I moved to Tennessee in order to run a new branch of the rafting company I then worked for. The power company that operated the dam above this river had recently been awarded a new permit, and, as part of that permit, had to begin scheduling releases into the Pigeon River from their Waterville Plant. Previously, Carolina Power & Light had operated this plant primarily for peak power generation. That is, when demand spiked or other power generating resources went off-line, this plant would quickly turn on to meet the company's needs, up to 109 mega-watts of electricity. The new permit still allowed this, but required the plant to negotiate with us, the outfitters, on 54 scheduled releases (times the plant would be guaranteed to operate, thus releasing water) during the summer and inside usable business hours. Additionally, the power company had to maintain and allow use of a put-in area on their property. All of this, we, the outfitters, accomplished without much difficulty.
That first year, the Pigeon had 54 five-hour releases, on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, from 12pm to 5pm. There were about 6 outfitters running at least part time on the river and, collectively, they took about 12,000 people down the class III+ run. Each trip takes about and hour on the water and about three hours from customer arrival until they pull out of the parking lot and most of our "guests" were pulled in from Gatlinburg and Pigeon Forge.
The river itself parallels Interstate 40 where it crosses between North Carolina and Tennessee, and it brushes the northernmost edge of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park where the Appalachian Trail leads out northwards. The raft-able section begins at the confluence of Big Creek and the Pigeon River, immediately below the Waterville hydro-electric plant (the section of the Pigeon River above the plant is known as the Dry Gorge as the river's water is diverted into a tunnel about 12 miles above Waterville that feeds the hydro-electric plant, releasing back into the stream at our put-in). The Class III+ (medium sized and reasonably navigable) section extends downstream for about 5 miles. This was the focus of the rafting industry that first year.
My company, Wallywater, took about 3000 people that season. I had maybe 10 guides, mostly brand new recruits that I had to train. My assistant manager was an experienced Nantahala guide. I had, as my principal trip-leader, an experienced Nolichucky guide who was quite competent; and I was a Chattooga guide with three years experience, including as Training Coordinator for our Chattooga operations.
Teaching a person to guide a raft is not dissimilar to teaching them how to drive although there are marked differences. The main difference is that all guides have to be proficient in first-aid and, also, that all guides must be trained in swift-water rescue techniques. The on-river part is actually the easy part. It just takes practice, like driving. Everyone struggles with it at first, trying to manhandle the raft and reacting to the current or the river features. After a few trips, usually you see the light bulb go on over their heads and they start to figure it out. The key is to utilize the current rather than compete with it. Also important, in paddle rafting, is figuring out how and when to use your crew. There are certain people skills that cannot be taught and all guides also learn the entertainment aspect of guiding (jokes, stories, interpretive knowledge) that really help make the customer's experience better and lead to higher tips. Usually, a company gets all of this done in about two weeks and 10 trips down the river.
Or, at least, that's the story. Really, most first year guides struggle all season long. It helps if they get whitewater experience on rivers other than the primary one on which they work, but learning to read and run rivers proficiently is the accumulation of experience and is never entirely complete. Still, I don't feel like most people really "get it" until about their third season on the water. First-year guides learn the basics, like how to maneuver and how not to freak out when something unexpected is going down. Second-year guides come back brash and confident, feeling themselves masters of these skills, and generally learn that a little knowledge is a dangerous thing. They must develop the more delicate emotional and mental aspects, the "Zen" of the River Jedi, in order to truly become competent. By their third season, most guides have passed from novice to master and can then truly begin their relationship with whitewater.
To be clear, although I was in my fourth season as a guide, I had never seen the Pigeon River until one snowy day that first February when my boss and I made the trip up from Long Creek, SC, to Hartford, Tennessee, to see the new rafting center (formerly a group of display homes for a log home manufacturer) and make arrangements to remodel the buildings to suit our business needs. I remember well standing in the light snow at the future put-in watching the coffee-colored water from the power plant mix with the clear water from Big Creek and flow down into the first rapid, soon to be imaginatively named "Entrance". I kind of dreaded my choice at that moment.
I moved up there soon after and began setting up operations. My first actual trip on the water came soon after when a "rival" company came by saying the had a trip booked and needed me to guide it. I, of course, told them that I had never run the river, but that did not, because of my Chattooga experience (as well as Gauley, Nolichucky, and Ocoee) dissuade them; and I went. The river was a pretty straightforward run. The most dangerous rapid was soon to be named Lost Guide because of its propensity to eject guides if they hit a particular pour-over rock right in the main flow of the current. I went right over this pour-over, deliberately and much to the surprise of my co-workers that day, without incident, considering it similar to a much larger rapid on the Chattooga called Soc-em Dog. Over the following years, though, I saw the adverse consequences of running that route incorrectly many times, often resulting in the need for first-aid.
Regardless, the trip proceeded without incident and I got to see the river upon which I would be developing operations. I took one more trip to learn the river before I began training staff, riding with my friend Mesmer who had run the river a number of times.
This was the beginning of the Pigeon River, and of a trying and arewarding period in my life. More and better will follow.
Monday, September 5, 2011
Monday, August 29, 2011
Wake up!
FOR BEST RESULTS, PLAY FUCKIN' LOUD!!!!
Something filled up
My heart with nothing.
Someone told me not to cry.
But, now that I'm older,
My heart is colder
And I can see that it's a lie.
Children, wake up!
Hold your mistake up
Before they turn the summer into dust.
If the children don't grow up,
Our bodies get bigger but our hearts get torn up.
We're just a million little gods causing rainstorms,
Turning every good thing to rust.
I guess we'll just have to adjust.
With my lightning bolts a-glowin',
I can see where I am going to be
When the reaper, he reaches and touches my hand.
With my lightning bolts a-glowin'
I can see where I am going...
With my lightning bolts a-glowin'
I can see where I am going...
You better look out below!
For me, this song embodies what is great about pop music. The melody is uplifting and simple enough that it can be sung in unison by 20,000 fans, evoking amazing, almost transcendental, power. The lyrics are deep enough to inspire, but not so heady as to obscure the message of empowerment and self-actualization that Win Butler was trying to convey. The guitar line is almost too simple, but is balanced by the strings modulating in and out of pitch, creating enough tension to keep the melody interesting in spite of this simplicity.
I was first introduced to the Arcade Fire by my friend, Carrie Walker, and fell in love with them immediately. My affection for them has only continued to grow with each progressive album and with the live shows I've been lucky enough to view (but, alas, never to experience first hand so far. I am Fortune's fool.). I don't care about their politics or their personal lives. This kind of thing is irrelevant and possibly distracting, but I love their music. I love their instrumentation, how they meld modern rock and classical instruments into their sound. I love that all of the members seemingly play multiple instruments and they trade around during and in-between songs. But, most of all, I love the joy they seem to feel each and every time they play. I think that is their true power and what captures their audience and transports the collective into something cathartic, into something more.
You may not like the Arcade Fire. But I hope that everyone who reads this can and does experience the ecstasy of music; its power to uplift and transform the listener, its power to reveal passages within one's self that may be seldom traveled or locked away. Music is a pathway to joy and I wish it upon everyone.
Something filled up
My heart with nothing.
Someone told me not to cry.
But, now that I'm older,
My heart is colder
And I can see that it's a lie.
Children, wake up!
Hold your mistake up
Before they turn the summer into dust.
If the children don't grow up,
Our bodies get bigger but our hearts get torn up.
We're just a million little gods causing rainstorms,
Turning every good thing to rust.
I guess we'll just have to adjust.
With my lightning bolts a-glowin',
I can see where I am going to be
When the reaper, he reaches and touches my hand.
With my lightning bolts a-glowin'
I can see where I am going...
With my lightning bolts a-glowin'
I can see where I am going...
You better look out below!
For me, this song embodies what is great about pop music. The melody is uplifting and simple enough that it can be sung in unison by 20,000 fans, evoking amazing, almost transcendental, power. The lyrics are deep enough to inspire, but not so heady as to obscure the message of empowerment and self-actualization that Win Butler was trying to convey. The guitar line is almost too simple, but is balanced by the strings modulating in and out of pitch, creating enough tension to keep the melody interesting in spite of this simplicity.
