Fear and Loathing in West By God (Part IV)

Please click here to access The Intro, Part I, Part II, and Part III of this story.


Late Night Shots, Stealing Kisses, and Lil' Rook kills our Crash Pad


“Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards.”
~Søren Kierkegaard~


   Day 7.........It's Saturday night, one week before Gauley Fest. I stand outside a random bar in a no name town in southwestern Pennsylvania, deep within the trenches of an epic whitewater road trip. I am overseeing the shenanigans of an assemblage of Wisco Dirt Bag Paddlers as they indulge in the safety of life. Down the street the roar of Ohiopyle Falls can be heard reverberating through the small rivah borough as it calls to paddlers from near and far to drop it's silky smooth lines and stomping boofs. Festivities from within the brown bottle establishment can be heard throughout the succoring scene. Somewhere inside that bar, my little junkie sidekick is frolicking in the shadows, doing things that junkies do. Ahead of us lies 7 straight days of Upper Yough whitewater tranquility, devilish iniquitous behaviors, a disgraceful celebration of debauchery and nefarious deeds, and the soft pillowy goodness of the Gauley Rivah.
   I sip the golden elixir of the Rivah Gods........PBR, and softly grin with satisfaction about the moment at hand. The moon rises high over the ridge lines constricting the rivah deep within the valley, and the flow of the mighty Yough passes the time. Little do I know that this night is different from the rest, and is one that will be remembered for sometime to come. Not because of the whitewater tranquility that lay ahead, the iniquitous behaviors about to be exhibited, the succoring scene, the nefarious deeds, or the silky smooth lines, but because this is a personal celebration for me, one in which I am closing the book on one chapter of my life, and opening the book to a new one.


“I could not tell you if I loved you the first moment I saw you, or if it was the second or third or fourth. But I remember the first moment I looked at you walking toward me and realized that somehow the rest of the world seemed to vanish when I was with you.”
                                                       ~Cassandra Clare~


   The safety meetings continued to burn into the night and the gregarious gala of Dirt Bags gathered inside drank away the evening as they told stories of the good ole' days on the rivah. My attention was now preoccupied by a rather captivating blond named Marcie, whom I hoped would continue to carry on the conversation I had surprised myself in starting. Our group strolled back across the parking lot before meeting up with familiar faces at the picnic tables outside the front door of the bar. Greetings commenced and the faction of whitewater addicts grew increasingly larger. I turned to Marcie and again surprised myself by asking her if I could buy her a beer inside. It just felt like the right move to make at the time. I simply did it without thinking about it. The entire evening was very contented. The entire courtship happened naturally.
   Marcie replied in her halcyon voice, "sure", and we quietly slipped away from the crowd towards a conveniently open spot for two at the bar. I found this very peculiar seeing that the establishment was crowded for a Saturday night, but considered myself lucky. Marcie and I sat down, chose Magic Hat #9 as our poison, and engaged in the socially ritualistic pattern of getting to know one another; however, on this occasion, as opposed to most, I found her to be very intriguing and I actually listened to what she had to say.........it was strange.
   We were not far into the conversation before I realized that Marcie had grown up near the Upper Yough put-in, was about to graduate from John Hopkins in Nuclear Medicine, was open minded about a variety of key concepts in life, and dated a Dirt Bag kayaker for years, making her well seasoned in the foible characteristics of a boating boyfriend. So to review; she was beautiful, intelligent, motivated, open minded, understood a boaters life, and she was capable of putting up with my shit...............JACKPOT!
   Marcie and I continued to discuss the key matters of the universe while Dirt Bags increased their drunken intensity around us. While sitting at the bar, we met a local named Lenny. Lenny was a good ole boy, friendly as can be, and was very interested to learn more about the community that had consumed his local watering hole for the evening. I informed Lenny that we planned to camp out, most likely at the Ohiopyle local park, an innocuous oasis for Dirt Bags the world over. The legend states that a local boater purchased the land in the park to give boaters an area to camp in a safe environment. The area contains a children's playground that includes kayaks cemented into the ground, picnic tables, hop scotch, grassy knolls, shadowy oak trees, and rainbows and butterflies all around. Throughout the summer, this naturally beautiful area landlocked within a small conservative community was overrun by Dirt Bag vans, homeless kayaking and rivah guide shelters of all colors and sizes, and an array of gypsy like nomads passing through town on their way to an endless trail of whitewater adventures.  Basically, a whitewater refugee camp had been created in the middle of town...............this was a nicely brewed recipe for complete disaster, but we will come back to that topic later in our story.
   Lenny once again surprised both Marcie and I by inviting the two of us, as well as the rest of our whitewater entourage, back to his cabin to crash..........again the night just kept falling into place. Lenny seemed like a nice enough guy, so we concluded that he was simply paying a good deed forward, and didn't plan to hack us all up in a Silence of the Lambs style nightmare. We gathered up our thoroughly inebriated crew, which included the Wisco Dirt Bags notorious leader Chicago Mike, and headed for the cars. Upon reaching the DBP tailgate, we discovered a majority of the crew of Wisco Dirt Bags passed out on cots, in their cars, and anywhere they found a comfortable enough place to fall. The scene was rather pathetic, and made one TRUTH very apparent.........Virginia could easily go harder than Wisconsin. After Day 1 there was already a clear favorite..................Virginia: 1 Wisconsin: 0


“If you're not gonna go all the way, why go at all?”
                                      ~Joe Namath~ 


