NNAOPP Update – May 2020
Canoeing on the Current on a Cold Day
It wasn’t as cold as I thought it might be. Perhaps it was the adrenaline. More likely it was the fear of wrath that I knew would be forthcoming from my bride of some 50 years.
It was 44 degrees when Robbie dropped the four of us off along with our two canoes, and it was 44 degrees when he picked us up later that day. It was late October 2018, and we were his only customers for the day. The sun would occasionally break through the clouds, but not enough to provide warmth. Robbie was a big ole boy to an extreme, probably about 60, and he was mighty friendly and helpful. He picked us up at the Echo Bluff Lodge and drove us to the Pulltite Landing. En route he regaled us with stories, “Kids always ask me what I do in the winter. I tell them that I float the river to pick up trash and get rid of all the alligators. They’ll shout, ‘There are no alligators in this river!’ And I’ll tell them, I’m doing a pretty good job aren’t I?”
We didn’t see a single other canoe on the 11-mile stretch of the Current River that runs from Pulltite to Round Springs. The river was relatively high and running fast, and a mist spread over the water. The only sound we heard other than our paddles dipping into the water was a dog barking in the distance. Kingfishers darted around us with regularity. We saw one eagle, several chicken hawks, one great blue heron, and a couple of river otters. The heron would fly about 200 yards downstream whenever we neared and then repeat its retreat over and over. He was a constant companion.
The previous fall, Judy and I travelled to Shannon County, Missouri with my sister Sally, cousins Steve and Debbie, and Aunt Joan. We visited all of the first magnitude springs, those that discharge more than 20 million gallons a day, in the vicinity: Welch, Round, Pulltite, Blue, and Big Springs. The latter, being fittingly named, empties 283 million gallons of water daily into the Current. We stayed at the Echo Bluff lodge north of Eminence, MO, one of the best lodging values one will find anywhere. After the trip Steve sent me the 1958 book Stars Upstream by Leonard Hall which chronicles life along the Current and Jacks Fork Rivers in southeast Missouri. It is a great read, and afterwards Steve and I decided we should return to the area and float a section of the river. And we did.
The Current River runs for 184 miles through the Ozark highlands in southeastern Missouri, starting at Montauk Springs and ending where it meets the White River on the level Arkansas plains before joining the mighty Mississippi. Its watershed is almost entirely forested, and the valley through which it flows is consistently narrow and bordered by hardwood trees, rock ledges, springs, gravel bars, and towering dolomite bluffs.
The river bottom of the Current is relatively shallow excepting occasional deep pools with a floor of smooth stones. 150 years ago, the oak covered hills were clear cut to provide the ties to build the transcontinental railway. The river was deep and home to abundant trout and other game fish. Denuded of its tree cover, the rocky soil washed into the streams forever changing the bed. It is still crystal clear, and a new generation of oak have returned. During a recent trip to Jerez de la Frontera, Spain, we toured the home of Tio Pepe Sherry, and our guide bragged about the aging casks made of Missouri oak. Most likely the oak floors in your home came from this region.
We wore our life jackets, more for warmth than safety, but in a fit of hubris, I removed mine. It was irritating my right arm as I paddled. Instead, I used it as an extra seat cushion. I figured the couple of inches of extra height would help me read the river. I was the helmsman, taking the rear seat of the canoe, and handled our trip quite ably for a while. Our family had taken dozens of canoe trips over the years, and I never once flipped. It had been several decades since our last trip, but I was tenuously confident.
Then I misread the river badly. Steve and Debbie took a mid-stream course, and I took the faster water to the left. We got into an eddy, swinging the back of the canoe broadside to the water flow. We caught on a long branch extending into the water, and we were in the water in an instant. I had my phone and wallet in a zip lock bag, and I grabbed it as it floated out of my pocket. Judy was wearing her life jacket but couldn’t touch the bottom with her feet. The first thought that went through my mind was, “Holy shit! I am going to hear about this moment every day for the remainder of my pathetic life!”