I was first introduced to the Arcade Fire by my friend, Carrie Walker, and fell in love with them immediately. My affection for them has only continued to grow with each progressive album and with the live shows I've been lucky enough to view (but, alas, never to experience first hand so far. I am Fortune's fool.). I don't care about their politics or their personal lives. This kind of thing is irrelevant and possibly distracting, but I love their music. I love their instrumentation, how they meld modern rock and classical instruments into their sound. I love that all of the members seemingly play multiple instruments and they trade around during and in-between songs. But, most of all, I love the joy they seem to feel each and every time they play. I think that is their true power and what captures their audience and transports the collective into something cathartic, into something more.
You may not like the Arcade Fire. But I hope that everyone who reads this can and does experience the ecstasy of music; its power to uplift and transform the listener, its power to reveal passages within one's self that may be seldom traveled or locked away. Music is a pathway to joy and I wish it upon everyone.
Monday, August 8, 2011
Ride the Lightning
Men and women who have survived lightning strikes have often been accorded a special place in history and myth. Dionysus, of course, is most notable, but, in many other tales, such people are often granted extra-normal powers or are fated to some great destiny. In most early cultures, these individuals are considered to be touched by the gods.
Tampa, where I grew up, is often called "the lightning capital of the world" because of the high number of lightning strikes that occur there. Many times in my youth, I would watch the storms come in and the resultant lightning bolts which seemed more numerous at times than fireworks on the Fourth of July. It could be quite impressive, and perhaps a little terrifying.
I recall a particular strike which caused a small fire in my parents house. A bolt struck a neighbor's metal carport, burning a hole through it, and bounced across our street, hitting the electric switch in the gas furnace at my parent's house, which then caught fire. Fortunately, I was not so ignorant as to try to extinguish it with water (which would have possibly electrocuted me). Despite this, my most intimate encounters came during my years living in Long Creek, South Carolina.
Those years, I was working as a raft guide on the Chattooga River, which was a free-flowing, (in this case) rain-fed stream. We guides always celebrated the rain and suffered during its absence. The rain made the river more dangerous and more exciting. High water pushed our skills and opened up parts of the river that we didn't often get to raft upon. Often, in the summer, we would go for long periods without rain and the river would become very low, difficult to navigate without getting stuck, and hazardous because of the many exposed rocks.
The thunderstorms in South Carolina had significantly less lightning that than those in Florida. Still, it was something we took care about when on the river as our trips were wilderness-like adventures with no shelter available once underway. Customers (many of which were from Florida themselves) would often ask about our safety procedures in case of lightning. We would give them our usual spiel about the river being the low point, with the trees and the ridges more likely to be struck, and the likelihood that our rubber rafts would keep us from being grounded and therefore at low risk; basically a bunch of bullshit intended to allay their fears. The truth was that there was no "right" way to deal with lightning and that trip leaders used their own discretion when it occurred. However, only on rare occasion, did I pull a trip over because of severe weather conditions.
I remember one particular storm that hit while I was at the rafting company offices. It seemed an unremarkable storm as it came in, bringing our much-beloved rain and the usual peals of thunder. A group of us had gathered on the porch after the storm interrupted our afternoon game of footbag (hacky-sack is another name for it). Suddenly a bolt ripped the atmosphere, temporarily blinding me and obliterating an old tree in the middle of the parking lot. One of the photographers' car was at the base of the tree and all four tires were melted. Also melted was the stray dog that had been sleeping beneath her car. Despite the fact that her windows were up, charred splinters of the tree were all over the inside of the vehicle. It was a very impressive event.
A much more personal experience came later that summer. The dry season was upon us and the river was getting quite low. Despite this, some of my fellow first-year guides were still experiencing accidentally flipping over in their rafts with customers in them, informally a no-no among our community regardless of its common occurrence. The penalty for such an infraction, in that community, was a bottle of Drambuie for a first offense. Second offenses involved a cash contribution toward a keg for the next Drambuie Club meeting. It was during one of these club meetings that a storm occurred.
This caused no small amount of excitement among the thirty or so guides present, so much so that we all stripped off our clothes and ran out into the rain to dance naked in the glow of our cars' emergency flashers. It was quite fun and I was exhilarated by the pouring rain and the plentiful alcohol in my system. There was a flash of lightning and it was accompanied by a rather intense ground shock that stiffened my whole body and burned my feet. I immediately went back inside and put my clothes on, my mood somewhat dampened by this brush with nature. Others also felt this shock, but none as intensely as I had.
A couple of years went by and I suffered no more experiences with electricity of note, at least not until the occasion of Ted's birthday. This had been a gloomy, rainy day from the start, but Ted still really wanted to go kayaking down Section IV of the river. Grudgingly, I conceded; after all, everyone should get something for their birthday. So, despite the poor weather, we set our shuttle and then hit the water.
It was actually quite nice on the river for the first part of the paddle. I have always loved the river in the rain. We were having a pretty good time and were down around Shoulderbone rapid when the storm really intensified. The wind picked up and the rain began pelting us hard enough to sting my skin where unprotected by my helmet and PFD. Tree limbs were being broken off and were helicoptering out into the river, and the noise of the storm forced us to shout as we agreed to pull over and wait out this cell.
Ted caught a small eddy on the upstream side of a large boulder, sheltering him from the brunt of the wind and rain. There wasn't enough room for my boat, too, so I eddied out below the boulder and walked up to join him in its lee. We were talking about the storm when, mid-sentence, I saw white and then nothing. I came to and found that I was laying on my back on the bank with a very worried looking Ted above me shouting my name.
"I think I was just struck by lightning," I said.
Open-mouthed, he merely nodded.
I immediately scrambled up the bank to shelter under the trees and between two large rocks away from the water. After a few minutes, as the storm began to abate, he came and found me. Having no other choice (Section IV of the Chattooga is very remote, with no road access except at its beginning and on the lake below its end), we continued on downstream. For the rest of the trip, however, and for several days afterward, my muscles seemed not to respond well to my commands. I swam several times, a rare occurrence for me when kayaking, and I was certainly shaken and not my usual self. It was one of the last times I kayaked actually.
They say that those who have been shocked by lightning are more likely to experience it again, provided they survive. As a consequence, I recommend you avoid me during storms, unless you want to join me when I ride the lightning.
Tampa, where I grew up, is often called "the lightning capital of the world" because of the high number of lightning strikes that occur there. Many times in my youth, I would watch the storms come in and the resultant lightning bolts which seemed more numerous at times than fireworks on the Fourth of July. It could be quite impressive, and perhaps a little terrifying.
I recall a particular strike which caused a small fire in my parents house. A bolt struck a neighbor's metal carport, burning a hole through it, and bounced across our street, hitting the electric switch in the gas furnace at my parent's house, which then caught fire. Fortunately, I was not so ignorant as to try to extinguish it with water (which would have possibly electrocuted me). Despite this, my most intimate encounters came during my years living in Long Creek, South Carolina.
Those years, I was working as a raft guide on the Chattooga River, which was a free-flowing, (in this case) rain-fed stream. We guides always celebrated the rain and suffered during its absence. The rain made the river more dangerous and more exciting. High water pushed our skills and opened up parts of the river that we didn't often get to raft upon. Often, in the summer, we would go for long periods without rain and the river would become very low, difficult to navigate without getting stuck, and hazardous because of the many exposed rocks.
The thunderstorms in South Carolina had significantly less lightning that than those in Florida. Still, it was something we took care about when on the river as our trips were wilderness-like adventures with no shelter available once underway. Customers (many of which were from Florida themselves) would often ask about our safety procedures in case of lightning. We would give them our usual spiel about the river being the low point, with the trees and the ridges more likely to be struck, and the likelihood that our rubber rafts would keep us from being grounded and therefore at low risk; basically a bunch of bullshit intended to allay their fears. The truth was that there was no "right" way to deal with lightning and that trip leaders used their own discretion when it occurred. However, only on rare occasion, did I pull a trip over because of severe weather conditions.
I remember one particular storm that hit while I was at the rafting company offices. It seemed an unremarkable storm as it came in, bringing our much-beloved rain and the usual peals of thunder. A group of us had gathered on the porch after the storm interrupted our afternoon game of footbag (hacky-sack is another name for it). Suddenly a bolt ripped the atmosphere, temporarily blinding me and obliterating an old tree in the middle of the parking lot. One of the photographers' car was at the base of the tree and all four tires were melted. Also melted was the stray dog that had been sleeping beneath her car. Despite the fact that her windows were up, charred splinters of the tree were all over the inside of the vehicle. It was a very impressive event.