   Eventually T-Love, Jamin, Marcie, Lil' Rook, Chicago Mike, and myself all rallied for the short trip to Lenny's cabin. Lenny lived in a quaint little antiquated A Frame house on the outskirts of Ohiopyle. When we arrived, we found an old man, around 70 or 80, chilling within the dwelling. Lenny introduced him as his roommate, and my senses told me that the old man looked familiar; however I couldn't quite place where I knew him, so I let the feeling go. Lil' Rook headed straight to bed after a long day of smack induced naps and junked out nod offs. Lenny broke out the bourbon and shot glasses, and the late night shenanigans commenced deep in the forest of southwestern Pennsylvania.
   I am not a liquor drinker......usually. On this night however, I attempted to calm the nerves by downing a shot of witches brew with Marcie and the rest of our boisterous crowd. I wanted to kiss her, but I knew I had no game. I assumed the whiskey would succor my apprehensions and augment my self-confidence...........either that or it would simply allow both of us to be shit faced drunk for the remainder of the night. After the first round of shots we lost Chicago Mike, who demonstrated the proper way to pass out on a couch while sitting up..................those Wisco kids sure did talk a much bigger game than they brought. (a theme that seemed to be reoccurring throughout the trip) Lenny quickly moved us on to Round 2 of the whiskey, and upon doing so, my mind awoke to the familiarity of Lenny's ole' school roommate............the bus driver!!!! The old man was the legendary bus driver that shuttled everyone out of the Lower Yough at the end of every trip. Each whitewater paddler descending the Lower Yough within the last 30 years had been assisted in escaping the gorge by our new drinking buddy. This called for a celebration.............one more round of shots.
   As the night wore on I continued to become more and more brazen in my flirtatious nature with Marcie. Eventually we snuck away to the back porch where I was able to succeed in stealing a kiss. While doing so, Marcie gently pushed me away, smiled, and shook her head. "You are way too cute for me to be kissing" she softly stated, followed by a classic Marcie giggle. How was I suppose to respond to that? She kissed me once more and then took my hand and led me back inside. At this point the liquor began to take hold and the late night memories faded away with thousands of late night memories that have been forever suppressed by the fog of whisky. Marcie and I ended up falling asleep together in the confines of one of Lenny's random backrooms that Lenny was nice enough to point out to me................unknowingly, it was the first of many nights Marcie and I would fall asleep together.


“That's the problem with drinking, I thought, as I poured myself a drink. If something bad happens you drink in an attempt to forget; if something good happens you drink in order to celebrate; and if nothing happens you drink to make something happen.”
                                         ~Charles Bukowski~


   Day 8.................Hangover Sunday. The fog of Sunday morning lingered throughout Lenny's cabin as beams of sun began to creep into the crepuscule through the cracks of the shrouded windows of the house. Beds and couches throughout the humble abode were filled with lifeless bodies wounded from the previous nights whisky. Everywhere signs of Dirt Bag shenanigans, safety meetings, rounds of shots, and late night carousing revealed the true character of an in depth whitewater journey. The Saturday night welcoming party was a success and the week of whitewater was underway with a slow and painful start to an epic 7 days of boating.
   The pounding headache that I unfortunately possessed reminded me of why I am a man of safety and not whisky. My cephalalgia was remedied by the accompaniment of a sweet, softly spoken blond curled up tightly next to me. Due to this fortunate situation, I was in no rush to hop out of bed and hit the rivah. Marcie and I remained hidden away, quietly sleeping late into the morning..............I had no idea what everyone else was doing, and I didn't care.
   Eventually we arose to a house full of activity and rallying Dirt Bags. Lenny was still knocking out life, cooking breakfast and cleaning up from the previous nights liquor adventures. Dirt Baggin' is an art form that is only possible due to the friendly nature and welcoming presence of people like Lenny. I will forever be grateful to all of those who have housed and fed Dirt Bags throughout the years, and I look forward to paying the process forward to future generations of Dirt Bags yet to come. Thank you Lenny for your kind and caring hospitality.
   Our crew eventually rallied and returned to the bar for a long and lazy lunch. The Wisco kids who had passed out in the parking lot the night before were already planning logistics and deliberating shuttle options for a Sunday afternoon run down the Class III Lower Yough. Based on the insistent presence of a massive headache, Class III sounded perfectly fine to me.  And a slow and lazy lunch sounded just as nice.
   Marcie arrived at the party the night before with T-Love and Jamin, so that now made T-Love and Jamin my two favorite Dirt Bags. I planned to make a late afternoon run with T-Love, Jamin, Lil' Rook, and T-Love's friends Matt and Jami, who had yet to arrive. This situation gave me plenty of time to spend with Marcie before she left for Accident, Maryland to attend her niece's birthday party. Marcie and I spent a majority of the afternoon sneaking away to the empty guide shack next to the bar so that I could steal one more kiss before she left. The afternoon was radiant and mild, with nothing on the agenda but pre rivah lagers and Bloody Mary's to cure the withdrawals of whisky. The first weekend of our Dirt Bag journey ended up yielding a rather relaxing rest period for us all....................which was a convenient occurrence, because we were going to need it.  After stealing one final kiss, Marcie wrote her number in my journal in a swooping cursive style, and in a soft spoken voice she smiled and told me she would see me soon.  Then she exited our Dirt Bag world as quietly as she entered the night before.


