heading along the right course.

Over The Top

Mazda pimped out with yaks

Bear with me. There's a story here, but first I need to get something off my chest.

Connecticut might be about the 50th most hard-core state. The "land of steady habits" is not usually the first place that comes to mind for seekers of X-TREME outdoor activities. There are no mountains over 3,000 feet, no big ski areas, no forest fires, earthquakes or other entertaining forms of devastation. Do you like surfing? Fuhgeddabout it! Way back when, some asshole  invented Long Island, thereby screwing Connecticut out of its oceanfront. 

Other places have dangerous animals—grizzly bears in the Northwest, alligators in florida cougars (both kinds) out in California. Over here, we have fisher-cats, three-foot animals that look like lemurs. Now that these interesting animals have started to return to the region, people go on lockdown every time they hear about them in their neighborhoods. There are yet to be confirmed reports of a fisher eating someone's face off, but when there's nothing to worry about, people will worry.

Most of the rivers here are also a yawn. The silty meandering bodies of water are fine if you want to put in some miles in your kayak, but whitewater is tough to find and often seasonal.

 A couple of weeks ago my friend Andrew and I decided to try out a Roaring Brook in Canterbury, which is supposed to be a fast  moving, badass class four. If we'd read the water gauges properly, we would have known that we were in for a slow moving, lameass trickle.

Our hope that this would turn into a killer torrent downstream turned out to be wishful thinking

After 20 minutes negotiating shallow river, we heard the thunder of falling water up ahead. At the other end of a millpond was a large, concrete dam. The water ran over the lip and  fell for an unknown distance down the other side. Andrew and I paddled up to the edge and got out of our boats.


I looked over the other side, where the water dropped about 15 feet into dark pool below. 


How deep?  I wondered, trying to envision what would happen when I paddled over. 


So far, the kayak trip had been a mixture of boredom and frustration. What was supposed to be a badass Class 4 river had turned out to be a feeble trickle between rocks and branches. We'd already had to get out of the boats a couple of times because we were scraping bottom. Turns out that we had misread the info online about the river height, and it was barely a tenth of what it was supposed to be in order to ensure a good ride.


With disappointment behind us and lameness in front of us, the dam was really the only opportunity for excitement on the trip. Of course, it would hardly be worth the extra excitement if I hit rock and broke my ankles or flipped and hit my head. I tried to think of a conclusive method that would allow me to weigh potential risks, versus feeling like I chickened out.


A couple things gave me confidence though. One was that I had dropped from that height out of a kayak once before. While I was with the Kayak Club at NUI Galway in Ireland, they had loaded each of us into kayaks, put our spray skirts on and thrown us over a bridge. I was the first to go, and had some nerves about what would happen to me. .


"You guys do know what you're doing right?"
"Just paddle hard when you hit the water, you'll be fine."


With that, they slid my boat off the railing and I dropped into the canal below. The kayak sank so that my head was submerged and water went up my nose. Also, the spray skirt broke, and the kayak got filled halfway to the brim. But I had lived, and it was awesome. 


I think about those crazy bastards sometimes. To say they were skilled would be an understatements. These guys could do a roll in whitewater. They could do pushups with their kayaks in the water. Also they had a reputation as the drunkest club on campus, which was saying something at a university in Ireland. I once had to miss one of their trips out on a river up in Donegal and the next day I heard that someone had chipped a tooth, someone else had a broken collarbone. Shit, that must have been some dangerous paddling. I thought. 


Actually, the tooth was the result of dancing on, and falling off a table in the course of heavy drinking. The collarbone belonged to a guy who had decided to get in the water seriously hungover. Surprisingly, this decision had led to poor results.


People who display the best decision-making generally consult the internet. There's a picture of a guy going over the dam and he had lived to write the post. Thus, it was only logical to conclude that the dam was a safe bet--in any boat and in any conditions. 


I had noticed that there had been about three feet of  water going over the edge in the photo, instead of three inches, which was what I saw in front of me. Immaterial.


I got back in my boat and paddled away from the dam so that I'd have some speed

I couldn't be as cool as this guy. There was only a narrow trickle in the middle when I went over.

I got my boat up to top speed, aiming for the narrow spillway. Over the top I went and the nose pointed strait down. Before I'd had time to appreciate being airborne, the front of the yak crashed into the rocks, probably about three feet below the surface. I lurched forward out of my seat, and broke my left foot peddle. 


The kayak was afloat. I was totally uninjured. It was also nowhere near as cool as the picture I'd see, or getting pushed off a bridge for that matter.


I had Andrew ready with my cellphone camera, but honestly haven't figured out how to get the photo onto my computer. The pic proves about as much as the latest Lochness shot, so I'll just let it go. You'll just have to take my word that, yes, I did actually paddle over a drop and hit a bunch of rocks.


Afterwards, we realized that there were several ways we could have tested the water depth other than with the nose of my kayak. One way would be using the rope we had, using a rock for a weight. Also, we could have taken a kayak down there and probed around with a paddle. 


Then again, the two of us have made some less than brilliant decisions before, such as almost getting killed trying to scuba dive with a backpack full of rocks and a bucket overhead.


The cool thing was that though my judgement was incredibly poor, it also yielded almost no consequences. Even the peddle that broke off reattached easily. Maybe next time I'll do it hung over.