A much more personal experience came later that summer. The dry season was upon us and the river was getting quite low. Despite this, some of my fellow first-year guides were still experiencing accidentally flipping over in their rafts with customers in them, informally a no-no among our community regardless of its common occurrence. The penalty for such an infraction, in that community, was a bottle of Drambuie for a first offense. Second offenses involved a cash contribution toward a keg for the next Drambuie Club meeting. It was during one of these club meetings that a storm occurred.
This caused no small amount of excitement among the thirty or so guides present, so much so that we all stripped off our clothes and ran out into the rain to dance naked in the glow of our cars' emergency flashers. It was quite fun and I was exhilarated by the pouring rain and the plentiful alcohol in my system. There was a flash of lightning and it was accompanied by a rather intense ground shock that stiffened my whole body and burned my feet. I immediately went back inside and put my clothes on, my mood somewhat dampened by this brush with nature. Others also felt this shock, but none as intensely as I had.
A couple of years went by and I suffered no more experiences with electricity of note, at least not until the occasion of Ted's birthday. This had been a gloomy, rainy day from the start, but Ted still really wanted to go kayaking down Section IV of the river. Grudgingly, I conceded; after all, everyone should get something for their birthday. So, despite the poor weather, we set our shuttle and then hit the water.
It was actually quite nice on the river for the first part of the paddle. I have always loved the river in the rain. We were having a pretty good time and were down around Shoulderbone rapid when the storm really intensified. The wind picked up and the rain began pelting us hard enough to sting my skin where unprotected by my helmet and PFD. Tree limbs were being broken off and were helicoptering out into the river, and the noise of the storm forced us to shout as we agreed to pull over and wait out this cell.
Ted caught a small eddy on the upstream side of a large boulder, sheltering him from the brunt of the wind and rain. There wasn't enough room for my boat, too, so I eddied out below the boulder and walked up to join him in its lee. We were talking about the storm when, mid-sentence, I saw white and then nothing. I came to and found that I was laying on my back on the bank with a very worried looking Ted above me shouting my name.
"I think I was just struck by lightning," I said.
Open-mouthed, he merely nodded.
I immediately scrambled up the bank to shelter under the trees and between two large rocks away from the water. After a few minutes, as the storm began to abate, he came and found me. Having no other choice (Section IV of the Chattooga is very remote, with no road access except at its beginning and on the lake below its end), we continued on downstream. For the rest of the trip, however, and for several days afterward, my muscles seemed not to respond well to my commands. I swam several times, a rare occurrence for me when kayaking, and I was certainly shaken and not my usual self. It was one of the last times I kayaked actually.
They say that those who have been shocked by lightning are more likely to experience it again, provided they survive. As a consequence, I recommend you avoid me during storms, unless you want to join me when I ride the lightning.
Friday, July 29, 2011
I was going to write about my nickname, Luger, but this post ended up being about killing dogs.
In a previous post, I discussed how I came to possess the nickname "Handgun Robert". That composition prompted me to recall that another of my nicknames was handgun related, too. My early life growing up, until about age ten or so, I was called "Luger" by everyone who knew me. A Luger is a type of 9mm pistol, commonly depicted in the hands of Nazis in World War II films. I was given the name by my family (it was actually coined by my brother) to maintain my parents tradition of providing my siblings and I with German nicknames and in response to an unfortunate (for my family) habit I had during diaper changes as an infant (I peed as soon as the diaper came off, drenching whichever caregiver was unlucky that day). These names share mere ironic coincidence and do not reveal some fundamental link between myself and firearms. Still, I find the connection curious.
Let me begin by saying that I am firearm friendly, having hunted for food with my rifles and attempted regular practice with my pistol so as to remain proficient in case of need. I have owned several different types of guns and rifles and currently own a 9mm pistol, a .30-06 caliber rifle, and a .22 caliber rifle. I desire a 12 gauge shotgun and a .357 cal. revolver, as well. I am comfortable with killing for food or for personal protection, and I feel I could even shoot and kill a person if it was necessary. Having said that, I do not relish death and believe all life is too precious to squander senselessly. Other than killing rabbits with my "twenty-two" and several deer with my "ought-six", I have only had to use a firearm twice to kill a living creature.
The first time was when my dog, Bodhi, was hit by a Jeep Cherokee in front of my house in Hartford, TN. He had a bad habit of chasing cars, of which I could not break him; and, one day, he caught one. It was gruesome to behold as the whole right side of his body was shattered. He was struggling to stand on crushed legs and screaming in pain. He was in increasingly severe respiratory distress and was obviously mortally wounded, but somehow still alive despite the extreme injuries. I carried him out of the road and held him, trying in vain to soothe his terrible misery. I shouted to a friend who was there to retrieve my pistol from my bedroom. He raced to comply and quickly returned.
It wasn't easy to shoot Bo in the head like that, but it would have been unthinkable to let him continue to die slowly and painfully. I cried, as did my friend, who politely stepped away while I dealt with my emotions. Later, when I called my estranged wife to disclose Bo's demise, the emotions welled up again, and also anger at her for her recriminations toward me over the incident.
The second thing I killed with this pistol was also a dog, another dog who trusted me (as much as he trusted anyone) but that had to be killed. For a time, I lived in a house high up on a beautiful mountain close to Newport, TN, but still remote. I lived at the apex of a "loop road" on a couple of acres of land. My nearest neighbor had a trailer about two hundred yards away and my next closest lived in a house about three hundred yards in the other direction. This next closest neighbor, Erwin, was kind of a friend and kind of a business associate. He moved in on the occasion of his parole from federal prison (due to drug and gun convictions) and worked for the owners of a car lot I did business management and repossession work for in my spare time from the rafting company. He was quite a character, a racist redneck with anger and self-control issues, with whom I had several adventures.
Erwin soon got a young Pit-Bull, which he chained up in his yard and began to try to make into a vicious guard dog. Part of his technique apparently involved forgetting to feed or water this dog and neglecting it in many other ways also. I couldn't abide this kind of malice, however; and fed the dog whenever I could and tried to spend a little time with him. Still the dog got skinnier and meaner by the day, until, one day, he was thin enough to slip the chain that bound him.
The dog had been driven crazy by the mistreatment he had suffered and wouldn't be caught by anyone. He raided the garbage cans of everyone in the neighborhood, creating hassle and mess for several weeks all along our little road. Worse still, the dog was scared of people yet aggressive toward them. He would try to silently attack from behind and bite anyone who came onto mine or Erwin's property, forcing me to escort my guests to and from the house by walking immediately behind them. The day came when he attacked my other neighbor's grandchild though, biting her and leaving a bloody and painful, if not serious, wound. This was too much and this neighbor came to me very angry and upset. I took the matter to Erwin who could see that this dog was likely to hurt someone badly if not dealt with. It was something I had discussed with him a few days previously, as well.
In that mountain community, things like animal control were generally dealt with privately although the city of Newport did have a Humane Society. Still, we didn't live in Newport and people generally solved their own problems, so Erwin asked if I had a gun. I retrieved it and walked out back, where the dog was racing around through the woods behind my house and barking shrilly at Erwin, whom it hated. He was a pretty quick little thing but I killed him with my first shot which got him right through his chest. I put another round in his brain to make sure he didn't suffer any more and then drank a beer with both my neighbors while we took turns digging the grave.
These violent yet merciful acts do not seem to me to indicate any predilection for gun play or any excessively sociopathic tendencies, but you may draw your own conclusions. Certainly my firearm related monikers cannot be attributed to them, but perhaps my analysis is flawed in this case.
Let me begin by saying that I am firearm friendly, having hunted for food with my rifles and attempted regular practice with my pistol so as to remain proficient in case of need. I have owned several different types of guns and rifles and currently own a 9mm pistol, a .30-06 caliber rifle, and a .22 caliber rifle. I desire a 12 gauge shotgun and a .357 cal. revolver, as well. I am comfortable with killing for food or for personal protection, and I feel I could even shoot and kill a person if it was necessary. Having said that, I do not relish death and believe all life is too precious to squander senselessly. Other than killing rabbits with my "twenty-two" and several deer with my "ought-six", I have only had to use a firearm twice to kill a living creature.
The first time was when my dog, Bodhi, was hit by a Jeep Cherokee in front of my house in Hartford, TN. He had a bad habit of chasing cars, of which I could not break him; and, one day, he caught one. It was gruesome to behold as the whole right side of his body was shattered. He was struggling to stand on crushed legs and screaming in pain. He was in increasingly severe respiratory distress and was obviously mortally wounded, but somehow still alive despite the extreme injuries. I carried him out of the road and held him, trying in vain to soothe his terrible misery. I shouted to a friend who was there to retrieve my pistol from my bedroom. He raced to comply and quickly returned.
