22 years: that’s how many years separate myself from the first time i rode in that canoe. time passes quickly in life. i hope i’m able to be as much of a positive influence in someone’s life as my grandfather has in mine. the story of my first canoe trip has been told a many times. i have yet to grow tired of hearing hunny tell it. last month i was very happy to receive the story from my grandfather, written down, and from his perspective. below i have posted the story with some of my thoughts about that moment in parentheses.
Bill's First White Water Canoe Trip... or How Not To Run a Cold River
- by Ron Stone
The morning was one of those cold West Texas mornings, just after a blue Northern had blown in. Trying to entice Bill out of his sleeping bag was going to be an extra hard job. Not one part of his nine year old body showed out of the opening of his sleeping bag, just a black hole. Even the frying of bacon and eggs I was using as a lure, didn't cause any movement (although I wasn‘t moving… I can still remember the smell of the bacon and the bitter cold of the air). I was frying breakfast on the tailgate of my pickup and the opening into his sleeping bag was only a foot away. “You ready for breakfast“, I asked? From way down in his warm cavern I heard a "yeah". Taking a slice of bread, I put a strip of bacon and some eggs into it and rolled it up. I positioned it in front of the opening. Out shot a hand and part of an arm, snatching up the breakfast roll. Just as quickly, it vanished back into the cavern. I heard a muffled thanks from around a mouth full of food (and that was some good food… I still can feel the heat coming off the eggs and the taste of the bacon and wheat bread... uummm!). Jane, one of the canoe organizers came walking up and watched as I held another bacon roll close to the opening and laughed as Bill's hand shot out. "We're thinking of leaving soon, do you think you will be ready?“, looking at Bill's sleeping bag. I looked at the sleeping bag and asked, "Are we going canoeing Bill?” There was movement and Bill emerged and headed for the bathroom.
Jane ask if I would take my pickup and carry some of the groups canoes, I told her fine. The nearer we came to the Rio Grande, the more hilly it became. The wind was still out of the North and had a bite to it. It was blowing straight down the 10 miles of canyon we were going to run. This was Bill's first white water trip but he didn't seem nervous. If he had known what lay ahead, I'm sure he would have backed out. Being an old river runner, I thought I had everything under control. Bill and the canoe group were to find out, just how little my mind was working that morning.
We unloaded the canoes, paddles, life jackets and all the gear. After loading the canoe, I put Bill in the front and we paddled around in the calm water. Staying out of the fast current I showed Bill how to back stroke to slow the canoe, how to pull the canoe sideways with side strokes, and how to get on his knees when going through white water. Everything looked good, my blood was flowing, but that water was very cold. So what, we were in a canoe and the old man in the back had run many rivers!
We let most of the ten or so canoes go on ahead and then we turned our canoe into the fast running current. No white water on this part of the river, so Bill would have time to adjust to the canoe while sitting on the seat. As we drifted down river, following the other canoes around bends where the current accelerated, Bill seemed to be enjoying himself and I had no concerns. I was looking forward to the upcoming white water. It's not that often that you are able to show your grandson the excitement of running white water in a fast flowing river.
Looking back now, I can't remember what happened. We rounded one of the sharp bends in the river and headed for the shallow water, where the group had stopped. Suddenly the canoe turned over and the shock of the cold water stunned us. When I came up, Bill was in front of the canoe and down river, his life jacket was holding him up. I told him to swim to shore and I started dog paddling the overturned canoe to shore. We were in calm water in no time, so no danger except to my pride, as the group watched us struggle ashore.
After dumping the water out, I untied the dry bucket with our extra cloths in it. Bill was trembling from the cold as I handed him dry cloths to put on. I told him to go behind a bush to change, as there were women in the group. To my surprise, I found no dry cloths for myself. As hard as I looked, they just weren’t there!
All outdoors and survival books will tell you to "always" wear wool pants and shirts in cold weather. As even when they are wet, they will insolate you from the cold. What was I wearing? The old river runner was wearing jeans, a rayon shit, and light jacket. Did I say, they were wet? Well they were and everywhere my skin came in contact with the jeans, it felt like they were about 30 degrees Fahrenheit. The temperature was 50 degrees outside but not inside my wet jeans.
Bill didn't say much as we pushed off from shore. The canyon walls towered about 2000 feet above us, so there was no other way out except down the river to our takeout point. I have to state, jeans take days to dry unless you put them in a dryer. We were three hours from our take out point and twenty miles from camp. I was thinking that it couldn't get much worse or more uncomfortable, but I was wrong.
When we pulled ashore for lunch an hour or so later, I HAD FORGOTTEN TO BRING OUR LUNCH! By this time, my grandson is looking at me like I'm a nut case. Here's this old guy walking up and down the river bank trying to keep warm and telling a hungry nine year old boy that he forgot to bring food. Some of the group gave Bill a few grapes and two or three crackers, they brought only snacks. By this time Bill isn't speaking to me and I don't blame him. I'm not speaking to me ether, except for things like "how dumb can you get?" Bill got to run some white water and he did well. He didn't starve, but he ate his share of food at the groups pot luck supper that night.
We ran another canyon the next day. Four of the group decided to move camp down into the back country next to the Rio Grande. When I say back country, I mean about an hour of dirt trails over and down dry creeks beds. The road has never been graded, just looks like someone started winding through the desert and everyone followed in his or her tracks. Almost all bushes have thorns and dry washes are everywhere. A low slung car would not make it here and you don't want to be in this part of the country when it rains. All the dry creeks turn into fast running water and you're stuck until it dries up.
Our first night at our new camp was clear and the stars looked so close that you could reach up and grab a handful. The Rio Grande flowed just ten feet from our camp, the wind had died down, and the night was one you dream about.
The next morning we carried the three canoes on my pickup about three miles to the entrance to a canyon that ended at our camp site. About half way through the run, the wind started blowing hard and right into our faces. We had some hard paddling ahead as the low clouds came rolling in. The clouds turned a daytime sky into night. We could smell the rain coming. Not much talking, just hard paddling. Everyone knew we had to get our trucks to a hard road before the storm hit or we’d be stuck there for days.
As soon as we hit camp, someone drove me to pick up my truck, and of course we had a flat tire. When we returned to camp, we threw our gear into the trucks, tied it down, and hauled our butts to a hard road. We made it to the hard road as the cold wind started blowing large white snow flakes across the truck. After making sure everyone had made it out, we all went our seperate ways.
I drove toward our old camp site looking for a motel, as it was too cold to camp in that weather. We ended up driving 30 miles before we found a motel. By then it was almost midnight, Bill had had enough camping to last him awhile and spent half an hour under a hot shower (Yes, one of the best showers I have ever had… half an hour is not an exaggeration).
Bad news the next morning, after counting my money. I found I had only enough to buy gas for our eight hour trip home. I had loaned one of our group $10 when he lost his wallet. Again Bill gave me that look when I broke the news, that his breakfast would consist of three week old donuts and warm coke (I can‘t remember the reason why I ate those old donuts and drank the warm Coke… but I remember them being pretty good).
Not much talk on our way home ,but we did have good news when we were 100 miles from home. We had a tail wind and this helped our gas mileage, so we were able to buy a couple hamburgers, cold coke for Bill and my first cup of coffee for the last 30 some hours. Our spirits were revived, life was looking better with each passing mile.
Bill and I along with his sister Kayce went on other canoe and camping trips, but non gives us as many laughs when we talk about it after all these years. It has been around 20 years since that adventure and I still have to laugh when I think of it. Bill still has the canoe we used and I'm glad as he earned it on that adventure.
Ron Stone 12/10/2004