“And the danger is that in this move toward new horizons and far directions, that I may lose what I have now, and not find anything except loneliness.”
                                         ~Sylvia Plath~


   The remainder of our team arrived on the scene mid afternoon.  Matt and Jami are everyones most beloved married couple.  They are both exceptional human beings, possess colorful personalities, love the outdoors, and live very healthy and active lifestyles.  The pair were a quality addition to the team of whitewater addicts.  Our group rallied after one more round of afternoon beers, and Matt and I set shuttle for a very late afternoon Lower Yough run.  I followed him to the take out in order to drop a car off and then give him a ride back to the top.  I find the issue of setting shuttle to be highly amusing when discussing the topic with the non boating community.  First, it never dawns on a non boater that a shuttle needs to be set to run any rivah, and second, once they do realize the need for shuttle, the concept is usually too complex for people to grasp.  Fact is, shuttle is a necessary evil on every rivah in every town throughout the whitewater world.  Sometimes it is by car, sometimes by bike, sometimes by foot, but no matter what, if you want to run whitewater you need to get use to running shuttle.  
   During my solo car ride to the bottom of the gorge I noticed Lil' Rook had forgotten the bag that she had been clutching next to her side for a majority of the first week.  I realized the tight grasp she kept on the bag revealed the location of her favorite little friend heroin.  According to many of the girls on our trip, it also gave her away as a closet case heroin addict........apparently girls have intuition that men don't have.  To this point in the trip I made the decision to leave her drug problem alone, and simply try and expose her to as much whitewater as possible.  I also bluntly expressed my opinion directly to her about the situation, and she was less than enthused about my viewpoint..........tough shit.
   As I descended the mountain behind Matts truck, curiosity began to eat away at my mind.  Eventually I convinced myself that I needed to look in the bag in order to understand what was in my vehicle while traveling through three states.  I did not feel comfortable about the decision, but my intuition kept telling me that Lil Rook was a dissimulating, prevaricating individual.  I had bluntly and straightforwardly asked her multiple times if their was heroin in the car, and she had responded "no.".................so I looked anyway.
   Tucked away into a side pocket of her purse was a lighter, aluminum foil, four syringe's, and a wad of paper towels with a wrapped up piece of wax paper inside.  Tightly wrapped up in a plastic baggie inside the wax paper was a ball of whitish yellow powder about the size of half an eighth of safety gear.  Although I had zero experience with heroin, I was knowledgeable enough to know that she was possessing a bit more than a "small amount" of the Mexican Brown.  Matt parked the car and organized a bit of gear before walking towards my vehicle.  While he did I weighed my options about how to confront the situation.

-  Option #1:  Dump all of her gear into the rivah and then refuse to allow her to go home for more, forcing her to detox on the road with only the Subutex she supposedly still had left, as well as endless amounts of whitewater to occupy her withdrawing mind.
-  Potential Outcome to Option #1:  Ugly as shit!..........I concluded that she would most likely kill me in my sleep if I proceeded forward with Option #1.  This would also violate Golden Rule #3 - Nobody dies.  

-  Option #2:  Call her father and send her junkie ass home.
-  Potential Outcome to Option #2:  She returns home and stays hooked on heroin while playing make believe on Facecrack with all of the other lonely DBP souls........I concluded this would do nothing but drive her away from whitewater and deeper into her drug addiction.

-  Option #3:  Take a play out of the Baby Boomer generation and force her to do the same thing your parents did when they caught you smoking cigarettes...........smoke the entire pack in front of them.  In this case, I could force her to ingest all the heroin at once to teach her a lesson.
-  Potential Outcome to Option #3:  Certain Death!...............and the last thing I needed on my plate was a dead junkie.  Plus it broke Golden Rule #3 - Nobody dies.

   Obviously I was at somewhat of a loss about how to handle the situation (trust me when I say that you don't want to know what Option #4 was).  I noticed Matt walking toward the car and felt he appeared to be a well balanced, knowledgeable guy.  Although I had met him no more than two hours before, I figured I would discuss the situation with him on the ride back to the put-in.  In hind sight there is no telling what he must have been thinking on the car ride up the mountain as I explained to him that I had been riding through three states with a heroin junkie and he was now sitting in a car that possessed a felony amount of hard drugs no more than six inches from either of us......poor guy never saw it coming.  In all honesty, I don't even remember the advice Matt gave me, but I am sure it was wise.
  Once we returned to the put in we jammed out the rivah quickly to beat the fading sun light.  Lil' Rook styled the run in a Duckie, a decision she quickly made after her wake up call from The Loop the previous day........sobriety first, then kayaking.  That is my advice to Lil Rook if she ever decides to jump into the sport of hard boating again.  (which is doubtful)  The rivah run was a delightful end to the opening weekend of whitewater, and a perfect way to shake off the effects of a nasty hangover.  We reached the take out well after dark.  It was so late that we worried we had missed the last shuttle.  However, it was not long after setting my boat down in the grass to assess the situation that we heard the clunky old bus rattling down the mountain to rescue us from the darkening depths of the Lower Yough Gorge.


“There is nothing worse for the lying soul than the mirror of reality.” 
                                                ~Steve Maraboli~  

   After our LY run the entire rivah crew decided to head back to the bar in Ohiopyle for food and drinks.  Most of the DBP crew joined us for the occasion and a lively dinner party ensued throughout the evening.  Before dinner began Jami invited Lil' Rook and I to travel back to their place with T-Love and Jamin and crash for the night.  Based on the fact that the invite came with a hot tub, shower, a bed, and good people attached to it, I was more than stoked about the invitation.  Dinner slowly transitioned into rounds of beers and the evening was sumptuous.  

   After dinner I noticed that Lil Rook and her favorite bag were both missing from her seat.  I asked Mackenzie if she would check the bathroom to see if Lil Rook was in there.  When Mackenzie returned she confirmed that she was in fact in the stall and it was obvious she was NOT using the stall for it's intended purpose.  Jami went to the restroom a short time later, along with two women from another table, and all three exited the bathroom with the same conclusion.  Basically the entire restaurant knew Lil Rook was shooting up within a matter of minutes.  

