Back in the early 1980’s, when I was still in college, and my older brother, Dave, was just beginning his professional career, we decided to take a weekend canoe trip on a river in Wisconsin. My summer job was manning the pizza-oven at Barnaby’s in the Chicago area (six rotating shelves, potentially containing six large pizzas each - that’s right, I was “PizzaMan!”), and I was quite willing to forego that pleasure for a few days on the river.
We arranged with a canoe-rental guy to drive us to the head of a river, and allow us to set off on our grand adventure, agreeing that he would pick us up two days later downstream, at a certain location on the river. We had packed a tent and food and other supplies (beer and cigars), and were looking forward to spending a few days paddling.
As we set off, there were a great amount of “day-trippers,” on the water, including a number of canoes with drunken college students, engaging in river battles with their paddles. After a few hours, the crowd dissipated, and we were left alone on our journey. I don’t remember the name of the river, but the natural surroundings were quite beautiful, at times featuring majestic cliffs on both sides of the river, rising up to the sky.
The downside to a canoe trip is that it isn’t necessarily all paddling. At times, the river is clogged by a large amount of tree branches and rocks and other impediments, such that a canoe is unable to smoothly continue its passage. Some of these barriers are so large as to become completely impassable, and the erstwhile canoeists must exit the river via the bank and march along the bank until they are beyond the impediment, and then re-enter the river. We had to execute several portages that day - some, up a bit of a hill, and extending for several hundred yards. Portages are more of a workout than just paddling on a river, particularly when hoisting a gear-laden canoe.
After a full day of paddling (and portaging), we decided that we had had enough for the day, and determined to find a spot to camp for the night. We had asked the canoe-rental guy about places to stop along the river, and he mentioned a spot downstream which featured an Artesian well, which, to be honest, neither one of us knew what that was.
As we parked our canoes on the riverbank (perhaps “park” is not the proper term to describe what we were doing; Microsoft Word’s thesaurus function reflects a couple of alternatives, which might be more appropriate: “land”; “debark” (that’s sounds more like denuding a tree); “come ashore”; “get off (hmmm. . .I typically shy away from those phrases which might contain naughty, double-entendre meanings); “arrive in port” (it would have been difficult to describe this spot as a ‘port’); and “embark” (wait, isn’t that the opposite of park?), just past an overhead bridge, there was a bit of a clearing, which seemed a likely spot to camp for the night.
We searched the area a bit, and discovered an opening in the ground that gurgled brackish water; surely, that can’t be our coveted Artesian well? Again, given that we had absolutely no idea what an Artesian well was, we couldn’t be sure. At least we had beer. We pitched our tent and set about gathering firewood to make a fire to cook whatever it was we decided that we had to cook that night. In scouting the area, we realized that we were not the only visitors to this spot, inasmuch as there was a white bikini top hanging blithely in a nearby tree.
So many questions: Where exactly was the bottom half of that bikini? Where exactly was the girl who had likely occupied that bikini at some point? Where were we going to scrape together enough dry firewood to get a fire started? Because, as you know, being located on a riverbank, there was plenty of moisture to go around, and not as much dry firewood, and kindling as you might desire.
Somehow, we got the fire going (no, we didn’t pack charcoal briquets and lighter fluid, diverted from the Weber grill located on the patio back home); we used actual firewood gathered from the wet riverbank, and enjoyed a delightful dinner of something, which currently eludes my forty-year-old memory.
We settled in for the night in the tent, and slept contentedly until morning. The next morning, we again foraged for firewood dry enough that we could cook breakfast. Alas, our morning efforts did not bear fruit, and we were unable to stoke a fire that morning. But, we lounged at our campsite, enjoying a leisurely, cold breakfast.
We then noted the arrival of a pickup truck coming across the bridge, and watched silently as the truck parked by the side of the road, and a guy emerged from the truck. We remained silent, as the guy strode across a clearing directly adjacent to our campsite, which was protected by a small stand of trees. We saw this guy place what appeared to be an orange crate at the edge of the clearing, perhaps twenty yards from our site, and march back towards the other side of the clearing, near the road where his truck was parked.
The next sound we heard was the boom of a shotgun, as the “lone gunman” began to engage in target shooting, splintering the orange crate in the process. Dave and I looked worriedly at each other, and agreed that it was time to get the hell out of there. We frantically tore down the tent, and quickly gathered up the rest of our gear, clattering pots and pans in the process, and tossed everything haphazardly into the canoe, and started paddling away as quickly as we could. We left the white bikini top hanging majestically in the breeze.
I’m sure the guy heard the noise from our fast-tracked departure, but he probably determined, as we did, that an approach would have been awkward, given the circumstances of our encounter. And, as sheltered suburbanites, already a bit spooked by our foray into the wilderness, not to mention the bottomless bikini, we weren’t sure what to expect in the middle of nowhere. I mean, Deliverance at that point was less than ten years old, and we had each seen the bad things that can happen when rural folks stumble upon outsiders - admit it, you’re hearing banjo music right now, aren’t you?
As we paddled away from the scene, we jointly decided that we would happily curtail our river adventure, and exit the river at the earliest opportunity. We paddled a bit more, until we crossed under another bridge, which appeared to lead to a small cluster of buildings, including a general store of some sort. Dave volunteered to wander up to the store, and find a payphone to call the canoe rental guy, and ask that he come retrieve us a day early (this was many years before the advent of cellphones).
We edged the canoe onto the bank, which was part of a large field, and which contained a number of grazing cows. I stepped out of the canoe, and promptly sank about three feet deep into what was likely cow manure-infused mud. As I extricated my foot from the hole, my shoe remained at the bottom of the hole. I briefly debated the merits of going in after it, and, for some reason decided that there must be, “No shoe left behind!”
Dave returned from the store, having successfully reached the canoe rental guy, who agreed to pick us up soon. Thus ended our wilderness adventure.
Not wanting to admit defeat, and return home earlier than planned, we found a small motel on the side of the road, with a neglected swimming pool, and with throwback hotel rooms, which would have appeared right at home at the Bates Motel, and we stayed the night there. Admit it, you’re hearing that “Ree, ree, ree” sound from the 1960 Alfred Hitchcock thriller, Psycho, which played during the shower scene. I don’t remember if the beds featured “Magic Fingers,” but I wouldn’t be surprised if they did, because I do recall that there was a coin-operated radio on the bedside table - that’s classy, man! For those of you too young to remember “Magic Fingers,” it was a device mounted onto a hotel room bed which vibrated the bed for fifteen minutes, upon inserting a quarter into a slot. Now, I’m not suggesting that “Magic Fingers,” invented in 1958, singlehandedly sparked the sexual revolution of the 1960’s, but I believe that one could mount an argument that there was a clear, causal relationship.
Returning home from this trip, back to suburban civilization, I resolved never again to tamper with the delicate balance which exists in nature, one which mandates that suburban man is not to attempt to enter the nether-world that is rural America. I had seen both Pyscho and Deliverance, but I hadn’t heeded the warnings. Watching reruns of The Andy Griffith Show was as real as I wanted to get (Admit it - you’re hearing that iconic whistling right now, aren’t you?). I mean, Barney Fife wasn’t even allowed to load his gun; he had to carry his bullet in his breast-pocket. And, I can’t recall a single episode in which Aunt Bee sported a white bikini - either wearing both pieces, or just the bottoms. If that’s not real life, I don’t care - that’s the rural America I want to believe exists.