Chapter 2 - Upside Down in the Yukon River
Eco-Challenge was Mark Burnett’s baby, the beginning of reality TV, and led eventually to the Kardashians. I’m sure the latter was a completely unintended consequence. Burnett’s show detailed the racing adventures of four-person teams from around the globe in some of the most remote, gnarly, nasty, beautiful areas of our planet.
Two stints living in Colorado had opened my eyes to the adventure/endurance athlete scene. Eco-Challenge was like crack. I was becoming a junkie. I could feel it. The more remote the adventure, the higher the suffering these nut-job super athletes faced, the more I jonesed for it. The Aussie team would attempt to not sleep for the entire race—something insane like five days—and eventually one of their members nearly walked off a cliff in a sleep-deprived haze. One of the girls from the all-girl team cut her finger lashing a makeshift boat together. Seemingly innocuous at the time, days later the infection from that cut nearly killed her. Three teammates tried to nurse their fourth along as he fought Giardia—puking in the boat, out of the boat, occasionally on himself and anything or anyone else within the blast range. This was the eclipse I could not help but look into. All for one and one for all! No person left behind! Either you all finished or no one finished. Four working together as one. The show captivated all who watched it. It was next-day, talk-about-at-the-coffee shop or water-cooler-at-work kinda stuff. Ian Adamson, Robyn Benincasa, Rebecca Rusch, Marshall Ulrich. These people became my sports heroes. Mark Burnett became my drug dealer, giving me episode after episode for free, knowing I’d return for more. I was not content to simply shoot up each Wednesday night from 7 p.m. to 8 p.m. and go on quietly with the rest of my life. I wanted in.
Chapter Three
Adventure racing introduced me to paddling. Like most kids, I had spent a bit of time in a canoe growing up. Not much though. The only real memory was a family trip to northwest Iowa. Brian, my cousin, and I had paddled out to a small island, maybe a mile or so from camp. The water was calm, a slight breeze at our back made the trip a real treat. Brian had some paddling experience; his father and he had taken a few trips to the Boundary Waters. To the best of my memory, this may have been my maiden voyage. They gave me a few basic pointers, explaining how one’s hand goes on top of the paddle, the best way to slip your paddle into the water, and the proper exit point. A few strokes on your left, a few on the right, repeat. Brian would handle keeping us on course from the rear of the boat. There was no mention of fore, aft, starboard or port. Maiden canoe voyages were the stuff of left, right, front, and back.
Arriving at the little island, we were Christopher Columbus, the first to set foot on this faraway land. Beaching our aluminum vessel, stepping into the clear, chilly, bluish-green waters, steadying the boat for my trusted companion, I was feeling quite full of myself. Not in a braggadocious, look-at-me sort of way. Well, perhaps there was some look-at-me feeling, but there was an innocence to it, a sort of self amazement. Did I really just paddle from that distant shore to here? Me, the city kid, who reluctantly came along on this trip in the first place?
Per Brian’s instructions, I steadied the boat, watching as he stepped, slowly and deliberately down the center of our vessel, so as not to topple it. As he exited the front of the canoe, we pulled the now much lighter craft onto the beach. Time to explore our new found island. Wonder filled me. What might lurk beyond the small sandy beach we stood on? Were bears hiding beyond our view? Are there bears in Iowa? I wondered. As I was fairly certain there weren’t, it felt a bit like the bogeyman. Of course, in the safety and light of day, the bogeyman was a silly concept. Let darkness fall though, and then a bump in the night, and suddenly what seemed so silly an hour ago has a bit more teeth. This felt similar. Bears were a silly, almost laughable idea from the distant shore, but we were no longer on the distant shore. This was uncharted territory, and once we were inside the towering trees that lay in wait, who knew what dangers lurked?
Brian took the lead as we began our exploration. Armed with tree branch “machetes,” we were prepared for all matters of bushwhacking and, if necessary, self defense. Young minds are such fertile ground. Just add adventure and watch what sprouts. We were certain an indigenous tribe called this place home, and we hoped to be the first to encounter them. Brian joked that hopefully they were not of the head-hunting variety. We were almost certain they would not be, and even if they were, a couple of young kids’ heads would probably be of little trophy value. We were more excited by the possibilities of witnessing a tribal dance, meeting the medicine man, and returning back to camp, painted faces and necklaces proving our honorary status within the tribe.
