For a complete listing of the first five parts of this story, as well as all of the adventures in The Island Chronicles, please click here on The Table of Contents.
Four Days on The Upper Yough
“Everybody looks at their poop.”
~Oprah Winfrey~
My eyes slowly scanned the rustling greenery of the forest in search of temporary entertainment to cure my momentary boredom. I scanned the tree line for a bird in the early morning air, poked at the ground hoping for a friendly caterpillar to play with, and tossed a pebble into the thick brush in desperation of stirring a sleeping varmint…………………..nothin’. I was simply left with my thoughts, the cool relief of the break of day throughout the Piney Mountain Wilderness, and the effects of a cup of cowboy coffee on my now churning bowels.
“I wish I had a shampoo bottle”, I thought to myself. A crow squawked in the distance, breaking the peaceful silence that encompassed the magical woodlands of the Western Maryland Mountains. The sky gleamed with a pale yellow as the sunlight reflected off the high clouds of the morning sky, and the drips and drops of the dewy leaves pitter pattered downward under the green canopy of trees. I relaxed in a comfortable squat over my cat hole, closed my eyes, and breathed deeply to help nature run its course. Then I opened my eyes and once again began the process of scanning the forest for the temporary hope of entertainment. “Pooping in the woods is peaceful”, I thought, “but damn is it boring as hell.” Time to make a mental note; “Bring reading material next time”…………………the Dirt Bag mind never stops growing.
“Do not indulge in dreams of having what you have not, but reckon up the chief of the blessings you do possess, and then thankfully remember how you would crave for them if they were not yours.”
~Marcus Aurelius~
Day 11, and our third day in a row down the infamous stretch of whitewater known simply as The Upper Yough. The battle scars were beginning to reveal themselves from the first half of our whitewater jihad, and our crew was showing signs of wear. These were not professional boaters. They were weekend warriors embarking on a journey, and they represented the struggle that every weekend warrior throughout the world exhibits as he or she battles between domestication and Dirt Baggin’. It is a battle that rages within all who have allowed their soul to be swept away by the love of whitewater rivahs. It’s the battle between The Flower Pickin’ Gentleman and The Epic Worthlessness that is Man. The feeling of having your soul captivated by the magic of the rivah cannot be explained, communicated, or written. It can only be experienced, and for some of us who experience it, it can change our lives…………………it most certainly has changed mine.
Due to the ragged nature of our battalion of Dirt Bag gradient seekers, our group was about to decrease in size. Mackenzie, Dale, and Shredder Aaron all decided to make the pilgrimage south towards the land of The Gauley, while myself, Flan, Phelan, and Chicago Mike remained behind for more shenanigans and mischief throughout the hamlets of Friendsville and Ohiopyle; and more sweet lines and salutary boofs in the land of The Upper Yough.
The previous afternoon we had made plans with our jolly little junkie to meet her at the takeout of the rivah following our run…………….I am sure you are all shocked to learn that she didn’t show. I made multiple phone calls in an attempt to reach her. Around 4pm the phone was finally answered, and a very sleepy sounding and only half coherent Lil’ Rook managed to mumble out a hello………….the conversation was sad indeed. It was very obvious she was whacked on smack and unable to clearly think. I was finished with it, and finished with her. Lil’ Rook had bailed on the trip, the agreement, and everyone that had made an attempt to help save her from a very dark and depressing existence. Most importantly, she had taken my share of the money, most likely to buy heroin. In hindsight, Lil’ Rook never possessed any intentions of fairly splitting her share of the illegally produced funds. She was a sick junkie. Fairness, honor, and respect have no place within those minds. The way she saw it, fairly relinquishing my 300 dollars meant 300 dollars less heroin for her in the future…………….the saddest part about the entire situation is that her extremely diseased conscience eventually accused me of stealing from her. By that point however I had simply chalked the funds, the shit show, and the junkie up as a waste of time, energy, and in her case life. My conclusion from the situation is simple…………………..the world is better off without heroin junkie’s, and it is certainly better off without the existence of Lil’ Rook. For all of you who feel that is a harsh conclusion………………………….deal with it assholes.
There were many amongst the group who understood the situation, and between Chicago Mike, Flan, Mackenzie and Dale, and Phelan, I was taken care of financially for the remainder of the trip. No matter what has happened or been said since their decision to help a pathetically naive Dirt Bag that had been ripped off by a junkie, they should know that I was and still am grateful for their generosity and will to keep the trip alive…………….Dirt Bags help Dirt Bags. They always have, and always will. Hopefully one day I can pay that favor both forward and back. Just like all the debt in my life, only time will tell.
“What the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the master calls the butterfly.”