It wasn't easy to shoot Bo in the head like that, but it would have been unthinkable to let him continue to die slowly and painfully. I cried, as did my friend, who politely stepped away while I dealt with my emotions. Later, when I called my estranged wife to disclose Bo's demise, the emotions welled up again, and also anger at her for her recriminations toward me over the incident.
The second thing I killed with this pistol was also a dog, another dog who trusted me (as much as he trusted anyone) but that had to be killed. For a time, I lived in a house high up on a beautiful mountain close to Newport, TN, but still remote. I lived at the apex of a "loop road" on a couple of acres of land. My nearest neighbor had a trailer about two hundred yards away and my next closest lived in a house about three hundred yards in the other direction. This next closest neighbor, Erwin, was kind of a friend and kind of a business associate. He moved in on the occasion of his parole from federal prison (due to drug and gun convictions) and worked for the owners of a car lot I did business management and repossession work for in my spare time from the rafting company. He was quite a character, a racist redneck with anger and self-control issues, with whom I had several adventures.
Erwin soon got a young Pit-Bull, which he chained up in his yard and began to try to make into a vicious guard dog. Part of his technique apparently involved forgetting to feed or water this dog and neglecting it in many other ways also. I couldn't abide this kind of malice, however; and fed the dog whenever I could and tried to spend a little time with him. Still the dog got skinnier and meaner by the day, until, one day, he was thin enough to slip the chain that bound him.
The dog had been driven crazy by the mistreatment he had suffered and wouldn't be caught by anyone. He raided the garbage cans of everyone in the neighborhood, creating hassle and mess for several weeks all along our little road. Worse still, the dog was scared of people yet aggressive toward them. He would try to silently attack from behind and bite anyone who came onto mine or Erwin's property, forcing me to escort my guests to and from the house by walking immediately behind them. The day came when he attacked my other neighbor's grandchild though, biting her and leaving a bloody and painful, if not serious, wound. This was too much and this neighbor came to me very angry and upset. I took the matter to Erwin who could see that this dog was likely to hurt someone badly if not dealt with. It was something I had discussed with him a few days previously, as well.
In that mountain community, things like animal control were generally dealt with privately although the city of Newport did have a Humane Society. Still, we didn't live in Newport and people generally solved their own problems, so Erwin asked if I had a gun. I retrieved it and walked out back, where the dog was racing around through the woods behind my house and barking shrilly at Erwin, whom it hated. He was a pretty quick little thing but I killed him with my first shot which got him right through his chest. I put another round in his brain to make sure he didn't suffer any more and then drank a beer with both my neighbors while we took turns digging the grave.
These violent yet merciful acts do not seem to me to indicate any predilection for gun play or any excessively sociopathic tendencies, but you may draw your own conclusions. Certainly my firearm related monikers cannot be attributed to them, but perhaps my analysis is flawed in this case.
Monday, July 25, 2011
Serpentine
I was raised in a very religious, Christian home. My family attended church several times each week, and my Dad was a deacon and sang in the choir. We prayed before meals and over any illness or problem that we faced. The Bible was among the first books from which I read (ironically, the first book I read, along with the Bible, was a late-elementary level science book about the solar system and dinosaurs, elements that don't comfortably fit in a typical Christian worldview).
I have only the vaguest memories of the first church I attended, in my birth town of Joplin, Missouri. There was a childcare worker there, perhaps named or nicknamed Sherry or Cheri, that used to make a big deal about me when I arrived in the nursery (I was, at most, two years old during my family's attendance) and always called me "Baby Luger". I seem to recall tidbits of some drama about a tornado that just missed the church one day while I was there, also, but, as was stated, I was very young and my memories from that church are unreliable at best.
The next church we habitually frequented was a Baptist church in Tampa. We were part of that church for four or five years and I have quite a few memories of the church and events related to it. I had my first baptism there in the ornate baptistry on the stage in the sanctuary. I, with that church, first visited Lake Platt which I liked because of its similarity to my familial last name. My parents and sister also grew close to many members of the congregation, so much so that when my parents left to go to a new church, several other families joined them.
My parents next matriculated in another church which then played a very significant role in my life and my spiritual development. I suppose it could be called "pentecostal" in the sense that it believed in the gift of the Holy Spirit given to the early church fifty days after Jesus's resurrection. Officially, it was Methodist in denomination, but shared much common ground with other "Spirit-filled" Protestants like the Assemblies of God and the Pentecostal churches. It certainly shared with them a militant view of the church's role in the world and each Christian's duty to proselytize. We also practiced speaking in tongues, the laying-on of hands for healing, and demonic exorcism as a regular part of services there. I have much to eventually say about that church and my life as part of it, but this story is not about that church. It is only contextual in this account.
My time at that church, too, came to an end, and, with it, my time at church in general. My spiritual journey led me away from the Christian faith and from the regular religious practice of any kind. I did still attend church when necessary, but principally to appease others (like my parents) or for events like the occasion of my wedding. I had pretty much decided that church had little left for me. However, a few years after my divorce, while I was living in the heart of Appalachia, I had occasion to attend a rather interesting church service.
There was a young woman with whom I had developed a mild flirtation. She was a server at a restaurant I frequented and we had developed a rapport that felt promising to me. One day, I screwed up the courage to ask her out.
"Hey, Katie. I was wondering if you would consider going out to a movie or dinner with me sometime."
"Robert, I would really like to, but I don't really date. If you want to spend time with me, maybe you'd consider coming to my church some Sunday."
Well, I did like the woman so I agreed. We set up the "date" for the next Sunday service. I didn't know much about the church, except where it was in the county and that often churches with names similar to hers were "Spirit-filled" or Pentecostal.
The church itself was fairly nondescript, a small concrete block building with typical trimmings. The members were all very nice, greeting me and welcoming me. Katie and I sat together near the front. I checked the crowd out and chatted with her while we waited for the service to begin. I noticed some strange features, cabinets and enclosures up on stage near the altar that were dissimilar to any other church I'd attended, and, being fairly astute, I realized what was going to happen. As I inspected more closely, I clearly saw these held serpents.
As I said, I was well accustomed to the theatrics of "Holy Ghost" spirituality and was not disappointed by the experience of this congregation's praise and worship. The service was fueled by the characteristic zeal of evangelicals and the preacher was fiery in his righteousness. The preaching ended with the usual altar call and the reprise of praise and worship. With this return, the preacher and the elders began to break out the main attractions: copperheads and rattlesnakes.
This was something new for me in a worship service. I had read about "snake-handling churches" and was, of course, familiar with the role of serpents in religious mysteries throughout history and myth. Such knowledge, though, paled in the face of this more visceral experience. Watching these kind, but fanatical, people dance to country/rock gospel music with multiple pit vipers draped over their arms and shoulders was fascinating and disconcerting. I was NOT inspired to participate, but was intrigued by the strength of these believers' convictions and shocked by the exceptional irrationality of their faith.
All in all, I had a nice time, due mostly to the uniqueness of the event. I didn't go back, though, nor did I try for another date with Katie, realizing that we were too far apart in our spiritual ideals to have any meaningful relationship.
Here is a video from a similar service at a different church, just to give you the idea:
The Biblical foundation for these particular beliefs is found here:
Since that time, I have had occasion to enter churches for events like musical performances and weddings, and, briefly, I was paid to operate the PA system for church services; but I have fortunately never been possessed by the desire to ever go to church again.
I have only the vaguest memories of the first church I attended, in my birth town of Joplin, Missouri. There was a childcare worker there, perhaps named or nicknamed Sherry or Cheri, that used to make a big deal about me when I arrived in the nursery (I was, at most, two years old during my family's attendance) and always called me "Baby Luger". I seem to recall tidbits of some drama about a tornado that just missed the church one day while I was there, also, but, as was stated, I was very young and my memories from that church are unreliable at best.
The next church we habitually frequented was a Baptist church in Tampa. We were part of that church for four or five years and I have quite a few memories of the church and events related to it. I had my first baptism there in the ornate baptistry on the stage in the sanctuary. I, with that church, first visited Lake Platt which I liked because of its similarity to my familial last name. My parents and sister also grew close to many members of the congregation, so much so that when my parents left to go to a new church, several other families joined them.