I could reach bottom and shouted to Judy to hold onto the canoe, and I started walking us back towards the closest shoreline which was a steep, weedy area, not a gentle sloping gravel bar. Steve and Debbie circled around to help. I would later learn that the water temperature of the spring fed Current is 58 – 60 degrees year-round. It was definitely warmer in the water than out of it.
We gathered our paddles, cushions, and the ever so critical dry bags. A few days before the trip Judy said, “You’re worrying me with your obsession over taking dry bags.” We changed clothes. I even brought a towel, and Steve helped me drain the canoe, and we were off once again.
I stayed in the middle of the stream at every subsequent riffle. We covered the remaining 6 miles in less than three hours, and Robbie was waiting for us when we arrived.
Epilogue
It’s now been over a year, and not once has Judy uttered a word of recrimination. God bless that woman.
Karma
In days long gone, I had occasion to speak in front of groups of people, usually about semi-technical healthcare topics. I often proffered attempts at humor, sometimes well received, sometimes not. In reference to one of the nastier towns I had occasion to visit, I used the line, “If you only had six months to live you’d want to live in Xyzville, because it would seem like a lifetime.” The audience would chuckle politely. After one such speech, a lady approached and said, “Guess where I’m from?” “Xyzville?” “Yes, and you’re spot on.”
Fast forward to this past summer. Judy and I were sitting on the patio at Indian Hills CC dining with several couples, one of which we had just met. The lady explained that her husband was from Xyzville. “No way.” I said and repeated my now tired joke. She laughed and agreed with the sentiment. Just then a bird dropped a moist, fecal missile on my bare right arm. And that is why I now refrain from using the real name of the town I once found disagreeable.
Harry Bolivar
We recently attended a dinner party and were reacquainted with a couple we had not seen for many years. The guy is a very manly man who once taught me how to trap and clean muskrats. He told the following story that amused me greatly:
“I was one of five kids, and we grew up in a small town in very modest circumstances. My Dad kept a foot locker with a padlock on it, and every couple of months, he would hide all of our toys in the chest, and return the toys he had taken earlier. Like goldfish in a tank, ‘New toys, we’d think.’ Later, we got wise to him, and I asked, ‘What happened to my toy dump truck?’ Dad explained, ‘I lent it to Harry Bolivar.’ And that satisfied my limited curiosity.
A few weeks later we were driving around town, and Dad pointed out the most ramshackle dwelling in town, even shabbier than ours. He said, ‘That’s where Harry Bolivar lives. He’ll be bringing back your truck in a few weeks.’ ”
The Shark
Last year, on one of on my Sanibel beach walks I saw a smallish shark feeding at the water’s edge. A crowd gathered to watch it glide up and down the shoreline in a near frenzy. There must have been some tasty critters hidden from view. Another shark, about 7’ in length, beached itself about 100 yards distant, back towards the lighthouse. A man approached it from behind, grabbed it by the tail, dragged it back into the water, and it zoomed away. I don’t think I would have done that.
Stocky Boy
In Sanibel I ride my bike often, usually down Periwinkle to the library, Jerry’s, or to visit friends. Once I was returning home and riding up the slight hill that bridges one of the canals, and I saw a little boy walking towards me backwards. I would guess he was about 7 or 8. He was memorable not just for walking backwards, although that bit of goofiness amused me, but because he’s a big little boy, not fat, just block like. Think of descriptors like chunk or fireplug. He was hatless, but should he have worn one, he would have required one larger than mine.
The following day, I was returning about the same time, and I again encountered the same little boy. This time he was walking face first. He smiled at me and waved timidly. I waved back and rode on. It made me smile.
Mountain Dew
It was my good fortune over the Christmas holidays to go skiing at Beaver Creek with 9-year-old grandsons, Finn and Charlie, and their 8-year-old friend. The boys are far better skiers than I and much speedier. I deluded myself into thinking I was their uphill protector from out-of-control speedsters, but the reality was that the boys were just faster. They were kind enough to stop periodically within eyesight of me, so I could keep pace. The sun was shining, there was little wind, and the snow was in perfect condition. One couldn’t have asked for a better day to be on the slopes.