   When Lil' Rook exited the restroom, it only took one look at her before it was apparent that she was high as a kite.  I ignored the situation, but I could see the concern in Mackenzie's eyes from what she had seen.  No one was comfortable with the presence of Lil' Rook or her habit.  Jami approached me and pulled me aside to speak with me.  She stated that she had enjoyed running the rivah with us and from what she could see Lil Rook was a delightful person, but based on what Jami had observed in the restroom there was no way she could allow us to stay at her house.  I explained that I more than understood and apologized incessantly for the situation.  Regardless of the fact that I had zero control over what was happening, I was still extremely embarrassed.
    It was about this time that Jami pointed out something to me that had never crossed my mind.  She explained that some people we encountered on my trip may observe me as being guilty of a heroin addiction myself based on the fact that I was tolerating an addict tagging along with me.  Basically, Jami was saying that I may be viewed as being guilty by association.............it had never dawned on me before because I had never looked at myself as being capable of a heroin addiction.  However, for someone who did not know me, I could easily understand how they may arrive at that first impressionistic misconception.  Based on this thought process, I immediately abandoned the plan to "save" Lil Rook and quickly began to contrive a way to in fact "get rid" of Lil Rook.  And it is very easy to get rid of a heroin addict..............simply take away their heroin.   

"So full of artless jealousy is guilt, It spills itself in fearing to be spilt."
                                             ~William Shakespeare~

   The night came to an end and the crew split up.  T-Love, Jamin, Matt, and Jami all said their goodbyes and headed toward Deep Creek, Maryland while myself, Lil Rook, and the Wisco DB's remained in Ohiopyle.  Lil Rook was extremely confused when Jami and Matt said goodbye.  After all, she had been told we were heading back to Deep Creek for the night with them.  So after their departure I was left to explain to Lil Rook that we were stuck sleeping in a public park in Ohiopyle because the entire restaurant had been notified that she was shooting up in the stall.  The situation had even been reported to the owner of the bar, who luckily enough was a friend of our group.

   I began the discussion by again asking Lil Rook if she was in possession of any heroin.  I figured I would give her the chance to begin the conversation with an honest remark.  She was still unaware that I had searched her bag during the shuttle ride, and I assumed she took me for a fool.  So I asked her if she was carrying anything.  She responded very sternly, "NO!"............................................what the fuck was I suppose to do?  She was obviously lying directly to my face.  If I explained to her why we were not staying with Jami and Matt it would simply be calling her out for her perpetual string of bull shit stories and would escalate the situation even further.  Eventually I simply gave up and explained to her what everyone in the bar had observed and then clued her in to the fact that she was not fooling anyone.....................her response was simply astounding.

   She reciprocated with complete solemnity that everyone in the bar was in fact lying, and that they didn't know her and had no right to be judging her.  She denied that any of it happened, elucidated herself as the victim, and then became angry at me for confronting her about such an outlandish accusation.............................................yea, that's fair.  What a fucking junkie bitch!  I was astonished by how far she was willing to take the lie.  I have been involved in some massive lies in my life, obviously, but I had in fact never seen anything to this extreme...............at least not from this perspective.    

   Eventually my exhaustion overshadowed my determination and I gave up and went to bed, leaving Lil' Rook to pass out in the car for the night.  As I lay under the giant hardwood trees of Ohiopyle park falling asleep that night, I thought about the situation that had developed, as well as the false perception that Lil Rook was trapped in.  Her chamber of lies was no different than the one I had been trapped in not long before.  I was meant to have the conversation that I had with Lil Rook and bear witness to the lies she told me.  Why?  Because it allowed me to see how pathetic I myself had been during my affair.  Witnessing Lil Rook lie to me was no different then the thousands of lies I had told my friends, my family, and most of the people I had loved throughout my marriage.  I now know how they all felt, and I do not blame any of them for the way they chose to deal with the situation.  Lil Rook had allowed me to see the TRUE ugliness that existed within my own soul.................that was her purpose for being there, and that is why her situation reminded me so much of my relationship with The Fourteenth Street Whore.  The irony of life is almost laughable and time is in fact a flat circle................but eventually we all must learn from our mistakes.  For me, that time was now.

“We are all flawed, my dear. Every one of us. And believe me, we've all made mistakes. You've just got to take a good hard look at yourself, change what needs to be changed, and move on.”
                                                                          ~Lauren Myracle~

   I know what you are thinking.............heroin sucks.  Where is the whitewater?    I don't blame you for the question.  I can assure you it's coming, because we are about to drop four straight days of Upper Yough excellence, bear witness to extraordinary Nationals beat downs and my own personal Meat Clever WALLACING, participate in a giant drunken flotilla, and continue to push the boundaries of those three golden rules.  

See ya on the rivah..........hopefully NOT hanging out with the Mexican Brown.  PEACE

For a listing of all the stories in The Island Chronicles, please click on the Table of Contents

Beyond The Knob

To read a related article that led to the writing of this post, please click here.  

“People are supposed to fear the unknown, but ignorance is bliss when knowledge is so damn frightening.”
                                                 ~Laurell K. Hamilton~

   The day after New Year's I awoke with a yearning to explore the barren coppice that occupied the non managed side of Bishoff Hill. I do not know where it is within me that this thirst to discover the unexplored resides, but no matter where I end up I seem to continue to be drawn to the somewhat charted depths of famous whitewater expanses. Beyond Bishoff Hill, known as "The Knob" by the locals of the valley, lay endless tracks of woodland within a steep slope drawing quickly towards a world class section of whitewater. Most logical individuals would simply look at a map and respond with, "dude, there is nothing out there. Let's go eat and talk about safety or something."................hence the reason I usually partake in these exploits alone. On this day however, I was lucky enough to have a trail mate, one whom took very little convincing to follow me on a pointless journey that would feed the everlasting hunger of The Epic Worthlessness That is Man.
   The forest has always delivered peace of mind.  There is no more tranquil or harmonious setting than a quiet walk through a serene, wooded environment.  Cold winter days with a snow covered ground bequeath unbroken stillness, while cool springs exemplify life and movement.