~Pat Frayne~
The Upper Yough put in once again possessed a magical feel on this day. The bluebird sky released the warmth of the sun across the soft green grass as we geared up for battle against mile upon mile of Class IV challenges. Although our own personal group had decreased in size, the put in exemplified more life than I had ever witnessed on this rivah. Boaters from every corner of the globe had descended upon the Sang Run Valley in preparation for the pilgrimage to Summersville. Gauleyfest has become so much more than a whitewater festival; it is a nomadic tradition, a custom amongst a community. The journey that is made by all to reach Summersville every Fall withholds adventures, misfortunes, glorious victories, and timeless stories that we carry with us as memories for the remainder of our lives. As I witnessed the Sang Run put in on this day, the scene substantiated a celebration of the sacrifices that every one of us makes to do what we love. This is more than just a sport…………it’s our lives.
The third day of The Upper Yough will be forever remembered as the day of injuries. We entered the gorge a battle hardened platoon of whitewater ready soldiers. We exited into Friendsville a defeated, injury riddled cluster of safely drunken fools. (which I would still consider a victory by the way) Three straight days of Upper Yough and nightly partying is A LOT of whitewater lifestyle for anyone not represented by Red Bull or Astral or pushing rubber for a living, so the exact details of the day are forever lost in the depths of my piles of dead brain cells and whitewater blurred memories. I do recall enjoying the rivah with our new friends Jami and Matt, and running into a very boisterous and jubilant K.C. who was completing her first personal descent of the infamous gorge.
Somewhere in the vicinity of Meat Clever and Cheeseburger Falls our ever growing and consistently moving party of paddlers came across an unfortunate female kayaker with a nasty split lip that would be requiring stitches. She reported that she had accidently taken another boaters stern straight to the mouth while escaping a hole……………it looked extremely painful, but luckily enough Matt was present with an assortment of medical skills to extinguish the situation. This was the weeks second occasion in which Matt supplied medical care for an injury. A few days before he assisted Chicago Mike in relocating a dislocated finger……………….our Dirt Bag Doc was on the scene. While administering First Aid and partaking in an important safety discussion (always a solid combo), I noticed that there had been other injuries sustained within the gorge. I vaguely remember these injuries as we exited the rivah, but at this point in the week I was sleep deprived, burnt out, hung over, mentally exhausted, and physically torn apart……..everything was becoming a blur. Due to the late start, multiple injuries, consistently rotating safety discussions, and overall “I don’t give a fuck” attitude of the group, we chased the bubble to end our day with a sufficient amount of water in order to bring home our casualties.
Somewhere in the vicinity of Meat Clever and Cheeseburger Falls our ever growing and consistently moving party of paddlers came across an unfortunate female kayaker with a nasty split lip that would be requiring stitches. She reported that she had accidently taken another boaters stern straight to the mouth while escaping a hole……………it looked extremely painful, but luckily enough Matt was present with an assortment of medical skills to extinguish the situation. This was the weeks second occasion in which Matt supplied medical care for an injury. A few days before he assisted Chicago Mike in relocating a dislocated finger……………….our Dirt Bag Doc was on the scene. While administering First Aid and partaking in an important safety discussion (always a solid combo), I noticed that there had been other injuries sustained within the gorge. I vaguely remember these injuries as we exited the rivah, but at this point in the week I was sleep deprived, burnt out, hung over, mentally exhausted, and physically torn apart……..everything was becoming a blur. Due to the late start, multiple injuries, consistently rotating safety discussions, and overall “I don’t give a fuck” attitude of the group, we chased the bubble to end our day with a sufficient amount of water in order to bring home our casualties.
It is hard to believe that a scene as beautiful as the one present the previous evenings at the takeout could exist once again, and yet it did. The most alluring aspect of Friendsville is that it never changes. It is perfect just the way it is. We allowed time to once again disappear while gearing down and warming up under the evening sun. Cold beers and warm conversations exemplified the days end as we reminisced on the events of our rivah journey. Chicago Mike, Flan, Phelan, and I all decided to attend dinner at the Friendsville Hotel next to The Water Street Café. Dinner at the hotel is a unique experience. You don’t order the food. They only offer one dinner per night. However, that dinner is always a home cooked, southern style feast complete with sides, dessert, and a drink for a reasonable price………………..simple, right? Leave it to our group of Dirt Bag fucktards to complicate matters. On this night, that culprit was Phelan.
At this point in the story something should be noted about our friend Phelan. He has a tendency to do things that make you look at him and repeat the phrase “What the FUCK Phelan!” This doesn't just happen on occasion. It happens multiple times a day, and by the end of our journey the phrase “What the FUCK Phelan” became a household saying. I will use the situation that arose at the hotel dinner as an example of why we refer to Phelan as “What the Fuck Phelan”.
