May. 13th, 2013 03:00 pm
MOzARk Tour 2013: Activities
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
muckefuckWow, I ran out of steam on this even quicker than I expected. Still, I'd like to get some memories down before they become too hazy.
For me, the heart of the trip was the half-day float on the Buffalo. We hadn't any attention of canoeing when we started, but the combination of summerlike weather and high water made us feel like we'd be fools if we didn't. Also, it was the only realistic way to see Hemmed-In Hollow. From our two short test hikes on Tuesday, I knew that coming down from the top of the bluff and then scrambling back up it was not in the cards.
There were signs advertising a float outfit right across the street from where we were staying, but we decided instead to go with a tip from our innkeeper. Not sure if it was cheaper that way or not. Dad said that it was the most he'd ever paid to float, but it was worth it having his car waiting at the take-out point and not have to wait around to ride a beat-up schoolbus at either end of the trip.
It's a 4-6 float, so they said they wanted us on the river by noon. We wasted some time in a fruitless search for bands to hold our specs on, since neither of us fancied seeing a $500 piece of eyewear end up in the riverbed, but at least I found a good soft pack for our sandwiches and spare water. At least it was an opportunity to see where the locals do their shopping.
At the shop in Ponca, there were rumours of a tree that had fallen across the river the night before. We had those confirmed at the put-in point. The grizzled pocket bear who handed over our canoe also warned us of a big rock just a few yards in, telling us it was an augur of whether you should really be on this river or not. We ended up striking it a glancing blow with the bow, which turned out to be a good predictor of our experience.
When I was in my teens, we went canoeing almost every summer. Never on very challenging streams (Class I or II, in the jargon of the sport) and sometimes even in inner tubes. Our most recent experience together was kayaking out to Munyon Island, which is an easy hour or less across a tidal lagoon. Dad had to remind me how to do a sweep stroke, but otherwise the old skills came back pretty effortlessly.
When we did come to the fallen tree, one look was enough to tell us we'd never make it under at the deepest part of the channel, so instead we steered for the shallow, got out, and walked the boat down. Immediately after we rounded a turn and came across a family which didn't have the sense to do the same. They were pulled up on a gravel bar, still looking for a paddle and a flip-flop, and another hot pocket bear called after us to keep and eye peeled for something with "Newcastle" on it.
I asked Dad what he could mean, since I couldn't think of any brand of outdoors equipment labeled "Newcastle". Then about a hundred yards downstream, we came across something glinting underwater: a mini-keg of Newcastle Brown Ale. I tried to alert the others to its location, but they didn't seem to comprehend. Then Dad noticed that it was tumbling slowly in the current and suggest we try to whack it into the shallows with our paddles. But on the second pass, I realised I could simply reach over and haul it up, so I did.
When we returned to the bar and I held it aloft, well, you'd thunk we'd rescued their baby. They offered us half as a "finders fee", but I wasn't ready for lunch yet. Moreover, I was badly slept the night before and needed my wits about me, so I figured I'd better stay sober. We ended up running into them twice more in the course of the afternoon due to stops we made for lunch and for the sidetrip to the waterfall.
Our timing was really rather good on that. Even though the front wasn't predicted to move in before that evening, I'd been seeing scattered black clouds for an hour already and heard some rumbling. It began spattering drops right about when we pulled up. I told Dad I was glad no longer to be the highest thing around, and he said a grove of small trees in the bottom of a dell was just about the best place you could be during a thunderstorm in the forest.
It didn't storm, however. By the time we got back on the river, the risk seemed to have passed. Nevertheless, we felt it best to put on some speed. Even though I wasn't anywhere as sore as I'd expected to be (I brought plenty of naproxen along and never used it)--at least in my back; unexpectedly it was my inner thighs that suffered--the last stretch became a bit wearying. It seemed like we never had more than a hundred yards of calm water before another rapids, and even though they were all relatively small and by now we were systematic in approaching them, the combined effect made me glad we were coming to the end.
There was one exception, however, a rapids with a very narrow channel that turned abruptly at a large rock. I saw it too late, panicked, and we ended up against it broadside. I called to Dad for instruction and he only said, "This is not good." That's usually the kind of circumstance where you capsize, but we managed to hop out and walk it down to a rock ledge where we could hop back in. (I hope the others we saw--one paddle short and drunk on Newcastle--made it through okay.)