I love the forest, and on this day I was able to share the experience with someone that I knew would truly value the setting as much as myself.  Marcie Ann is a born and bread country girl, and her toughness in the natural elements and love for the outdoors has been a welcome enhancement to my Dirt Bag adventures.  I have spent so many days walking alone in the woods over the past three years that I had almost forgotten the soothing companionship that company in the forest can deliver.  Together, she and I would explore the mysteries that lay beyond The Knob.


   "We are part of nature. We are born in nature; our bodies are formed of nature; we live by the rules of nature. As individuals, we are citizens of the natural world; as societies we are bound by the resources of our environment; as a species, our survival depends on an ecological balance with nature. Yet as individuals, societies, and a species we spend our lives trying to escape from nature. We separate ourselves from the natural environment with clothes, cars, houses and shopping malls. We build roads and cities to make for a comfortable lifestyle. Indeed we live our lives as though the natural world was something abhorrent – something that needs to be tamed and controlled."

                                                                       ~Anonymous~

   After carefully reviewing the map I came to a couple of basic conclusions about our adventure.  First, Gap Run was an easy entry point into the mouth of the gorge.  And second, there was no need for a map.  I have found this to be a reoccurring pattern within my Dirt Bag exploits, and I am somewhat heartbroken that it is the case.  There are very few rivahs on the eastern seaboard left in which a man can become lost in the wild.  There are very few forests left in which a map is necessary.  And there are very few places left to fall off the grid.  Chris McCandless understood how difficult this goal would be to conquer.  He traveled to the ends of Alaska simply to lose touch and break away, and that adventure happened 20 years ago.  And just like McCandless, many natives of Western Maryland have spent decades exploring these desolate mountains and gorges to do just that.............break away.  Many generations have probed these forests and rivahs over the years, and all felt the indulgence of becoming lost in the wild.  As boaters, we value the inviolability that the Upper Yough and other rivah gorges provide.  Paddling into Class IV and V waterways administers a feeling of disconnect.  They allow us to elude the modern day rush of life, and they warrant the calm, slow pace of Rivah Time.  They allow us to simply break away.
   I worry that we will be the last generation to experience this kind of disconnect from society.  I fear that Marlow and Quint may never have the option to become lost in the wild, because they may lack the wilderness or the right to do so.  I postulate that our generation may be the last to fully experience both sides of our society...............the old and the new.  We live in a rapidly changing world, and I prefer the view from the outside looking in; but that perspective comes at a price, and my acumen of the modern world is attenuating quickly.    


"Though men now possess the power to dominate and exploit every corner of the natural world, nothing in that fact implies that they have the right or the need to do so." 

                                                                                   ~Edward Abbey~

   Marcie and I embarked on our afternoon undertaking by simply walking out of her front door and turning left.  We were quickly greeted by a dense forest with a meandering crick trickling over granite and sandstone boulders as it turned sharply right and entered the plains of the Gap Run valley.  Hurricane Sandy devastated the entire Garrett County area in the Fall of 2012.  Most of the damage caused by the storm was a result of thirty inches of wet snow befalling the area early enough in the season to catch a majority of trees with lingering foliage.  The weight of the wet snow collected by the foliage, followed by the tailing winds of the storm, was a lethal combination resulting in trees falling like tumbling toothpicks.  Much of this timber fell into the cricks and streams of the area, making many of them unrunnable to this day.  The event was considered a weather anomaly that only takes place once every 150 years.  Unfortunately weather anomalies that produce falling wood are usually a major hindrance to the cricking communities of whitewater.  The only way to rectify the situation is by illegally chainsawing the wood out of the waterways (which requires an immense amount of effort) or by allowing Mother Nature to flush out her veins over time.

The beginning of Gap Run, with Hurricane Sandy damage visible downstream

Marcie climbing through downed trees in the Gap Run drainage

   Marcie and I quickly established a route after peering further into the top of the crick and realizing Hurricane Sandy had left quite a mark on the stream.  We decided to hike up and over the bottom of Bishoff Hill and re-enter the Gap Run drainage once it spilled into the pasture lands on the far side of the hill.  Our first goal of the day was to reach the farms sugar camp, somewhere along the banks of the crick.  We had estimated that the camp lay half a mile into Gap Run, which turned out to be a huge miscalculation.  My conclusions after hiking the valley is that the stream enters the rivah a half mile from Bishoff Road, and the sugar camp was located somewhere in the section of crick we hiked around.  At the end of the day, we failed to ever locate the Bishoff Farm Sugar Camp.

   The camp had produced maple syrup for decades until 1992.  Marcie's great uncle showed pictures of the operation from the ole school days, as well as explaining to me the process of making quality maple syrup.  In the beginning a spile was utilized to extract the sap out of the tree into a large jar before it was transferred to an oven to be boiled.  The key to the process was to not allow the sap to sit out before it was heated up to a slow boil.  Over time, a drainage system was utilized to allow the sap to drain directly into the boil rooms, expediting the process while minimizing the effort.  I hesitate to dive into the topic of the sugar camp to deeply, for fear of not communicating accurate information.  It is a topic that I would like to explore further in a later edition of The Island Chronicles, once I have researched the information properly.

   Once Marcie and I had climbed the short distance of the bottom of Bishoff Hill, the pasture lands opened up.  We followed the tree line of the field for a small distance and admired the beauty of the farm.  

The view from the edge of the pasture. That hill is bigger than it looks.

The walk provided a beautiful landscape full of interesting discoveries.  First, we stumbled upon the farms mechanical graveyard.  75 years of broken down farm trucks, tractors, combines, and every other conceivable example of the history of automobiles was present, quietly resting in the shade under a grove of trees.

Ole School

Dead Bug

We continued over the hill and then descended towards the Gap Run Valley, most likely bypassing the sugar camp.  Once the pasture leveled off into patchy groves, we slowly began to encounter, one by one, the true keepers of the land and permanent residents of the farm...........the milk cows.
   Three years of Dirt Bag adventures have allowed a history to develop between myself and farm animals.  For some reason, just like the depths of whitewater expanses, farm animals continue to surface at different times in my life.  In 2014 alone, I engaged in a fist fight with a flock of retarded chickens, walked a goat home from a gas station, and miserably failed to ride a bull that we encountered standing in the road in the middle of nowhere West By God.  It's remarkably strange in my opinion, but then again, so is a majority of my life.
   My vast experience with the barnyard animal kingdom has given me somewhat of a distended ego when it comes to encountering the wildlife of the farm.  I feel that since my experiences on The Island I am now one with nature, and all animals sense an energy within my presence.  (Haha!  This is some quality safety meeting literature right here)  Because of this, I have a Crocodile Dundee type of hora with animals, and can hypnotize and comfort them when they are within my presence.
   I decided to unleash my natural powers on the Bishoff dairy cows and impress Marcie.............let's just say it did not work out as I had hoped.  The cows responded by running away from me, unleashing giant piles of steamy fecal matter, and staring at me blankly as if I were crazy.  Apparently Island magic wasn't present on this day...........or perhaps I have misjudged my abilities with the farm animals.

One pissed off cow under a tree limb, with Gap Run in the background

   Following my failed attempt to impress Marcie with my Dirt Bag barnyard powers, we quietly meandered through the lazily grazing dairy cows and continued on-wards, towards the valley floor and the meandering stream.  The landscape quickly turned from hillside pasture land, to evergreen forest, and then to an open expanse full of dormant milkweed and annoying weeds.  Marcie and I traversed close to the banks in order to avoid the thickets of dry milkweed, slowly working down the valley where the mountains tightened and the stream cut into the crust of the Upper Yough gorge.
   At the end of the valley we reentered the wooded confines of an evergreen forest as the mountains closed in around us.  Bush pushing through the Western Maryland Highlands is exhausting, and Marcie kept up every step of the way.  She continues to impress me with her well managed balance of feminine appeal and down home country girl toughness.  The forest opened the valley floor up to an environment of leaves and boulders, the perfect spot for a safety break.

Marcie Ann laxin' in the woods

   After a short rest and my own personal safety discussion, we continued into the depths of the falling stream.  However, the gradient was very light as we turned the corner of the gorge towards the openness of the Upper Yough.  A waterfall entered from the rivah right bank, and then the crick straightened out, allowing a view downstream.  It was then that I realized we were less than 100 yards from the Upper Yough and Gap Run was ending without ever yielding a steep, bedrock gorge.  I took a minute to evaluate the geology of the crick, before quickly realizing why a whitewater section of Gap Run did not exist.  The answer is simple..............it empties into the rivah above the UY gorge.  The Gap Run valley is flat pasture land because no gradient exists yet due to the fact that the Upper Yough has not begun to cut into the crust of the plateau. In order for the stream to have a steep decline, it would need to cut into the rivah downstream of the mouth of the gorge.  The interesting mystery that does remain however, is that one mile above the confluence of Gap Run and the Upper Yough, on the opposite side of the rivah, a Class III-IV steep crick does exist by the name of Salt Block Run.  This crick drains off the northern side of Piney Mountain.  Why does this waterway yield a section of whitewater, seeing that it is above the gorge, while Gap Run does not?...................these are the pointless thoughts that ramble around in the mind of a boater.  I am pretty sure that I understand the answer to my own question, but I am not a geologist and will refrain from explaining my theory here.  

The confluence of Gap Run and the Upper Yough

Marcie and I lounged on the safety rock at the confluence, tranquilly melting into the escape of rivah time, and enjoying the simple satisfaction of sitting on her banks and watching the water pass by.  I cannot explain why a rivah is so mesmerizing..............it simply is.

"Wild rivers are earth's renegades, defying gravity, dancing to their own tunes, resisting the authority of humans, always chipping away, and eventually always winning."

                                                ~Richard Bangs & Christian Kallen, River Gods~

   After an extended afternoon affair with the serenity of the rivah, Marcie and I reassessed our position, and contrived a new plan to find our way home.  Neither of us were invested in the idea of traveling back up Gap Run and fighting the fallen victims of Hurricane Sandy, so we decided to traverse the stream and climb the steep ascent on the rivah right side of the waterway.  This decision brought us to the borderlands of the Upper Yough Forest and the vast wilderness created by the gorge.  Once we rose a few hundred feet, we stumbled upon a four wheeler path that may have once been a logging road.  I quickly identified this as the point I would need to locate in order to access the deeper reaches of the gorge, hopefully by four wheeler.  We continued to climb up the path, before topping out on the ridge line that separated the Upper Yough gorge from the Gap Run valley.  Marcie toughened it out the entire way, as we continued to ascend straight up the ridge, creeping up the backside of Bishoff Hill.  The mouth of the UY sits at approximately 2000 feet, while the top of Bishoff Hill sits at 2750 feet.  We crossed over two ridge lines during the climb and then were forced to descend down into a small crick valley on both occasions.  Due to this, we climbed a total of 1300 feet in a little over a mile and a half.  During the climb we encountered a large tract of selectively cut logging, and a small abandoned trailer in a field.  Marcie and I both followed our instincts and did not attempt to approach the Deliverance style dwelling, fearing that we may be shot, kidnapped, or forced to squeal like a pig.  Once we reached the higher area of Bishoff Hill, we were able to observe the entire pathway that we had traversed throughout the afternoon.  We were both exhausted upon reaching the upper levels of Bishoff Hill, but were rewarded with another perfect sunset over the Piney Mountain horizon.  

