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.
Monday, June 27, 2011
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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