My parents next matriculated in another church which then played a very significant role in my life and my spiritual development. I suppose it could be called "pentecostal" in the sense that it believed in the gift of the Holy Spirit given to the early church fifty days after Jesus's resurrection. Officially, it was Methodist in denomination, but shared much common ground with other "Spirit-filled" Protestants like the Assemblies of God and the Pentecostal churches. It certainly shared with them a militant view of the church's role in the world and each Christian's duty to proselytize. We also practiced speaking in tongues, the laying-on of hands for healing, and demonic exorcism as a regular part of services there. I have much to eventually say about that church and my life as part of it, but this story is not about that church. It is only contextual in this account.
My time at that church, too, came to an end, and, with it, my time at church in general. My spiritual journey led me away from the Christian faith and from the regular religious practice of any kind. I did still attend church when necessary, but principally to appease others (like my parents) or for events like the occasion of my wedding. I had pretty much decided that church had little left for me. However, a few years after my divorce, while I was living in the heart of Appalachia, I had occasion to attend a rather interesting church service.
There was a young woman with whom I had developed a mild flirtation. She was a server at a restaurant I frequented and we had developed a rapport that felt promising to me. One day, I screwed up the courage to ask her out.
"Hey, Katie. I was wondering if you would consider going out to a movie or dinner with me sometime."
"Robert, I would really like to, but I don't really date. If you want to spend time with me, maybe you'd consider coming to my church some Sunday."
Well, I did like the woman so I agreed. We set up the "date" for the next Sunday service. I didn't know much about the church, except where it was in the county and that often churches with names similar to hers were "Spirit-filled" or Pentecostal.
The church itself was fairly nondescript, a small concrete block building with typical trimmings. The members were all very nice, greeting me and welcoming me. Katie and I sat together near the front. I checked the crowd out and chatted with her while we waited for the service to begin. I noticed some strange features, cabinets and enclosures up on stage near the altar that were dissimilar to any other church I'd attended, and, being fairly astute, I realized what was going to happen. As I inspected more closely, I clearly saw these held serpents.
As I said, I was well accustomed to the theatrics of "Holy Ghost" spirituality and was not disappointed by the experience of this congregation's praise and worship. The service was fueled by the characteristic zeal of evangelicals and the preacher was fiery in his righteousness. The preaching ended with the usual altar call and the reprise of praise and worship. With this return, the preacher and the elders began to break out the main attractions: copperheads and rattlesnakes.
This was something new for me in a worship service. I had read about "snake-handling churches" and was, of course, familiar with the role of serpents in religious mysteries throughout history and myth. Such knowledge, though, paled in the face of this more visceral experience. Watching these kind, but fanatical, people dance to country/rock gospel music with multiple pit vipers draped over their arms and shoulders was fascinating and disconcerting. I was NOT inspired to participate, but was intrigued by the strength of these believers' convictions and shocked by the exceptional irrationality of their faith.
All in all, I had a nice time, due mostly to the uniqueness of the event. I didn't go back, though, nor did I try for another date with Katie, realizing that we were too far apart in our spiritual ideals to have any meaningful relationship.
Here is a video from a similar service at a different church, just to give you the idea:
The Biblical foundation for these particular beliefs is found here:
Mark 16:17-18
King James Version (KJV)
17And these signs shall follow them that believe; In my name shall they cast out devils; they shall speak with new tongues;
18They shall take up serpents; and if they drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them; they shall lay hands on the sick, and they shall recover.
And, to a lesser extent, here:
Luke 10:19
King James Version (KJV)
19Behold, I give unto you power to tread on serpents and scorpions, and over all the power of the enemy: and nothing shall by any means hurt you.
Since that time, I have had occasion to enter churches for events like musical performances and weddings, and, briefly, I was paid to operate the PA system for church services; but I have fortunately never been possessed by the desire to ever go to church again.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Juniper Creek
I often write in this blog about my whitewater experiences. I am proud of my life as a guide and whitewater expert. I helped develop many young people's river skills and was integral to making the Pigeon River the attraction it has become. I frequently attest that my whitewater career began on the Chattooga River, and this is certainly true. However, that statement neglects to account for my formative experiences as an amateur boater and rafter during my childhood years.
My first real paddling experience came on a camping trip with my parents when I was a young boy. We spent a week camping at Juniper Springs in the Ocala National Forest, the only time I ever camped with my family. The forest and springs were quite enjoyable although the water was very cold from my perspective. I remember getting raided by raccoons and seeing deer, adventures I couldn't get in my hometown of Tampa, Florida. The highlight of the week, though, was the disastrous canoe trip my Dad took my Mom and I on.
We rented the canoe and set off from just downstream of the springs. Juniper Creek is a slow, quiet river, in some places quite narrow, that eventually spreads out into saw-grass and marshes before approaching the take-out. I was designated full-time passenger and assigned a seat in the middle of the boat. The early part of the trip was dominated by my parents, novice canoeists at best, developing their communication skills and a unique navigation system. The technique my Dad, who sat in the stern, preferred was vigorous paddling on his part while my Mom, who sat in the bow, steered us by "fending off", with her paddle, the banks and tree-limbs that we inevitably plowed into. This generally resulted in our canoe running into the various river hazards at significant speed and with the momentum our combined mass added to the equation. My Mother, of course, lacked the strength to significantly arrest our motion and usually had her paddle knocked from her hands or forced back into her person causing many bruises. A number of times, also, we overturned as a consequence, causing mayhem among our various unsecured possessions in the canoe and adding to the general chaos of our leisure activity. The character of the situation was further compounded by the occurrence, at regular intervals, of downed trees which crossed the river, barring our transit, and requiring poorly executed mid-stream (rather than on-bank) portages. These invariably involved some error that caused my Dad to fall in or get left behind, requiring a swim in the cold water.
My Dad began to be frustrated by our lack of success at maneuvering the craft, which was certainly the fault of his crew (my Mom) and her failure to adequately push us around the obstacles he was paddling us into. His principal motivation technique, haranguing loudly, seemed to be effecting little change on her performance, also. After a couple of hours like this, he finally had to face down a mutiny and accept the resignation of his mate. Fortunately, he had brought a spare paddler in the form of me so I was promoted to the bow and the task of deflecting our momentum away from whatever the boat rammed.
I have noticed in my many adventures on the water that the river gods often take it a little easy on novices (sometimes called turkeys in this blog). This may have been the case that day as well because, soon after I took the helm, the banks dissipated away into reeds and mud, and the river's channel opened up into the common marshy "river of grass", typical in much of Florida. Also, I believe my Father's exertions had worn him down and he eased off from paddling.
Finally, the take out appeared. We pulled off and climbed wearily from the canoe. The entire trip was an obvious ordeal for my parents and certainly was tiring for me, but I had really enjoyed a lot of it (not the shouting and the anger, but certainly the swimming and the flipping-over and the novelty of the experience). I loaded into the canoe company's smelly, old passenger van for the first of what would become many long shuttles after a day running the river.
My first real paddling experience came on a camping trip with my parents when I was a young boy. We spent a week camping at Juniper Springs in the Ocala National Forest, the only time I ever camped with my family. The forest and springs were quite enjoyable although the water was very cold from my perspective. I remember getting raided by raccoons and seeing deer, adventures I couldn't get in my hometown of Tampa, Florida. The highlight of the week, though, was the disastrous canoe trip my Dad took my Mom and I on.
We rented the canoe and set off from just downstream of the springs. Juniper Creek is a slow, quiet river, in some places quite narrow, that eventually spreads out into saw-grass and marshes before approaching the take-out. I was designated full-time passenger and assigned a seat in the middle of the boat. The early part of the trip was dominated by my parents, novice canoeists at best, developing their communication skills and a unique navigation system. The technique my Dad, who sat in the stern, preferred was vigorous paddling on his part while my Mom, who sat in the bow, steered us by "fending off", with her paddle, the banks and tree-limbs that we inevitably plowed into. This generally resulted in our canoe running into the various river hazards at significant speed and with the momentum our combined mass added to the equation. My Mother, of course, lacked the strength to significantly arrest our motion and usually had her paddle knocked from her hands or forced back into her person causing many bruises. A number of times, also, we overturned as a consequence, causing mayhem among our various unsecured possessions in the canoe and adding to the general chaos of our leisure activity. The character of the situation was further compounded by the occurrence, at regular intervals, of downed trees which crossed the river, barring our transit, and requiring poorly executed mid-stream (rather than on-bank) portages. These invariably involved some error that caused my Dad to fall in or get left behind, requiring a swim in the cold water.