The process was simple. You pay a set price for the dinner and they serve you everything. On this night, the dessert was a bowl of vanilla ice cream. Phelan decided he only wanted parts of the dinner, including the bowl of ice cream…………so he launched negotiations with our waitress. By the end of the barrage the poor woman looked as though she had just been tactically assaulted by Donald Trump, and somehow Phelan had won the negotiations. That was the most amazing part! He successfully bartered an agreement in which he would pay 50 cents for each scoop of ice cream he ate……………..what the fuck Phelan!?! The embarrassment that I held inside due to the amount of Dirt Baggidness that had been displayed by our table was sad indeed. Who negotiates a 50 cent scoop of ice cream?.........Phelan, that’s who. I will never walk back into that establishment without remembering Phelan and his 50 cent ice cream negotiations. A TRUE Dirt Bag moment if there ever was.
“I had noticed that both in the very poor and very rich extremes of society the mad were often allowed to mingle freely.”
~Charles Bukowski~
Once dinner was completed and Phelan had successfully convinced our waitress to contemplate a new career path, we headed up the mountain toward Piney Mountain State Park. Our entire day consisted of a late start, from the rivah, to dinner, to now. Piney Mountain has a limited number of campsites available and the Rangers are very strict about camping within those designated sites. Upon arriving we realized that our late start had finally caught up with us and the usually available campsites were taken. The very last campsite available sits next to what is usually the end of the road. There is a gate and it is ALWAYS closed……………at least for the past five years I had visited it had always been closed. However, on this night the gate was open. Logic would leave anyone to believe that the reasoning behind this change was due to an overload of campers…………so we went through the gate.
We continued driving deeper and deeper into the forest before the road became extremely muddy and almost non drivable. Upon reaching the end we realized there were no campsites, however there was a giant turn around to allow cars and trucks to get out. It was dark, we were as deep in the forest as you could go, and we were exhausted. We figured the best thing to do was to camp at the turnaround…………..so we did.
It was no more than 10 minutes after we began to unpack that our friendly Forest Rangers arrived. They explained to us that we could not camp where we had decided to set up and then asked why we drove past the gate. I gave him the most logical answer possible……..”because it was open sir.” Apparently simple logic does not coincide with the Maryland Department of Natural Resources laws. Due to my smart ass answer and the fact that one of us was going to take the fall, I received the infamous DNR citation presented to so many Dirt Bags over the years for illegally camping. When the officer took my I.D. he commented that I possessed one of the worst identification pictures he had ever seen. Then he passed my I.D. around to everyone at the scene so that they could all laugh at the unfortunate image. I would say that it hurt my feelings, but then again, the Ranger possessed a 1970’s child molester mustache and the personality of a brick wall, so fuck him……..looked like we were once again homeless for the night.
The crew put our heads together and decided to drive to Ohiopyle and sleep in the public park, our go to last resort for the Dirt Bag week. It was late and the town was over an hour away. During the drive we all indulged in an ample amount of safety, and those not driving succeeded in developing a rather intoxicated demeanor……………..myself included. Upon arriving in Ohiopyle, we met up with a fellow guide from Phelan’s summer outfitter. Her name was Meredith and she lived in the guide housing in the center of town. Our Dirt Bag crew quickly developed a shady disposition by loitering on the side of the road while indulging in safety and beers dead in the center of Ohiopyle. I am pretty sure zero cops exist in the town, so the only thing we needed to worry about was the patrolling and retired neighborhood watchman.
While hanging out in the street I succeeded in two things. First, I was able to determine that Meredith was really hot and would be paddling with us the following day, which was a score; and second, I became extremely intoxicated………….yet again. Meredith retired for the evening after making plans for the following day, leaving our homeless asses to bed down for the night in the public park. The four of us decided to take a walk to The Loop and continue our intoxicated shenanigans. The Loop is part of the Pennsylvania State Park system and is a rather nice place to visit. Apart from the waterfall and rapids, there is a deep forest with walking trails and paths that lead you through the history of the area. It was late and the entire town was asleep, leaving four grown men to wander aimlessly through the park while telling war stories from our days on the rivah as we became increasingly safer and drunker. I remember that it was a dark night……….very dark. The drunker I became, the darker it seemed to get. In fact, it was so dark and I was so drunk that I feared I was going to fall off the “train bridge” on the far side of the park. We couldn’t see a damn thing, but somehow walked halfway across what I had always perceived in my mind as the “train bridge”. I convinced myself through the entire experience that I was inches away from falling to my death. Turns out that”train bridge” was nothing more than a safe walking path leading visitors to the far side of the rivah…………needless to say it was time for me to stagger back to the town park and pass the fuck out, which is exactly what I did. A rather long and unexpectedly adventurous Day 11 was in the books.
“Home is a notion that only nations of the homeless fully appreciate and only the uprooted comprehend.”