For me, the heart of the trip was the half-day float on the Buffalo. We hadn't any attention of canoeing when we started, but the combination of summerlike weather and high water made us feel like we'd be fools if we didn't. Also, it was the only realistic way to see Hemmed-In Hollow. From our two short test hikes on Tuesday, I knew that coming down from the top of the bluff and then scrambling back up it was not in the cards.
There were signs advertising a float outfit right across the street from where we were staying, but we decided instead to go with a tip from our innkeeper. Not sure if it was cheaper that way or not. Dad said that it was the most he'd ever paid to float, but it was worth it having his car waiting at the take-out point and not have to wait around to ride a beat-up schoolbus at either end of the trip.
It's a 4-6 float, so they said they wanted us on the river by noon. We wasted some time in a fruitless search for bands to hold our specs on, since neither of us fancied seeing a $500 piece of eyewear end up in the riverbed, but at least I found a good soft pack for our sandwiches and spare water. At least it was an opportunity to see where the locals do their shopping.
At the shop in Ponca, there were rumours of a tree that had fallen across the river the night before. We had those confirmed at the put-in point. The grizzled pocket bear who handed over our canoe also warned us of a big rock just a few yards in, telling us it was an augur of whether you should really be on this river or not. We ended up striking it a glancing blow with the bow, which turned out to be a good predictor of our experience.
When I was in my teens, we went canoeing almost every summer. Never on very challenging streams (Class I or II, in the jargon of the sport) and sometimes even in inner tubes. Our most recent experience together was kayaking out to Munyon Island, which is an easy hour or less across a tidal lagoon. Dad had to remind me how to do a sweep stroke, but otherwise the old skills came back pretty effortlessly.
When we did come to the fallen tree, one look was enough to tell us we'd never make it under at the deepest part of the channel, so instead we steered for the shallow, got out, and walked the boat down. Immediately after we rounded a turn and came across a family which didn't have the sense to do the same. They were pulled up on a gravel bar, still looking for a paddle and a flip-flop, and another hot pocket bear called after us to keep and eye peeled for something with "Newcastle" on it.
I asked Dad what he could mean, since I couldn't think of any brand of outdoors equipment labeled "Newcastle". Then about a hundred yards downstream, we came across something glinting underwater: a mini-keg of Newcastle Brown Ale. I tried to alert the others to its location, but they didn't seem to comprehend. Then Dad noticed that it was tumbling slowly in the current and suggest we try to whack it into the shallows with our paddles. But on the second pass, I realised I could simply reach over and haul it up, so I did.
When we returned to the bar and I held it aloft, well, you'd thunk we'd rescued their baby. They offered us half as a "finders fee", but I wasn't ready for lunch yet. Moreover, I was badly slept the night before and needed my wits about me, so I figured I'd better stay sober. We ended up running into them twice more in the course of the afternoon due to stops we made for lunch and for the sidetrip to the waterfall.
Our timing was really rather good on that. Even though the front wasn't predicted to move in before that evening, I'd been seeing scattered black clouds for an hour already and heard some rumbling. It began spattering drops right about when we pulled up. I told Dad I was glad no longer to be the highest thing around, and he said a grove of small trees in the bottom of a dell was just about the best place you could be during a thunderstorm in the forest.
It didn't storm, however. By the time we got back on the river, the risk seemed to have passed. Nevertheless, we felt it best to put on some speed. Even though I wasn't anywhere as sore as I'd expected to be (I brought plenty of naproxen along and never used it)--at least in my back; unexpectedly it was my inner thighs that suffered--the last stretch became a bit wearying. It seemed like we never had more than a hundred yards of calm water before another rapids, and even though they were all relatively small and by now we were systematic in approaching them, the combined effect made me glad we were coming to the end.
There was one exception, however, a rapids with a very narrow channel that turned abruptly at a large rock. I saw it too late, panicked, and we ended up against it broadside. I called to Dad for instruction and he only said, "This is not good." That's usually the kind of circumstance where you capsize, but we managed to hop out and walk it down to a rock ledge where we could hop back in. (I hope the others we saw--one paddle short and drunk on Newcastle--made it through okay.)
Tags:
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject