Aug 27 2010
A long hike brings many pleasures, but it also makes for hot, sore feet. That’s no problem when the trail ends at a free-flowing river, however. Just take a break for a snack and a rest. Peel off your heavy boots and sweaty socks, then dunk your feet in the cool, cool water. There’s no better remedy for tired feet.
Aug 26 2010
I work at my desk on summer evenings, under a large open window that admits breezes and mosquitoes in roughly equal measure. And for as long as I can manage to sit still, that window is my only eye on the outside world. It is also my ears and my nose. The small sounds of the night enter unmuted, and an ever-changing medley of subtle smells drifts in from every point on the compass.
Lately the sounds have been dominated by a gentle, persistent scraping, interrupted from time to time by soft grunts. It didn’t take me long to identify the source: a pair of young skunks, striped tails waving proudly, foraging for grubs and seeds under the lilacs that grow near my window. I’m pretty sure they’re siblings, and I’ve sometimes glimpsed a larger skunk keeping what I can only presume to be a motherly eye on her two offspring. In any case, the trio have the unmistakable air of a family group, and their relations are invariably cordial, though the two younger skunks’ animal spirits manifest themselves in a lively roughhouse every now and then. These friendly bouts usually begin with a playful shove or head-butt and end minutes later in a brief, if rather frenzied, tumble. But it’s all in good fun. The erstwhile combatants soon return to the real business of the evening, padding patiently along, side by side, stopping only to dig up a tasty morsel. And soon they’re on their way back to their home in the surrounding woods.
But they almost always leave me something to remember them by. A not unpleasant hint of musk, perhaps, or one or two tangible reminders that all animals are really nothing more than highly elaborat tubes, so that what goes in one end must sooner or later emerge at the other. And since—for reasons I can’t begin to guess at—”skunk scat” is one of the most frequent search terms bringing new readers to this site, I figured I ought to give the questors what they’re looking for, at least now and then. So here it is: the real thing, guaranteed fresh and totally organic…
It has a certain viscid elegance, I admit, though I probably won’t be framing the photo to hang over my desk. But I will be listening again tonight, hoping to catch the first faint sound of claws tearing at the earth in search of something good to eat. I’ve always liked picnics, whatever the time of day.
Aug 25 2010
We called it Fairy Tale Rapids, and the name fit. The Class III drop was a silver ribbon of fast‑flowing water running through a forested gorge. It wasn’t long, but there were enough rocks to keep things interesting, and the towering standing waves at the bottom of the drop promised a lively finish. A bit too lively, we figured, looking thoughtfully at our heavily loaded Tripper. Still, there was a good‑sized pool below where we could bail, and we’d spent much of the day fighting a headwind. Now we fancied a bit of easy riding. We really didn’t want to spend the remaining hours of daylight lining down through the little canyon, slipping and slithering over algae‑covered pebbles. So we opted to make the run.
It took us only a few minutes to get ready. Then our four canoes dropped down the rushing tongue of water that marked the start of the rapids. Farwell and I were in the third boat. He was in the bow; I was paddling stern, and I didn’t envy him his job. The tongue wasn’t exactly a royal road. More like a cobbled cart track. Rocks, carpeted with brown slime, loomed up on every side, many of them nearly invisible in the tannin‑stained water. Still, Farwell guided us deftly around them all — all but the last one, that is. He overlooked a good‑sized boulder lurking just below the surface, near the point where the current lines converged at the bottom of the tongue. We didn’t hit hard. It was only a glancing blow. We just eased up on the shoulder of the rock. But then we started to pivot. And before we had a chance to react — it had been a long day, and the hot sun had made us both a bit dozy — the onrushing water had submerged our upstream gunwale. We didn’t go over, though. Not at first. We braced downriver, clawed our way off the rock, and continued on our way.
Our troubles were just beginning, however. A 17‑foot canoe can hold a lot of water, even when it’s half full of tightly lashed, waterproof gear bags. And in the few seconds we’d teetered on the submerged rock, our Tripper had drunk deep. So we now had only a couple of inches of freeboard. Instead of climbing nimbly over the seemingly endless succession of standing waves, we were wallowing through them, with each wave adding a few more gallons to our unwanted water ballast. And with hundreds of extra pounds weighing her down — a cubic foot of water tips the scales at about 62 pounds — our lively boat had become a sullen slug…Read more…