~Wallace Stegner~
I awoke with a sense of de-ja-vu. I was lying on my cot with my sleeping bag pulled over my face to keep me warm in my goose down cocoon. It was dark under the sleeping bag, but I could hear people talking outside and knew morning had arrived. Then I realized that I didn't recognize the voice I could hear…………then I realized it was an older gentleman’s voice…………….then I heard a truck running. “Damn it! Ranger’s again?” I thought. I threw off my covers and sat up abruptly to see what we had done wrong now. An old man was sitting in his truck on the road with the window rolled down. He was asking Phelan who allowed us to camp there. Phelan explained to him that the town ordinance allowed it. The man attempted to correct Phelan and became rather ornery with our crew……..not that I blamed him. I wouldn’t have wanted us sleeping in my town park either. We were Dirt Bags, nomads, drifters. We were the modern day hippie and the older generations of society were NEVER going to comprehend our lifestyle. To him we were nothing more than bums………..which is pretty much the TRUTH. That’s about the time Flan decided to interject into the conversation with his always useful wisdom. He sat up from his sleeping bag and in a polite voice looked dead at the gentleman and asked, “would you like to come over here and scratch my balls for me sir?”…………………yea, that helped the situation. Nice work Flan.
The man informed us that we were no longer allowed to sleep in the park, and then drove away slowly with a rather abrasive scowl directed dead at Flan. The ensuing laughter about the situation was a nice way to start Day 12…………and yes, we are all that immature. We were not the only Dirt Bags camped in the park on this night. A fellow DB and local guide arose from his own van in the parks lot with a wide smile on his face. He had overheard the conversation and the classic line delivered by Flan. He informed us that the man was a retired gentleman living in town and was determined to rid the park of all whitewater vagrants. Apparently the summer had been a lively one in the park, and the town was quickly realizing the mistake they had made……………never trust large quantities of Dirt Bags with a good thing. They will kill it every single time.
We quickly packed up and made the intelligent decision to disappear from the park before the old man returned with the local town constable. Chicago Mike broke away from our group after packing, deciding to head south towards Summersville and meet up with Dale, Mackenzie, and Shredder Aaron. They had all taken on the responsibility of preparing for the ensuing shit storm of a party that was about to take place at Gauleyfest. That left Phelan, Flan, and I. We had decided to run the Upper Yough one more day and then drive south that night to enter the debauchery of the Fest.
We quickly packed up and made the intelligent decision to disappear from the park before the old man returned with the local town constable. Chicago Mike broke away from our group after packing, deciding to head south towards Summersville and meet up with Dale, Mackenzie, and Shredder Aaron. They had all taken on the responsibility of preparing for the ensuing shit storm of a party that was about to take place at Gauleyfest. That left Phelan, Flan, and I. We had decided to run the Upper Yough one more day and then drive south that night to enter the debauchery of the Fest.
The three of us headed to one of the 13 different local coffee shops in town. It’s very strange……..although Ohiopyle is a small Pennsylvania town in the middle of the western mountains, it has an incredibly large number of coffee shops, ice cream parlors, and munchies joints. When we entered our chosen establishment we found Meredith sitting at the table already indulging in breakfast. We joined her and planned logistics for the day over coffee, donuts and bagels. The sun was shining brightly and the day was again upon us. The fourth straight day of Upper Yough excellence was about to commence.
Following breakfast Meredith headed back to the guide huts to pack for the day’s adventure, so Flan, Phelan and I climbed down to the side of Ohiopyle Falls for a safety discussion and excuse to kill time. Ohiopyle is perfect for killing time. It has 1000 little adventures to become lost in throughout the day. No matter how many times I visit, I always find something new to do or a new trail to explore. From Cucumber Falls, to the Meadow Run Slides, to The Falls and The Loop, to the town bar crawl, to exploring the outfitters and sneaking safety meetings in the guide huts, Ohiopyle will always be the perfect place to Dirt Bag life away.
After the Ohiopyle Falls safety discussion, our Dirt Bag caravan met up with Meredith and her friend Nikki to begin the trip south towards Friendsville and The Upper Yough. At this point in the story it is important to point out another key piece of information………………whitewater and women do not usually go hand in hand. Dirt Bags don’t attract anything to themselves except other Dirt Bags. (This was especially true in RVA until the time of The Fourteenth Street Whore) We have no money, are always on the rivah and unavailable, don’t mind living in a van, and we smell. Personally, I don’t blame women for their decision to avoid Dirt Bag paddling bums at all cost. We represent everything women would NOT want in a man. TRUTH
However, this trip was different for some reason. We were constantly surrounded by beautiful women along the journey, and the most ironic part is we didn’t even try……it just happened. Everyone knew that the DBP crew was touring through West By God with the intentions of throwing a massively offensive and highly illegal party at the end of our little caravan of chaos. And the best looking one of all (aside from Marcie of course) was Mackenzie, the one traveling along with us. Plus Shredder Aaron was rolling with us, and that dumbass has the ability to repel any woman, or so I thought. Turns out, when you let a Special Ed kid roll along on your journey, the women look at it as a soft hearted gesture, so in reality having Shredder Aaron around actually helped the cause…….who would have thought!?! All of this information, combined with our “we don’t give a fuck” attitude, attracted females in record numbers for a group of whitewater beaters. My conclusion from this situation is as follows; deep down the only thing a woman really wants is an out of control, homeless, inebriated, broke as hell, whitewater obsessed bum who never showers and lives in a van…………….go figure.