The island was a lush environment. The forest canopy shielded much of the sky, which unbeknownst to us was beginning to cloud a bit. I hoped Brian was paying attention, as I realized I had been following aimlessly, the forest not offering a clear path to guide our return. Being the rookie of the crew, I was not going to question his plans or abilities. My thoughts were interrupted as he stopped suddenly, his gaze intently focused just off the trail to the right.
“No way!! Look at that!!” he exclaimed, hurriedly running a few quick steps, as if whatever “it” was might escape.
As Brian reached down to retrieve his great find, I could see an ivory-white tip just above the tall grass of the forest floor and to his right. The skull was a perfect white, bleached by the sun for who knows how long, and the eight antlers—four per side—were nearly symmetrically perfect. What a score this was! Proof of our adventure, and more importantly, evidence that we were clearly explorers of the highest degree. Brian put the beast’s skull above his head like a ceremonial headdress. We concocted stories of the animal’s demise. Perhaps the carcass was still near, hidden by the beast that had slain it. If so, we should not dally long, or risk a similar fate. Could it be that the tribe had hunted the great buck, interested only in its meat and skins for subsistence? I recalled my stepfather, a great hunter in his own right, saying while field dressing a nice fat doe, “You can’t eat the horns, son.” Had they seen our coming from the distant shore and left the headdress as a gift, a sign of peace and welcome to the young explorers? We especially liked that idea.
We decided after lengthy discussion and celebration of our monumental find that it would be best not to overstay our welcome. We would return the gift of the island people by searching no further and leaving them in peace.
The gods of the sky had been quite busy during our exploration. The light, wispy, clouds, that were earlier friendly and dancing across the light blue sky had been overtaken by darker invaders. We wondered, had we overstayed our welcome, perhaps angering the gods that kept watch over this place?
Seasoned paddlers we were not. To be fair, I was not. We were however able to discern that we needed to get our butts back across that lake, pronto. Pulling the canoe from its hiding place amongst the lush, waist high grasses, we readied it to go. Even a rookie kid like me knew instinctively that the small waves and stiffening wind, now in our face, was not ideal. Sticking the front half of the canoe into the water, Brian urged me in and steadied the boat so as not to topple over. I baby-stepped my way down the center, bending slightly at the waist, enabling me to balance a bit easier holding on to the sides of the canoe. Brian launched us once I’d found my seat in the front. A few quick steps in the now not so friendly tides got us underway, and he hopped in, taking his seat at the rear.
Brian’s instructions were clear before we were underway. Three strokes left, three strokes right, repeat. Rest if you have to, but it would be best if you didn’t have to so we don’t go backwards. I understood. Our lighthearted adventure was on hold. The dark clouds above had sent invitation to the winds, and they had gratefully accepted. In turn, the lake now was being churned up, its waves pushing back against our every stroke. Earlier, the slight breeze and currents maximized the distance travelled each time our paddles pulled the water below. No longer the case, it was as if the island, or perhaps its unseen inhabitants were willing us back. The sun-drenched buck’s skull, now on the canoe floor between us, may not have been a gift after all. It seemed it was wanted back.
Brian was doing expert work keeping us in line. We would beat slightly left by the third strike on the right side of the boat, coming back in line as I switched my paddling to the left. On occasion, we would get a bit off kilter and, in doing so, nearly tip as the waves would catch us on the side. Sure, we had our life jackets on, but I didn’t know a thing about self-rescue. The thought of tipping and the cold water below that splashed up on us with every rogue wave scared me. Brian hollered a word or two of encouragement from time to time. I’m not sure if he was frightened more by the predicament or that he knew I really had no idea what I was doing. The latter probably exacerbated the former. Closing in on the shore provided a bit of relief from the wind, which in turn began to settle the water. A slight rain had begun. We paid it little mind though, relieved by the fact that we may actually return to terra firma mostly dry. The canoe hissed as it reached the end of our journey, its bottom rubbing against the sand below. It was a welcome sound. The return paddle from the island, somehow escaping
the lakes wrath, had taken us about an hour or so. I crumpled over myself, equal parts exhausted and relieved. Brian, in his haste to get us back as quickly as possible, had shot for the nearest land which put us a good bit from camp, where we had initially launched. I had noticed this when on occasion I took a moment to look up from my three stroke left, three stroke right ritual. It didn’t cross my mind to question my navigator. I had simple instructions and was pretty scared. I was all for anything that got us back to land, as fast as possible. The fear of drowning or, at the very least, capsizing was a great motivator to paddle on as told in whatever direction Brian saw fit.