My Dad began to be frustrated by our lack of success at maneuvering the craft, which was certainly the fault of his crew (my Mom) and her failure to adequately push us around the obstacles he was paddling us into. His principal motivation technique, haranguing loudly, seemed to be effecting little change on her performance, also. After a couple of hours like this, he finally had to face down a mutiny and accept the resignation of his mate. Fortunately, he had brought a spare paddler in the form of me so I was promoted to the bow and the task of deflecting our momentum away from whatever the boat rammed.
I have noticed in my many adventures on the water that the river gods often take it a little easy on novices (sometimes called turkeys in this blog). This may have been the case that day as well because, soon after I took the helm, the banks dissipated away into reeds and mud, and the river's channel opened up into the common marshy "river of grass", typical in much of Florida. Also, I believe my Father's exertions had worn him down and he eased off from paddling.
Finally, the take out appeared. We pulled off and climbed wearily from the canoe. The entire trip was an obvious ordeal for my parents and certainly was tiring for me, but I had really enjoyed a lot of it (not the shouting and the anger, but certainly the swimming and the flipping-over and the novelty of the experience). I loaded into the canoe company's smelly, old passenger van for the first of what would become many long shuttles after a day running the river.
Monday, July 18, 2011
I'm tired of these mf'n snakes in their mf'n heads.
Bull Sluice is the largest, most difficult rapid on Section III of the Chattooga River. It is located near the conclusion of the section about a quarter of a mile above the Highway 76 bridge, one of the few roads that crosses the river. This proximity to a road provides easy access and makes the rapid a popular swimming spot for locals and raft guides alike.
My friends and I would usually hike in on the Georgia side or west bank of the river, a longer hike than the eastern access which led to lower usage of the trail and riverbank there. I use the word riverbank, but at Bull Sluice the western bank is actually a mansion sized boulder named "Big Georgia". It is the perfect spot for sunning after swimming, and for watching the rafters and boaters run through the Class IV/V drops. This last is a popular past-time as the rapid is a frequent provider of flips and swims, having a difficult approach and severe consequences for being off-course. Fortunately, although unforgiving for poor navigation, there is a large pool below the rapid giving plenty of time for rafts and boaters to recover and retrieve their missing crew and the consequences of a swim are generally fairly benign.
One particular summer day, Rats and I decided to take some of our out-of-town guests down for a swim. Jo, Kris, and Anne were up from Tampa and we all wanted to cool off, to drink some beers, and to have some fun. It was a perfect idea and we had an excellent afternoon down by the water. As the day began to wear, we gathered up our things and headed up the trail to Rats's car.
As soon as we emerged into the parking lot, a strange man began walking toward our group and calling to us. The girls began climbing in to the car from the driver's side while my passenger side door remained locked. The man came right up to me.
"Are you going over across the river?" He asked.
"Yes." I replied.
"You can't go over there. They won't let ya."
Puzzled, I said, "Oh, they'll let me. You see, I live over there."
"No!" He shouted. "They got snakes in their heads!"
It was around this time that I became certain that our conversation had run its course and I began frantically pulling at the door handle in hopes Rats would let me in, which she promptly did. I jumped in and we sped out of the gravel parking lot, throwing dust on the man as he chased the car, shouting.
Later, I learned that this man also threw a rock at a car passing on the highway that afternoon , destroying its windshield and terrifying the driver. He had obvious mental problems and, after a fight with his brother and caregiver, had been wandering around for days. I'm certain the authorities provided him the best public mental health care South Carolina has to offer, but he, later that year, was shot and killed by his brother after a fight between them escalated.
My friends and I would usually hike in on the Georgia side or west bank of the river, a longer hike than the eastern access which led to lower usage of the trail and riverbank there. I use the word riverbank, but at Bull Sluice the western bank is actually a mansion sized boulder named "Big Georgia". It is the perfect spot for sunning after swimming, and for watching the rafters and boaters run through the Class IV/V drops. This last is a popular past-time as the rapid is a frequent provider of flips and swims, having a difficult approach and severe consequences for being off-course. Fortunately, although unforgiving for poor navigation, there is a large pool below the rapid giving plenty of time for rafts and boaters to recover and retrieve their missing crew and the consequences of a swim are generally fairly benign.
One particular summer day, Rats and I decided to take some of our out-of-town guests down for a swim. Jo, Kris, and Anne were up from Tampa and we all wanted to cool off, to drink some beers, and to have some fun. It was a perfect idea and we had an excellent afternoon down by the water. As the day began to wear, we gathered up our things and headed up the trail to Rats's car.
As soon as we emerged into the parking lot, a strange man began walking toward our group and calling to us. The girls began climbing in to the car from the driver's side while my passenger side door remained locked. The man came right up to me.
"Are you going over across the river?" He asked.
"Yes." I replied.
"You can't go over there. They won't let ya."
Puzzled, I said, "Oh, they'll let me. You see, I live over there."
"No!" He shouted. "They got snakes in their heads!"
It was around this time that I became certain that our conversation had run its course and I began frantically pulling at the door handle in hopes Rats would let me in, which she promptly did. I jumped in and we sped out of the gravel parking lot, throwing dust on the man as he chased the car, shouting.
Later, I learned that this man also threw a rock at a car passing on the highway that afternoon , destroying its windshield and terrifying the driver. He had obvious mental problems and, after a fight with his brother and caregiver, had been wandering around for days. I'm certain the authorities provided him the best public mental health care South Carolina has to offer, but he, later that year, was shot and killed by his brother after a fight between them escalated.
Monday, June 27, 2011
The Narrows
The Narrows of Section III of the Chattooga River is an important place for me, almost sacred to me in some ways. It is where I first learned how to swim in whitewater and where I spent many days having fun while developing that skill.
These rapids are on the upper part of section III, seldom used by rafters or boaters because, at most water levels, the river above and below here is shallow and slow, with few rapids and little excitement for the whitewater enthusiast. As a consequence, I spent many days here without seeing anyone other than whomever I hiked in with.
The Narrows themselves are a small canyon that the river drops into, with steep walls and deep, powerful currents. These walls and the boulders that litter the riverbed have, in some places, been severely undercut by the current over the millions of years it carved this sluice. Sometimes these undercuts trap tree-limbs and sometimes they narrow to small outlets through which only water can pass. In whitewater recreation, these undercuts and "strainers" are significant hazards, claiming the lives of many people.
I suppose it is somewhat ironic that part of my river education took place amidst these dangers, but it is because of these dangers that I was able to develop the knowledge and skills I did, how to safely maneuver among them and avoid the threats I would inevitably face. Still, it remained important to be cognizant of such hazards and to always treat the river with respect for its power and capriciousness. It was on one my very first visits to these rapids that this attitude was founded in my memory.
Ted and I had hiked in to enjoy one of the first warm days of that spring. We were swimming and sunning and bouldering as was common for us in those days when a decked canoe and a paddle floated by. Ted, being more experienced and a stronger swimmer at the time, swam out and retrieved the gear, bringing it in to shore for the owner to retrieve when he or she came looking. An hour or so later, a man did come. Ted asked if he were looking for a boat and the man replied that he was looking for a body.
He had been teaching his son to boat in the pool above these rapids when his son lost control and was washed into the very dangerous hydraulic that guards the Narrows. The boy capsized and his canoe washed out. The father never saw the boy surface.
Whitewater rescue, of course, was supposed to be our area of expertise, being professional guides and all, so we sprang into action. I, being a relative novice next to Ted, was given the role of runner and I sped up the trail to the road and our vehicle, then out to the nearest house, about two miles in all. There, I called the local USDA Forest Service office, the managing agency for the river, in hope that some kind of rescue was still possible.
Upon my return to the Narrows, I found Ted very carefully attempting to explore the undercut areas without endangering himself, but to no avail. The man (I cannot remember his name, nor that of his unfortunate son) was stunned with grief and sat impotent on the rocks while we searched for his son's body. Soon, the rangers arrived and joined us in trying to find the boy, whom we were all but certain was drowned.
The body was lodged in a small cave underwater, formed where a large boulder was perched upon several smaller ones creating an effective and deadly sieve. At low water, this was a fun place to swim up into, but at these water levels it was certainly deadly. I do not know whether the boy drowned in the large hydraulic that he first disappeared into or whether he was flushed and then entrapped in this sieve. Either way, the hazards of this beautiful and dangerous place overcame him.
