EITHER OAR

Attended my annual “rafting” trip in Wisconsin a couple of weekends ago. I attach quotation marks to “rafting” because it’s really more of a drinking trip, on which there is some rafting. It’s an adventure I embark upon once a year – a chance to see people I only see once a year, to test the stowage capacity of my liver, and to challenge a curious fear of running water. Yeah – it’s bad. You should see me in the shower. On second thought, better that you not.

Anyhow, this year’s trip was another screaming success. And I wasn’t the only one doing the screaming. A lot of people fell out of their inflatable two-man rafts on the ride down the Wolf River, which was as low and slow as I’ve seen it in over 15 years. Fortunately, no one was seriously injured. Except for Steve, who managed to twist his knee on the final descent – a harrowing drop over Big Smokey Falls. The jury is still out as to what was more responsible for his injury – the falls, or the alcohols. Plural intentional.

This year I rafted with my girlfriend, Geri. She’d done this kind of thing before…on the far faster and more incommodious Peshtigo River. So she was no rookie. Geri is also a firm believer that rowing should result in a forward movement. Or, at least that rowing should result in movement that is not a 360-degree spin. Unfortunately, in my experience, this isn’t always possible when traversing rocks and branches, other rafters, and a fickle current. Add a little booze to the mix and we started out about as compatible rafting as Mensa and NASCAR. By Wolf’s end, however, we were negotiating the rapids like seasoned veterans. And in spite of finishing off several gallons of mystery spirits during the journey, we both managed to remain in our raft the entire time. That may have been a first for me, actually.


Here is an action photo of me, taken by Geri. It's easy to see what she sees in me. Underneath that rented life jacket is a buff, traveled sportsman!














I remember thinking at one point how life isn’t a whole lot unlike that river. Sometimes it’s cruising along quickly…other times it’s dragging slowly. Sometimes you’re sailing along unimpeded…other times you’re snagged on the rocks and can’t push yourself free. Sometimes you’re fighting the current, struggling to stay afloat…other times you’re lazily drifting about without a care in the world. It was interesting to me – how that familiar river had suddenly become a metaphor for my life. With a little communication and lots of hard work, we navigated our way from launch to drop without a hitch. And that’s life. Sometimes I can’t help but appreciate the perspective afforded by a good metaphor, however overdone.

But let’s get back to the literal world where the Wolf River is just a body of dirty water that winds through a Menominee Indian Reservation. This year we had over 50 people in attendance. That’s a pretty average year. Back in the mid-90’s we actually broke 100 a few times. With everyone getting married and having children, fewer people find the time to make it up. Again, c’est la vie. As their children get older, I suspect former rafters will be back. I’ve already seen it start to happen. Sooner or later, everyone heeds the call of the Wolf. You can only refuse fun so many times before it finally gets pissed and drags you out of the house.

This year, as is customary, everyone took Friday off of work and drove north into east central Wisconsin. We all met in a huge field, pitched our tents, and commenced partying like Nick Nolte. We kicked it Civil War style all day and night, grilling out, playing games, singing songs, and goosing each other in the flickering firelight – all without the threat of a Confederate invasion. It was much better than the Civil War ever was. At least that’s what my past life regression advisor tells me.

Saturday morning we all woke up hung over and started drinking. It was quite a spectacle, actually. Dozens of self-medicated partygoers staggering around like zombies in the white light of morning, vainly trying to recount details from the night before while mindlessly filling up plastic jugs with liquor and ice for a day of unbridled debauchery. Now that’s dedication.

Once we were outfitted for a good float downstream, we piled into our vehicles for a 25-minute drive down to Big Smokey Falls. That’s where we got our first look at the final descent – and panicked imagining our rafts plummeting over its frothing precipice. 15 years of rafting over that falls and I still get a pit in my stomach when I see it – which is silly, actually. I got a dose of perspective this year from my friend’s 11-year-old son who was flipped out of his raft while going over the falls. On the ride back to camp he proudly declared, “Falling out is the best part!” It may be time to acknowledge the very likely possibility that I am a big pussy.

From Big Smokey Falls we boarded an old, beat-up school bus that drove us up river for the leisurely 8-hour float back down. I should note that it’s not all a “float” ride downstream. There are SOME rapids. And people do fall out from time to time. Curiously, it seems the more people have to drink, the more likely they are to fall out of the raft. I wonder if there is a correlation?

That evening, after everyone had successfully traversed the final falls, we all headed back to camp, showered up (this is 21st century camping, people), and fired up our grills for a final feast. I made chorizo tacos that had our campsite smelling like a greasy Mexican spoon. They were fantastic, I must say – just ask anyone who agrees with me.

As darkness fell, Geri and I passed out peacefully in our separate tents under a star-filled sky. Okay – that’s not entirely true. But the sky did have a lot of stars in it. A lot of people don’t care for camping because they find the sleeping arrangements uncomfortable. Not me. I love camping because the sleeping arrangements are uncomfortable. The fun part is making things as amenable as you can get them with what little you have. We had an air mattress, a couple of sleeping bags, a couple of dewy pillows, plenty of extra clothes, and each other to pass the hours of night in comfort. Who needs more than that? Actually, now that I think about it, a portable space heater would have come in handy. But besides the unanticipated temperature drop, I had little problem sleeping. Another one of the many benefits of tequila.

Still alive after 16 less-than-extreme naval expeditions – and already looking forward to next year!