“... the devil doesn't come dressed in a red cape and pointy horns. He comes as everything you've ever wished for ...”
~Tucker Max~
We arrived in Friendsville on schedule, most likely because we were traveling with a responsible pair of attractive women. After a short visit to the takeout to drop off cars, meet up with friends, and organize shuttle, we were once again on our way up Friendsville Road, around Bishoff Farm, and down Sang Run to the put-in. The scene was harmonious when we arrived. The weather was perfect with a bluebird sky, the boaters were stoked with perfect flows, and the day was on track for another piece of whitewater perfection…………..oh how I love this life.
I have paddled The Upper Yough for five seasons, and each year the rivah becomes more and more familiar to me. 7 miles of continuous Class IV whitewater is A LOT of whitewater to remember, especially for a boater as conservative as myself, so becoming comfortable with the lines on the UY can take time. Day Four of our experience was the moment that The Upper Yough and I finally came into complete apperception with one another. I broke away from our group just after the first larger rapid, Bastard Falls. This was the first time I decided to explore the stretch of whitewater between Bastard and Nationals solo. It represents the toughest section of The Upper Yough, is steep and complicated, and contains multiple sieves and undercuts that want to keep you in the gorge permanently. The lines throughout this section are smooth, the boofs are numerous and of exceptional quality, and the scenery is magnificent. It was time for me to reap the rewards of five seasons of UY training.
The banks and eddies of the rivah were scattered with boaters from all corners of the whitewater world, so there were constantly a pair of eyes on me as I descended in my chosen long boat for the day…...The Freefall. Once I dropped into the more complicated section of rapids, the symbiotic waltz that is created between a paddler and his vessel began to take hold. My boat did the work for me as I delicately placed draw stroke after draw stroke into the zig-zagging lines of whitewater. Paddling the Upper Yough could probably be accomplished without the use of a single forward stroke for the entire run………it is the land of draw strokes, and it is beautiful to feel. Boof after boof naturally fell into place while approaching blind horizon lines and ominous pour overs. I was in my zone, far away from the problems of the world, the stressors of life, and the rat race of existence. The feeling I was experiencing is the reason each and every one of us were placed on this earth………..to become connected back to it. The rivah, the lifeblood and veins of Mother Earth, and I were one on this day…………..it was perfect.
I reached the top of Triple Drop quickly and peeled into the far right side eddy. Looking back, I realized that my cohorts were out of sight. I then looked around and became aware that I was completely alone. A few early risers could be seen climbing into a prime spot at Nationals, but they were far off and on the banks. I was alone, enshrouded in a Tolkenesque world of rock and whitewater, as deeply nestled into The Upper Yough gorge as one can be, protected by a dense hardwood forest looming all around me. I took a moment to breathe deeply, allowing all of my senses to take in the world around me. The bluebird sky was brilliant against the vibrant green forest and granite landscape, the roar of the rapids was deafening as it echoed through the gorge, the cool mist spraying off the thunderous rapids was refreshing against my face, the moist air (yea, I said it…..moist) tasted refreshing in my mouth, and the familiar smell of the rivah soothed my nerves. At that moment I found whitewater perfection, and it was at that moment that pure peace entered my mind. There were many memories and many experiences that my soul could have chosen to wander to while sitting in that eddy, however, only one thought came into my head..............Marlow and Quint.
I felt a comforting warmth enter my soul and wrap tightly around me. I could feel the presence of my children as I sat deep within the rapids of The Upper Yough, and I knew that just like the entire journey over the past three years, they were there with me at that moment. It was that subconscious feeling that motivated me throughout this journey.........the feeling of knowing that I was not alone. Marlow and Quint were always with me, watching over me, and understanding why I had to run so far in order to find my way back to them. I sat in the eddy, thinking about the two of them and slipping deeply into a state of pure consciousness. Then I opened my eyes, dipped my blade into the current, peeled out, and turned the corner, disappearing over the next horizon line.
I felt a comforting warmth enter my soul and wrap tightly around me. I could feel the presence of my children as I sat deep within the rapids of The Upper Yough, and I knew that just like the entire journey over the past three years, they were there with me at that moment. It was that subconscious feeling that motivated me throughout this journey.........the feeling of knowing that I was not alone. Marlow and Quint were always with me, watching over me, and understanding why I had to run so far in order to find my way back to them. I sat in the eddy, thinking about the two of them and slipping deeply into a state of pure consciousness. Then I opened my eyes, dipped my blade into the current, peeled out, and turned the corner, disappearing over the next horizon line.