The grappling hooks retrieved the body and I never heard anything about the incident or the bereaved man again, but the knowledge and experience I gained through this tragedy helped me when faced with similar hazards first-hand. It was the first time I had encountered death on the river. I'd like to think it helped me avoid my own in my many adventures since then.
These rapids are on the upper part of section III, seldom used by rafters or boaters because, at most water levels, the river above and below here is shallow and slow, with few rapids and little excitement for the whitewater enthusiast. As a consequence, I spent many days here without seeing anyone other than whomever I hiked in with.
The Narrows themselves are a small canyon that the river drops into, with steep walls and deep, powerful currents. These walls and the boulders that litter the riverbed have, in some places, been severely undercut by the current over the millions of years it carved this sluice. Sometimes these undercuts trap tree-limbs and sometimes they narrow to small outlets through which only water can pass. In whitewater recreation, these undercuts and "strainers" are significant hazards, claiming the lives of many people.
I suppose it is somewhat ironic that part of my river education took place amidst these dangers, but it is because of these dangers that I was able to develop the knowledge and skills I did, how to safely maneuver among them and avoid the threats I would inevitably face. Still, it remained important to be cognizant of such hazards and to always treat the river with respect for its power and capriciousness. It was on one my very first visits to these rapids that this attitude was founded in my memory.
Ted and I had hiked in to enjoy one of the first warm days of that spring. We were swimming and sunning and bouldering as was common for us in those days when a decked canoe and a paddle floated by. Ted, being more experienced and a stronger swimmer at the time, swam out and retrieved the gear, bringing it in to shore for the owner to retrieve when he or she came looking. An hour or so later, a man did come. Ted asked if he were looking for a boat and the man replied that he was looking for a body.
He had been teaching his son to boat in the pool above these rapids when his son lost control and was washed into the very dangerous hydraulic that guards the Narrows. The boy capsized and his canoe washed out. The father never saw the boy surface.
Whitewater rescue, of course, was supposed to be our area of expertise, being professional guides and all, so we sprang into action. I, being a relative novice next to Ted, was given the role of runner and I sped up the trail to the road and our vehicle, then out to the nearest house, about two miles in all. There, I called the local USDA Forest Service office, the managing agency for the river, in hope that some kind of rescue was still possible.
Upon my return to the Narrows, I found Ted very carefully attempting to explore the undercut areas without endangering himself, but to no avail. The man (I cannot remember his name, nor that of his unfortunate son) was stunned with grief and sat impotent on the rocks while we searched for his son's body. Soon, the rangers arrived and joined us in trying to find the boy, whom we were all but certain was drowned.
The body was lodged in a small cave underwater, formed where a large boulder was perched upon several smaller ones creating an effective and deadly sieve. At low water, this was a fun place to swim up into, but at these water levels it was certainly deadly. I do not know whether the boy drowned in the large hydraulic that he first disappeared into or whether he was flushed and then entrapped in this sieve. Either way, the hazards of this beautiful and dangerous place overcame him.
The grappling hooks retrieved the body and I never heard anything about the incident or the bereaved man again, but the knowledge and experience I gained through this tragedy helped me when faced with similar hazards first-hand. It was the first time I had encountered death on the river. I'd like to think it helped me avoid my own in my many adventures since then.
A Christmas Story (Handgun Holiday)
My friends and I gathered at my parents house after each of our family get-togethers had ended. There is not much to do on Christmas night when you are young. I was old enough to drink and go to bars, but none of my friends could do so, being younger than I. So, we decided to go to Ballast Point Park, off of the Bayshore, where we could hang out without supervision and smoke and drink with no hassle.
It was very dark that Christmas night, and, like most Florida Christmases, pleasantly warm. Upon arriving at the park, we immediately took up residence in the empty and isolated (from the few people on the pier) playground. Jo, Ted, Rats, Kris, her new boyfriend, Micheal, and myself hit the swings and slides to try to have a little fun.
Things had been quite strained between Kris and I, largely because of our recent break-up and because of Rats's manipulation of the situation. The presence of Micheal only added to this stress. As a consequence, our once happy little circle of friends was fragmenting to the point of dissolution.
Anyway, we were enjoying the night and the playground features, and were basically minding our own business. Ted had climbed up the slide and was jumping on the steel floor of the platform, making a rattling bass sound; which was, of course, harmless to the slide itself (there is little that a one hundred sixty pound man can do to half-inch plate steel). However, the noise of his antics reached ears that did find it provocative.
From the darkness, silhouetted by the distant lights, a staggering, cursing shape emerged. As it approached, it became clear that it was some drunken homeless man, a common sight around Tampa. He began shouting at us, something about wasting taxpayers money by using the playground equipment. He told us to get off of the slide and swings, that they weren't for our use; and I complied by stepping toward him in an attempt, as is my tendency, to reason with him and diffuse the situation.
This move was taken as an aggressive act by the homeless man, who pulled a pistol from his pocket and pointed it at me. I stepped closer still, shielding my friends from the possibility of being fired upon.
Several tense minutes of dialog ensued. I used my cunning with words and my inherent charm to ameliorate his concerns and placate his mis-placed anger. He pocketed his pistol and shambled back into the dark. My friends and I promptly fled the scene, somewhat shaken and thrilled by the strange encounter.
It was very dark that Christmas night, and, like most Florida Christmases, pleasantly warm. Upon arriving at the park, we immediately took up residence in the empty and isolated (from the few people on the pier) playground. Jo, Ted, Rats, Kris, her new boyfriend, Micheal, and myself hit the swings and slides to try to have a little fun.
Things had been quite strained between Kris and I, largely because of our recent break-up and because of Rats's manipulation of the situation. The presence of Micheal only added to this stress. As a consequence, our once happy little circle of friends was fragmenting to the point of dissolution.
Anyway, we were enjoying the night and the playground features, and were basically minding our own business. Ted had climbed up the slide and was jumping on the steel floor of the platform, making a rattling bass sound; which was, of course, harmless to the slide itself (there is little that a one hundred sixty pound man can do to half-inch plate steel). However, the noise of his antics reached ears that did find it provocative.
From the darkness, silhouetted by the distant lights, a staggering, cursing shape emerged. As it approached, it became clear that it was some drunken homeless man, a common sight around Tampa. He began shouting at us, something about wasting taxpayers money by using the playground equipment. He told us to get off of the slide and swings, that they weren't for our use; and I complied by stepping toward him in an attempt, as is my tendency, to reason with him and diffuse the situation.
This move was taken as an aggressive act by the homeless man, who pulled a pistol from his pocket and pointed it at me. I stepped closer still, shielding my friends from the possibility of being fired upon.
Several tense minutes of dialog ensued. I used my cunning with words and my inherent charm to ameliorate his concerns and placate his mis-placed anger. He pocketed his pistol and shambled back into the dark. My friends and I promptly fled the scene, somewhat shaken and thrilled by the strange encounter.
Monday, June 13, 2011
Handgun Robert
Some of the few intrepid souls that have somehow lost their way on the internet and ended up at this remote outpost of self-indulgence have inquired about my moniker here on my blog. My one follower, where ever she is (I love you, Polar Bear), knows the story. She lived it. But for anyone else who finds themselves reading this, I hope it sheds light on the Nickname.
Two thousand six was a difficult year for me. It was when my attempts at self-destruction finally came to fruition. For several years prior, I had been descending gradually into cocaine addiction and had finally come close to the bottom. Many of my friends had tried to help me and some had eventually turned their backs on me in my decline, justly, of course, as I let my addiction take control of me and my decision making processes. This addiction, in the end, cost me much of my previous life- my home, my career, many of my possessions, and many of my friends.
It was the loss of one particular friend that very probably saved me from the fate he, himself, met first. This friend, D-Bo, was a near constant companion during my heavy drug abuse, a fellow abuser and my partner in several shady activities that supported our habits. He was also a true friend on whom I could rely and who I could trust among a group of decidedly untrustworthy people. The details of his demise will remain for another post, but his sudden death was quite a shock to me.
I held on to that lifestyle for about another month. My few remaining assets and resources dwindled to nothing. My remaining friendships were all drug related. All of my hard work and promise had been squandered for fleeting pleasure.
Finally, after too long, I woke up to my much diminished circumstances. I acknowledged that I, too, would soon be facing death as a consequence of my choices and resolved to reassert control over my life. This would require radical change, new friends, a new scene, and new opportunities. I had to get out of town, away from the wreckage of what I had done there.