Mother Nature rewarding us for our efforts

   Marcie and I did lose our bearings a few times once we topped out onto the flatter forest plains of Elder Hill, but we eventually worked our way further south through what felt like endless forest before beginning to slowly witness signs of grazing cattle and the outskirts of the farm.  Eventually the forest began to thin out, abandoned logging roads became actively used four wheeler and tractor trails, and the backside of Bishoff Farm came into view.  Marcie and I crossed over the top of Bishoff Hill before descending down the tractor artery and then back home.  On the way, we passed by Marcie's Uncle, who was busy chopping wood.  He seemed very surprised to see us emerging out of the forest from the direction we had come.  We explained to him where we had been, and he responded that he had never traveled that deep into the forest.  Our afternoon adventure was complete, and the hunger of The Epic Worthlessness That Is Man had been fed for one more day.

“The clearest way into the Universe is through a forest wilderness.” 

                                                                  ~John Muir~ 


   As a fellow boater and writer within the whitewater community, I consider this to be an important story to record in the annuals of The Island Chronicles.................why?  For many years my own focus about the sport that I cherish above all else was very one dimensional.  Take out, Put in, Rivah, Whitewater, gnar, repeat.  The paddling world has become obsessed with showcasing themselves within the social community that has developed in order to gain an acceptance that in the end doesn't truly exist.  Our community is driven by cheap, self absorbed competition amongst one another.  Many times I observe groups from the younger generation of paddling both on the rivah and in the social aspects of whitewater, and I am extremely disappointed about their reasoning for an involvement with the sport................to run big shit and then be seen by others doing it.  This is a very shallow existence and an insult to our sport.  I have stated it in the past, and I will state it here again................

   ".....you owe more than that to the sport we all love. What we do is beautiful in more ways than just one. Go out there and find your own way to harness and capture that beauty. Go find a way to inspire the world outside of your own close minded circle of following bootlickers."
              ~excerpt from "The Bigger the Whitewater, the more Shallow We Become"~


   Rivahs throughout the communities and towns of the Eastern Seaboard withhold many secrets that can only be investigated when we let go of the fraudulent emulation that exists on the surface of the boating populace...............history, geology, exploration, art, personalities, the local community, story telling, science, literature, hydrology, topography, photography and much more.  These are the avenues that the boating community should be pursuing in order to gain a deeper aspect of our sport, and a small and slowly growing population of boaters are doing exactly that. We can't all be Pat Keller, but the fact is, a majority of the paddling population believes they can.  Go Pro and Facecrack certainly don't help the situation.........they simply feed the ego's of those who live within this delusion, and in the past year I have met MANY paddlers who are existing in these fantasies.  I have run the Narrows, Great Falls, the Upper Gauley, the Meadow, Mill Crick, the Upper Yough (no one gives a shit that you run the Upper Yough) and many more rivahs and cricks that I am proud to knock off my list.  But these are not the aspects of my paddling career that I hope will define me.  These are simply rivahs that I have the skill, knowledge, and will to paddle.  I believe that we were given these skills and the gift of this sport to explore deeper into what exists beyond the surface of the land, the rivahs, the communities, and the gnar of the rapids.  Paddlers are intelligent and educated people.  We have the ability to do more with our lifestyle than simply strap a Go Pro on our helmet, edit the footage to some Dubstep, and throw it up on Facecrack with the superficial message of "look at me, look at me!" attached to the post.  Fact is, our sport deserves so much more.................from all of us.
   I am lucky to have met Marcie for MANY reasons...........but from the standpoint of boating, I feel as though I have been given a rare opportunity to decrease the broad divide that is prevalent between paddlers and locals in many whitewater communities.  Bishoff Farm existed long before there was a bustling paddling community darting around the land.  The family of that farm have a story to tell; about the land, the rivah, the history of the gorge, and about their own family and how the community developed around them.  As boaters, we should want to hear those stories, so we can become richer in our knowledge of the Upper Yough area, and so we can exist as more respectful,  genuine, and profoundly passionate human beings................and that is the simple TRUTH.


"The value of history is, indeed, not scientific but moral: by liberalizing the mind, by deepening the sympathies, by fortifying the will, it enables us to control, not society, but ourselves -- a much more important thing; it prepares us to live more humanely in the present and to meet rather than to foretell the future."
                                                         ~Carl Becker~

See ya on the rivah..................enriching my mind through the history that surrounds us all.   PEACE


For a complete guide to all the short stories of The IC, please click here on The Table of Contents.    

The Exploration of Bishoff Farm

“We need the tonic of wildness...At the same time that we are earnest to explore and learn all things, we require that all things be mysterious and unexplorable, that land and sea be indefinitely wild, unsurveyed and unfathomed by us because unfathomable. We can never have enough of nature.”
                                                                                  ~Henry David Thoreau~