“Children see magic because they look for it.”
~Christopher Moore~
I dropped through the washing machine chaos of Triple Drop and continued to slice my way towards the gradient lines of National Falls. After styling the entrance ledges, I spotted the boof rock and lined up my bow, driving directly toward the spot where rock meets water. As I launched my bow out and over the drop, I continued my boof stroke past it's normal point, attempting to wrap my bow around the rock and drop directly into the eddy. I plopped down hard into the still water, however, my stern slipped into the right side of the hole upon landing. I was quickly pulled backwards, straight into Nationals where I began a controlled bracing side surf. I was aware that I would be type writer'd across the hole and then spit out the other side, most likely upside down. I just prayed that a raft full of tourists didn't make the decision to drop onto my head before I was spit out.........on this day I was lucky.
After flushing the remaining water out of my skull from the nasal douching I had just received, I tossed my boat into the rocks and climbed up to a prime viewing spot for a mid day show of carnage and boofs. One by one, my friends descended the maze of whitewater, splatting, boofing, plugging, and beatering their way through the rapids. Another glorious day on The Upper Yough was upon us.
A short time passed before I was joined on the rivers edge by Meredith. She joined me for lunch and the two of us began a conversation about life and our rivah travels. Meredith was a lot like me...........we had both been divorced and she was granted limited access to her son based on the wealth held by her husband. She fought and struggled and attempted to hold a moral ground in the dispute, but morals and ethics play no part in the hell of divorce court. Eventually, she, just like me, said "fuck it" and hit the road for a Dirt baggin' adventure. It eventually led her to the small hamlet of Ohiopyle, where she had worked and guided for the past few seasons. Based on this story, there was an obvious connection between the two of us.................the fact that she was a hot as hell Dirt Bag didn't hurt the situation either.
Our lunchtime entertainment included a healthy dose of carnage for the peanut gallery and some sultry smooth lines and boofs for the appreciative crowd. The group then continued our descent of the gorge, eventually arriving at one of my life long nemesis rapids, Heizerling. I was able to drop the Gun Barrel and then style the main line with ease on this afternoon. The rafts chose the left Time Warp line, and a significant amount of carnage occurred. The far, far left side of Heizerling contains a sieve, and on this day a few rafts flirted with the death trap a bit too closely. In my decade of time on the rivah, rubber pushers have and always will be the sketchiest group of boaters to paddle with. Many Dirt Bags reading this will not like that comment.........................deal with it, because it is TRUTH.
After Heizerling, we continued to drop line after line and boof after boof throughout our fourth day of magic and mystery in the famous gorge. Once the rapids began to subside, Meredith's friend Nikki asked if she could switch boats with me and kayak out of the remaining gorge. I agreed, which in turn also put me in a Shredder with Meredith.....................you can see where this is going. The flat water eventually crept up on our battalion, and the boats began to spread apart as we meandered our way to the take out. Meredith and I brought up the rear, and neither of us appeared to be in any hurry to make the takeout or catch our crew. Once again, time was of no worry.
As we floated into Friendsville and past the antiquated hotel next to Water Street, beams of sunlight broke between the buildings and friendly towns folk sitting next to the rivah gave us an amicable wave. Meredith and I carried on a pleasant conversation as we drifted behind the Main Street bridge, enjoying the warm evening glow of the small town. I liked Meredith, and sensed a strong spirit within her. Beautiful moments accompanied me throughout this journey, and this moment was one of those memories. I leaned across the raft and gently kissed her as we passed under the Friendsville bridge, disappearing in the shadows of the structure. It wasn't a kiss of passion, or a kiss between two people who were about to fall in love. It was a kiss between two fellow Dirt Bags who had stumbled upon one another for one day, on the right rivah, in the right small town, at the right moment. That kiss was a representation of the moments every one of us live for, the moments we hold in a special place deep within our heart. Meredith would go on with her life, and I would go on with mine, but for one brief moment our paths crossed and we found a connection with another soul, and then lived that moment to its fullest. THAT is one of the most important lessons I will take away from these journey's.....................to never pass up the moments that come our way.
“I could have. What does this phrase mean? At any given moment in our lives, there are certain things that could have happened but, didn't. The magic moments go unrecognized, and then suddenly, the hand of destiny changes everything.”
~Paulo Coelho~
After flushing the remaining water out of my skull from the nasal douching I had just received, I tossed my boat into the rocks and climbed up to a prime viewing spot for a mid day show of carnage and boofs. One by one, my friends descended the maze of whitewater, splatting, boofing, plugging, and beatering their way through the rapids. Another glorious day on The Upper Yough was upon us.