Unfortunately, my options were limited. I could try to get home to my parents, they would help me; but I had no means to do so and circumstances were forcing me to make this change abruptly and immediately. I, also, was very ashamed of the circumstances in which I found myself and knew that such would break their hearts. I didn't want to do that to them. This left me with one uncertain hope. Hope, because she was one of my life-long best friends and we had been through much together, but uncertain because, during my descent into drug addiction, I had screwed Jo over hard and then blown her off. She lived near by, in a small town to which I could bum a ride; and so, off I went.
Nervously, I approached the house. No one was there, so I took up residence on its porch with my ever-present book until Jo returned. Her boyfriend, Brother, was back first and welcomed me with surprising warmth, although he and I were old friends, as well. And soon, JD arrived also, a friend from high school and beyond whom I had not seen in many years. I was very nervous about what might happen when Jo got home though, as I had no other viable options for where I'd sleep or how I'd live without her help.
Well, she arrived; and welcomed me with hospitality I didn't deserve and friendship that I much needed. We began making arrangements for me to live there, to find work, and to, later, pay back the money I'd scammed off of her.
The town, Hot Springs, as I've said, was a small place; where everyone knows everyone else, where people are kind to each other, and where doors and cars are still left unlocked, even when no one is at home. My friend's house followed this practice and several of her friends used it to their advantage (with Jo's consent) when needed by borrowing bathroom facilities or computer/internet time while the usual occupants were out.
The very next day after my arrival; Jo's friend, the Polar Bear, who lived in a city bus in a beautiful, but remote , mountian cove without running water, arrived to take a shower. I had never met the Polar Bear, but Jo had informed me she might be stopping in. Therefore her arrival was not a surprise.
It is my habit, when not otherwise occupied, to sit somewhere and read. Books are a quiet passion of mine and I almost always have one or two on my person, reading dozens every year. One of my favorite spots in Jo's house was the at the bar in the kitchen. There is good light, the stools are comfortable, and the bar's elevation makes it ideal for resting a book while reading. It was in these circumstances the Polar Bear found me upon her arrival.
By coincidence, an incident several nights earlier had caused Brother's very authentic looking, mock .45cal BB pistol to be left on this same bar. No thought was involved in its arrangement, but it rested on the bar seemingly near-at-my-hand and accessible. I might add that, while I anticipated the Polar Bear's arrival, she had no opportunity to expect me.
When she came in the door, I could tell immediately she was taken aback. I tried my best to be reassuring, but I am not always very skilled at portraying warmth. I fear I must have failed, because the Polar Bear almost immediately left, surprising me that I got no real chance to greet her or get to know her, with whom I certainly expected to become friends by nature of her friendship with Jo and by the circumstances of Hot Springs itself. What I did not realize, though, was that my attempts at ingratiating myself to the Polar Bear were severely undermined by her perception that I had a pistol sitting ready within reach and the implications we all feel when meeting such a stranger alone.
She immediately went down to the Pub, the center of Hot Springs social life at the time, and reported her encounter, possibly causing a stir among the locals who were, likewise, troubled by the presence of a gun-toting stranger in their friend's house; until Mae, another good friend in the town, realized it must be me and tried to set things straight.
Obviously, the situation was resolved and the Polar Bear and I became very good friends. The Handgun Robert sobriquet comes from her husband, the Dodger, who enjoyed giving out nicknames and supplied this one in memory of the incident. It was in order to follow their blog that I set this one up and so the name seemed appropriate. The Dodger has since passed and I keep it in his memory.
Two thousand six was a difficult year for me. It was when my attempts at self-destruction finally came to fruition. For several years prior, I had been descending gradually into cocaine addiction and had finally come close to the bottom. Many of my friends had tried to help me and some had eventually turned their backs on me in my decline, justly, of course, as I let my addiction take control of me and my decision making processes. This addiction, in the end, cost me much of my previous life- my home, my career, many of my possessions, and many of my friends.
It was the loss of one particular friend that very probably saved me from the fate he, himself, met first. This friend, D-Bo, was a near constant companion during my heavy drug abuse, a fellow abuser and my partner in several shady activities that supported our habits. He was also a true friend on whom I could rely and who I could trust among a group of decidedly untrustworthy people. The details of his demise will remain for another post, but his sudden death was quite a shock to me.
I held on to that lifestyle for about another month. My few remaining assets and resources dwindled to nothing. My remaining friendships were all drug related. All of my hard work and promise had been squandered for fleeting pleasure.
Finally, after too long, I woke up to my much diminished circumstances. I acknowledged that I, too, would soon be facing death as a consequence of my choices and resolved to reassert control over my life. This would require radical change, new friends, a new scene, and new opportunities. I had to get out of town, away from the wreckage of what I had done there.
Unfortunately, my options were limited. I could try to get home to my parents, they would help me; but I had no means to do so and circumstances were forcing me to make this change abruptly and immediately. I, also, was very ashamed of the circumstances in which I found myself and knew that such would break their hearts. I didn't want to do that to them. This left me with one uncertain hope. Hope, because she was one of my life-long best friends and we had been through much together, but uncertain because, during my descent into drug addiction, I had screwed Jo over hard and then blown her off. She lived near by, in a small town to which I could bum a ride; and so, off I went.
Nervously, I approached the house. No one was there, so I took up residence on its porch with my ever-present book until Jo returned. Her boyfriend, Brother, was back first and welcomed me with surprising warmth, although he and I were old friends, as well. And soon, JD arrived also, a friend from high school and beyond whom I had not seen in many years. I was very nervous about what might happen when Jo got home though, as I had no other viable options for where I'd sleep or how I'd live without her help.
Well, she arrived; and welcomed me with hospitality I didn't deserve and friendship that I much needed. We began making arrangements for me to live there, to find work, and to, later, pay back the money I'd scammed off of her.
The town, Hot Springs, as I've said, was a small place; where everyone knows everyone else, where people are kind to each other, and where doors and cars are still left unlocked, even when no one is at home. My friend's house followed this practice and several of her friends used it to their advantage (with Jo's consent) when needed by borrowing bathroom facilities or computer/internet time while the usual occupants were out.
The very next day after my arrival; Jo's friend, the Polar Bear, who lived in a city bus in a beautiful, but remote , mountian cove without running water, arrived to take a shower. I had never met the Polar Bear, but Jo had informed me she might be stopping in. Therefore her arrival was not a surprise.
It is my habit, when not otherwise occupied, to sit somewhere and read. Books are a quiet passion of mine and I almost always have one or two on my person, reading dozens every year. One of my favorite spots in Jo's house was the at the bar in the kitchen. There is good light, the stools are comfortable, and the bar's elevation makes it ideal for resting a book while reading. It was in these circumstances the Polar Bear found me upon her arrival.
By coincidence, an incident several nights earlier had caused Brother's very authentic looking, mock .45cal BB pistol to be left on this same bar. No thought was involved in its arrangement, but it rested on the bar seemingly near-at-my-hand and accessible. I might add that, while I anticipated the Polar Bear's arrival, she had no opportunity to expect me.
When she came in the door, I could tell immediately she was taken aback. I tried my best to be reassuring, but I am not always very skilled at portraying warmth. I fear I must have failed, because the Polar Bear almost immediately left, surprising me that I got no real chance to greet her or get to know her, with whom I certainly expected to become friends by nature of her friendship with Jo and by the circumstances of Hot Springs itself. What I did not realize, though, was that my attempts at ingratiating myself to the Polar Bear were severely undermined by her perception that I had a pistol sitting ready within reach and the implications we all feel when meeting such a stranger alone.
She immediately went down to the Pub, the center of Hot Springs social life at the time, and reported her encounter, possibly causing a stir among the locals who were, likewise, troubled by the presence of a gun-toting stranger in their friend's house; until Mae, another good friend in the town, realized it must be me and tried to set things straight.
Obviously, the situation was resolved and the Polar Bear and I became very good friends. The Handgun Robert sobriquet comes from her husband, the Dodger, who enjoyed giving out nicknames and supplied this one in memory of the incident. It was in order to follow their blog that I set this one up and so the name seemed appropriate. The Dodger has since passed and I keep it in his memory.
Rebirth
Although no one is following this blog (and rightly so, it hasn't been updated for over a year), I have decided to work again on it, hopefully with a little more conviction. I hope to share stories from my adventures and various thoughts about the world I live in. I hope they aren't as boring as they sound. Anyway, if anyone reads this, I hope you find yourself briefly entertained by the contents.
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