We lunched at one of the many mountainside venues and trundled to an open group of seats at a long, crowded table. Charlie asked what kind of drinks they had, and I read from a list on the wall. One of the choices was Mountain Dew, and Charlie said, “I’ll have that.”
I responded, “Not a good idea laddie. Mountain Dew is laced with caffeine, you might as well have a dozen double espressos.” Absent any encouragement, I expanded on my Mountain Dew diatribe, and told the boys about the time I mistakenly offered the eponymous soft drink to a Mormon who was a guest in my office. When presented with a can of the offending beverage, the fellow made the sign of the cross as though he was fending off a vampire. “What’s a Mormon?” the boys asked. Before I could elucidate, the four adults sitting to my left broke out in laughter.
“Oops!” I said. “Are you folks Mormons by any chance?”
They replied in the affirmative, one offering. “And we loved your story. Sorry we interrupted before listening to your description of Mormons.”
Field Trip
I was reading a book by a very funny guy, who in passing mentioned that he went on a field trip as a kid, to a field. Yes! They took a bunch of city kids out into the ‘country’ and walked around a field. That struck my funny bone, and it made me think back to days of yore when my scout troop took a field trip to a slaughter house down in the KC stockyards. I’m still traumatized by the memory. I’m guessing all the tours to the sewage treatment plant were booked that day. I’m here to tell you that an abattoir is not a good place for fifth graders.
We observed cows sticking their heads in a large opening, where a large power hammer dropped like a guillotine, and the sad critter dropped like a rock. The carcass was then hoisted by a hook on a moving line and was quickly gutted. The floor was covered with several inches of a blood. For no extra charge the workers, undoubtedly desiring to add to our horror, would grab handfuls of innards and shake them in our direction.
But the worst was yet to come. We saw hot dogs being made. Aargh! I still can’t process it. All parts not heretofore carved into recognizable items were ground into a bloody stew and stuffed into casings, stacked and wrapped into Oscar Meyer packages. I was forever scarred. It’s amazing I’m so normal now.
Plague Journal Entry
I’ve been keeping a journal during the pandemic. I’m certainly not trying to copy Camus, but I’ve been jotting down a few observations. Here’s a brief sampling:
Friday April 17, 2020
Some people will not follow the rules, and it kind of pisses me off. Those that flout social conventions willingly disrupt the natural order of the cosmos, being particularly egregious during this once-in-a-century pandemic that has befallen us. Social cohesion requires, no! dare I say, demands, that individual whims must at times yield to the greater good of the group. The signs leading to the beaches in Sanibel clearly state, “No Nude Bathing.” Thank goodness I have prescription sunglasses and that I’ve kept alert in spite of my advancing years, or I might not have espied the well-formed rule-breaking miscreants, a pair of pairs so to speak. The beach was modestly crowded, as it was a beautiful day. While walking from the eastern tip of the island (mile 0) up to the mile 2 marker I counted about 50 boats anchored near the water line. Fun lovers were either immersed in waist deep water, fishing, or setting up colorful umbrella beachheads. The two unclad beauties heretofore mentioned were frolicking right off the Sanibel Lighthouse. One can only imagine my dismay. In their defense, all beach parking is closed, so the young ladies may not have seen the parking lot signs. It’s possible, although unlikely, that they were not toilet paper hoarders and were merely in need of a briny rinse. But being the good sport that I am, I chose not to take the matter any further. But, my dear friends, of this you may be assured, I will remain vigilant and keep you abreast of any further developments.
Thursday May 7, 2020
We joined my cousins (the Welsh clan) for our weekly Zoom call, and inexplicably the topic of dining at Waffle House came up. One cousin admitted she worked at one during high school. I asked her if they offered an ‘all you can eat’ benefit. She said, “Yes, but why?” My brother, and former traveling salesman, mentioned he loved Waffle House chow, but his wife entered one time, sat at the counter with him, viewed the untidiness of the cooking area, and immediately walked out. Then another cousin put a capstone on the conversation, “I know several people who once worked at Waffle House, and all of them had children with extra fingers and toes.”
Chuck
Charles A. Wells, Jr.
Author of Nude Nuns and Other Peculiar People and Ordinary People Who Aren’t
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