A short time passed before I was joined on the rivers edge by Meredith. She joined me for lunch and the two of us began a conversation about life and our rivah travels. Meredith was a lot like me...........we had both been divorced and she was granted limited access to her son based on the wealth held by her husband. She fought and struggled and attempted to hold a moral ground in the dispute, but morals and ethics play no part in the hell of divorce court. Eventually, she, just like me, said "fuck it" and hit the road for a Dirt baggin' adventure. It eventually led her to the small hamlet of Ohiopyle, where she had worked and guided for the past few seasons. Based on this story, there was an obvious connection between the two of us.................the fact that she was a hot as hell Dirt Bag didn't hurt the situation either.
Our lunchtime entertainment included a healthy dose of carnage for the peanut gallery and some sultry smooth lines and boofs for the appreciative crowd. The group then continued our descent of the gorge, eventually arriving at one of my life long nemesis rapids, Heizerling. I was able to drop the Gun Barrel and then style the main line with ease on this afternoon. The rafts chose the left Time Warp line, and a significant amount of carnage occurred. The far, far left side of Heizerling contains a sieve, and on this day a few rafts flirted with the death trap a bit too closely. In my decade of time on the rivah, rubber pushers have and always will be the sketchiest group of boaters to paddle with. Many Dirt Bags reading this will not like that comment.........................deal with it, because it is TRUTH.
After Heizerling, we continued to drop line after line and boof after boof throughout our fourth day of magic and mystery in the famous gorge. Once the rapids began to subside, Meredith's friend Nikki asked if she could switch boats with me and kayak out of the remaining gorge. I agreed, which in turn also put me in a Shredder with Meredith.....................you can see where this is going. The flat water eventually crept up on our battalion, and the boats began to spread apart as we meandered our way to the take out. Meredith and I brought up the rear, and neither of us appeared to be in any hurry to make the takeout or catch our crew. Once again, time was of no worry.
As we floated into Friendsville and past the antiquated hotel next to Water Street, beams of sunlight broke between the buildings and friendly towns folk sitting next to the rivah gave us an amicable wave. Meredith and I carried on a pleasant conversation as we drifted behind the Main Street bridge, enjoying the warm evening glow of the small town. I liked Meredith, and sensed a strong spirit within her. Beautiful moments accompanied me throughout this journey, and this moment was one of those memories. I leaned across the raft and gently kissed her as we passed under the Friendsville bridge, disappearing in the shadows of the structure. It wasn't a kiss of passion, or a kiss between two people who were about to fall in love. It was a kiss between two fellow Dirt Bags who had stumbled upon one another for one day, on the right rivah, in the right small town, at the right moment. That kiss was a representation of the moments every one of us live for, the moments we hold in a special place deep within our heart. Meredith would go on with her life, and I would go on with mine, but for one brief moment our paths crossed and we found a connection with another soul, and then lived that moment to its fullest. THAT is one of the most important lessons I will take away from these journey's.....................to never pass up the moments that come our way.
“I could have. What does this phrase mean? At any given moment in our lives, there are certain things that could have happened but, didn't. The magic moments go unrecognized, and then suddenly, the hand of destiny changes everything.”
~Paulo Coelho~
Meredith and I grabbed the Shredder and made our way to the takeout field for another perfect Friendsville evening. Along with Flan, Phelan, and Nikki, we developed a plan of action for the remainder of the night. Flan and I were scheduled to be in Summersville on Tuesday afternoon. Considering it was now Thursday evening we figured we may as well just do whatever the hell we wanted.........which is pretty much what we had been doing all along. Phelan seemed to be on board for whatever ride came his way, and the girls were headed back to Ohiopyle. That's when the magical Hot Tub Time Machine Party was created. Nikki's sister lived in Ohiopyle and happened to possess a Hot Tub. The girls invited us back for a party in the thaumaturgic hot tub, along with a few of her other female friends who would be joining us from Ohiopyle...........JACKPOT!
I have never seen three Dirt Bags pack a car as quickly as we did. Without a moments hesitation, we were on the road and headed north for the PA border. Two hours later I found myself sitting in a Hot Tub with a group of beautiful rivah guides and my paddling homies, drunk as piss, discussing in-depth safety situations. The girl to guy ratio was just about perfect, and clothes were quickly becoming optional. I vaguely remember two dogs running around the yard when we had first entered the back gate. As I enjoyed the vociferant scene happening in the hot tub, the duplicitous canines enjoyed eating my flip flop in the backyard. Losing a flip flop is a big deal to a Dirt Bag. I know it doesn't seem like a ghastly misfortune, but trust me when I say that it was. I will never forget how those fucking dogs robbed me of my go to footwear during the Hot Tub Time Machine party. I still possess the surviving lonely flip flop................I have no clue why.
Eventually our crew abandoned the Hot Tub for more late night beer fueled exploits at the local pub, just a block up the road. The remainder of the night, as always, became very foggy. Eventually the Dirt Bag creed dictated that every man was for himself on sleeping arrangements. I stumbled back to the guide shack with Meredith, Phelan staggered home with Nikki, and from what I remember Flan found a nice warm body to curl up with for the night as well. Dirt Baggin' success was had by all.