Wobbly legged as could be, I exited the canoe, pulling it as far into shore as able, so as to make it easier for Brian to get out. We were whipped, a mile or so from camp Brian figured, and definitely overdue to return. I was about to get my second big lesson of the day: how to portage.
Here’s the main thing you need know about portaging a canoe: it is way harder than paddling one. At least it was for two twelve-year-olds, each not strong enough to support the craft without the other’s help. Thinking back on the scene, I’m reminded of a favorite saying: “It looked like two monkeys trying to have sex with a football.” Even if we weren’t already exhausted, on our best day on flat pavement with no overhanging branches, rocks underfoot, or ninety degree turns, carrying that aluminum craft a mile would have sucked. It would have made a roaring silent picture, sped up and accompanied by the music of the Keystone Cops. Three steps, bang into a tree, switch shoulders, drop canoe on foot, curse using words twelve-year-olds weren’t supposed to know—thankfully it’s a silent movie—four more steps, stumble and fall while trying to look ahead, so as to not hit another tree head-on, more cursing; what a comedy of errors! It would be funny only to those who might have been watching. There was no humor in this at all for us. I was a soft city kid, in over my head, and Brian, although more seasoned, was still barely ninety pounds all in. Continuing down the trail, keeping the shore in sight best we could to serve as our guide, we finally broke through, emerging from the woods that had held us captive, dropping the canoe, falling to our knees, we had made it—almost. The family site was at the other end of the campground. It was ok though, the canoe could be dragged from here. It would have to be. Seemingly, the craft had become a hundred pounds heavier the last few hours.
It seemed a cruel joke as we lugged the canoe into camp those last few steps. The angry skies were again calm. Everyone looked curiously wondering why we appeared so haggard. It seemed we were barely missed. Had they not noticed the wind that whipped the lake into a boiling sea, bent on keeping us as a trophy of its own? Had no one even questioned the safety of their two young explorers? Their whereabouts? The expected concern, the Do you know how much trouble you’re in? We have all been worried sick. Where the hell have you two been?! was disappointingly absent. We had been certain all that would be forthcoming and now, without them, the tales of our great exploration lacked the proper lead in.
Dropping the canoe next to the beer and soda can-covered picnic table, Brian and I stood silently noticing how unnoticed we were. Perhaps it was just as it should be. The magnitude of our exploration surely would have been lost on them anyway. The unexplored before today island, the tribesmen lurking around us without our knowledge, the daring paddle and portage home would remain a memory between just two boys. A grand adventure that would someday be recounted in books for sure. The gift of the island people fell to the ground as I untied it from my waste. Coming to rest near the canoe, the great buck deer’s skull was a single clue left for those that might notice and wonder. Brian and I used what little energy we had left to find somewhere to lie down. Finding a cot in the back of Uncle Bob’s pickup truck, I passed out more tired and more fulfilled than at any other time in my life.
"Well, How do you like it so far??? I hope your as excited to read the next chapter as I am to share it. See ya next Tuesday 7 PM for Chapter 4. Have a great rest of your week!"
#dreamBIGdreams
Steve Cannon
No part of this publication
may be reproduced in whole or in part, or stored in a retrieval system, or
transmitted in any form, by any means electronic, mechanical, printing,
photocopying, recording, chiseling in stone, or otherwise, without the written
permission from the publisher, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in
a review. For information regarding permission contact the publisher.
Copyright© 2017 by Steve M.
Cannon All rights reserved.