The following morning I awoke in a peculiar looking shack that could only belong to a rivah guide.........the symptoms of a whitewater addiction were everywhere. Wet gear hung from a dry line strung across the center of the room, a random stack of guide books located on an unused chair in the corner, a bundle of guide sticks and a kayaking paddle leaning against the dresser, and the musty smell of soggy, damp rivah funk lingering everywhere. Meredith awoke beside me, rolled over, looked at me, and then delivered the most classic line of the entire trip.............."Oh my God. I can't believe I hooked up with a Dirt Bag." Hehehehehehe, that's right girl, you did. We always seem to sneak up on ya like that............success had once again been achieved.
Meredith and I walked down the hill from the guide shack and had breakfast together at the local coffee shop. While there, we realized that Flan and Phelan were both MIA. I texted each, and Phelan responded that he was ok and planned to drive himself south to Gfest later that morning. Flan on the other hand was riding with me and was no where to be found. I put out an APB by text, Facebook, and phone in attempt to locate him. The message that was sent out went something like this...........
"Flan is missing somewhere in Ohiopyle. We have been deep in the trenches for over four days now and after a fourth consecutive Upper Yough run and a drunken hot tub extravaganza late last night, we have all split up in the hopes of getting laid and sleeping indoors. I need help finding Flan this morning so that we can go to Gauleyfest. If anyone has heard from him send him to the Ohiopyle coffee shop, regardless of the condition of his hangover. Thank you"
Eventually both Flan and Phelan arrived at the coffee shop..............our conditions were unfavorable to say the least. We were starting to look like The Walking Dead, however, failing to rally was NOT an option. DBP had been heavily marketing a Friday night party for the Gauleyfest weekend, with the drawing card being a raft full of free beer and a Wet T-Shirt Contest. That was a pretty damn good marketing pitch for a Friday night Dirt Bag at Gauleyfest. Booze and Boobs.................little did we know the kind of chaos about to ensue.
“I believe when life gives you lemons, you should make lemonade...and try to find someone whose life has given them vodka, and have a party.”
~Ron White~
Eventually our crew abandoned the Hot Tub for more late night beer fueled exploits at the local pub, just a block up the road. The remainder of the night, as always, became very foggy. Eventually the Dirt Bag creed dictated that every man was for himself on sleeping arrangements. I stumbled back to the guide shack with Meredith, Phelan staggered home with Nikki, and from what I remember Flan found a nice warm body to curl up with for the night as well. Dirt Baggin' success was had by all.
The following morning I awoke in a peculiar looking shack that could only belong to a rivah guide.........the symptoms of a whitewater addiction were everywhere. Wet gear hung from a dry line strung across the center of the room, a random stack of guide books located on an unused chair in the corner, a bundle of guide sticks and a kayaking paddle leaning against the dresser, and the musty smell of soggy, damp rivah funk lingering everywhere. Meredith awoke beside me, rolled over, looked at me, and then delivered the most classic line of the entire trip.............."Oh my God. I can't believe I hooked up with a Dirt Bag." Hehehehehehe, that's right girl, you did. We always seem to sneak up on ya like that............success had once again been achieved.
Meredith and I walked down the hill from the guide shack and had breakfast together at the local coffee shop. While there, we realized that Flan and Phelan were both MIA. I texted each, and Phelan responded that he was ok and planned to drive himself south to Gfest later that morning. Flan on the other hand was riding with me and was no where to be found. I put out an APB by text, Facebook, and phone in attempt to locate him. The message that was sent out went something like this...........
"Flan is missing somewhere in Ohiopyle. We have been deep in the trenches for over four days now and after a fourth consecutive Upper Yough run and a drunken hot tub extravaganza late last night, we have all split up in the hopes of getting laid and sleeping indoors. I need help finding Flan this morning so that we can go to Gauleyfest. If anyone has heard from him send him to the Ohiopyle coffee shop, regardless of the condition of his hangover. Thank you"
Eventually both Flan and Phelan arrived at the coffee shop..............our conditions were unfavorable to say the least. We were starting to look like The Walking Dead, however, failing to rally was NOT an option. DBP had been heavily marketing a Friday night party for the Gauleyfest weekend, with the drawing card being a raft full of free beer and a Wet T-Shirt Contest. That was a pretty damn good marketing pitch for a Friday night Dirt Bag at Gauleyfest. Booze and Boobs.................little did we know the kind of chaos about to ensue.
“I believe when life gives you lemons, you should make lemonade...and try to find someone whose life has given them vodka, and have a party.”
~Ron White~
See ya on the rivah, most likely screaming "What the fuck Phelan!" at the top of my lungs! PEACE