   There are certain words throughout the hollars of the whitewater world that remind every boater of a particular aspect of our sport and lifestyle. Be it a rivah name, a play boating move, a famous safety spot, or a legendary figure within the community, our sport most certainly has it's own language...........Cheoah, donkey flips, the 420 rock at Sunshine, Charlie Walbridge............any non-boater who just read these examples will see them as nothing more than a foreign language of random names. But for a knowledgeable kayaker or Open Boater who has spent his or her evening intensely studying the narrative history of American Whitewater and the black hole that are the innerwebs, these words echo familiarity within the consciousness. They are the words that create the language of whitewater.
   Some of this Dirt Bag jargon is more centrally located to a specific region. For many boaters within the Mid-Atlantic the word "Bishoff" stimulates familiarity within the whitewater obsessed mind. This word alone may be difficult to place, but combined with words like Friendsville, shuttle, Hot Mix Plant, The Wisp, Sang Run, and the Upper Yough, and every boater recalls it's origin...............Bishoff Road..........the gateway to the Upper Yough gorge.  I have been traveling this road the past five summers to reach the whitewater playground of the Upper Yough, one of my favorite rivahs.  Turning off Friendsville Road in the open fields and rolling hills of Bishoff always warrants a feeling of excitement, knowing that your day is about to be spent stomping boofs, splatting rocks, and styling lines.  Once you turn, you descend down a windy road through a labyrinth of farms and fields before entering colorful spring groves and the flats of an elevated valley floor where the fabled UY put-in lies.  For every boater of Western Maryland and beyond, the word "Bishoff" has always represented the gateway to the UY gorge.
   This fall I met a girl in Ohiopyle, PA who happened to be from McHenry, Maryland...............which is very ironic.  I met a girl at the put in to the Lower Yough who grew up next to the put in to the Upper Yough.  Long story short, I fell in love with her.  So when the holidays rolled around I embarked on the time honored tradition of meeting the family............and trust me when I say that this was quite a large family to meet.  Over the past three weeks I have traveled to the high plateaus of Garrett County numerous times to enjoy a Christmas and Holiday season with Marcie's family and friends.  It has been one of the more memorable holiday seasons that I have experienced in quite a while and I am grateful for the hospitality that was demonstrated towards me by all.............Thank You.
   Before arriving for the first visit I asked Marcie some questions about where she grew up, curious to know due to the location of her upbringing and because of my interest in such a captivating soul.  Marcie can be a bit shy, so she didn't fill me in on the details of her home beyond the basics.  Needless to say I was pleasantly surprised when we pulled in to her mothers driveway and I realized that we were in fact on Bishoff Road, just around the corner from both the put-in and The Wisp, located dead in the middle of what I had always perceived as the nexus of the whitewater universe.  It did not take long for me to comprehend that the small crick flowing through Marcie's front yard was in fact Gap Run, the same crick that empty's into the Yough Rivah at the mouth of one of the most famous whitewater gorges on the Eastern seaboard........talk about a small world.
   Marcie was an exceptional hostess and Garrett County tour guide.  On New Years Eve we traveled from McHenry to Deep Creek to Bittinger to Accident to Friendsville, participating in wing night at the local Bittinger fire department, dominoes and shots with her brothers family and friends, and a nice little New Years Eve affair in the warm and welcoming confines of The Waterstreet Cafe with the TRUTH of the Friendsville social scene present to ring in the New Year with style and class.........I couldn't have asked for a better way to welcome in 2015.
   On New Years Day I succeeded in bringing Marcie back to life around noon, giving her ample amounts of time to recover from her late night shenanigans at Waterstreet the night before.  She was able to rally and regain life quickly.................I was impressed.  We had plans that afternoon to meet Marcie's mother's side of the family and celebrate Christmas on New Years Day.  Marcie had informed me that we would be walking just up the road to the Bishoff Family Farmhouse for the occasion.  It was then that I realized Marcie was in fact the granddaughter of the Bishoff Farm, and her family lived throughout the valley, still working the dairy farm generation after generation.  That's when it dawned on me that Marcie's family were the natives of a valley that withheld 50 years of intimate whitewater history and tradition............it's amazing where the journey of life sometimes leads you.
 

“I love to sail forbidden seas, and land on barbarous coasts.”
                           ~Herman Melville~

   The family Christmas was everything you would picture the holidays on a mountain farm to be..........a beautiful white farmhouse, children and cousins and nieces and nephews of all ages running around the living room, football on the TV, timeless men with the worn looks of sun up to sun down days, year after year, weathered within the lines of their skin, and a feast of legendary proportions.........green bean casseroles, Old Bay spiced steamed shrimp, homemade Mac and Cheese, steak and mushroom grilled kabobs, crab dip, country ham, barbecue wings, sweet potato pie, homemade bread, pumpkin pudding trifles, chocolate cake, jello cocktail, orange whip dessert, and on, and on, and on.  I was truly in heaven.  I was also fortunate enough to spend the afternoon confabulating (BOOM!  Three times!!) with the ole timer of the farm, Marcie's Great Uncle.  He told stories from his own history in this fabled whitewater valley.  Believe me when I say that he was the TRUTH...........he referenced tales of boaters in the late 70's emerging from the forest at the side of the farm, still dressed in full rivah gear.  They had been defeated by the mighty rivah, losing their fiberglass whitewater crafts to the chaos of the UY.  Upon hiking out, Gap Run was the most obvious escape route, bringing them up the valley, over Bishoff Hill, and directly into the pasture lands of grazing bovines.

My example of the grazing bovines

   He reminisced of tales about the legends of John Regan and the Snyder brothers, and of the days when only a handful of intrepid explorers were disappearing into the mythical gorge, only to emerge in Friendsville hours, sometimes days later.  I had many questions, as I often do.  Marcie's Great Aunt overheard the conversation, and presented me with an unexpected Christmas gift; The Department of Natural Resources Topographical Map of Garrett County..................it is not possible to express in words the excitement that this gift brought to me.  The children on the floor playing with their new toys were no where near as happy as I was................I also received a Star Wars T Shirt and two pair of fluffy, winter socks from Marcie's sister, so you can easily say that I won Christmas this year.

   You see, I have a slight obsession with maps.  It is hard for me to explain and I am trying to gain control of my addiction, but it is difficult.  Topographical maps of whitewater rich areas fascinate me...........they truly do captivate my soul.  I can stare at them for hours.  So when Marcie's Aunt offered the map as a gift, I began my intense study of the lands surrounding the family farm.  I quickly discovered just how important the Bishoff Farm was to the establishment of the whitewater culture in this area.  

   First off, on somewhat of a negative note, the farm is the reason for the two mile flat water paddle that is undertaken before every UY trip.  Gap Run is the last drainage available that allows access to the top of the gorge before Gap Hill quickly rises on the rivah left side of the crick.  Once it does, you must travel all the way around this mountain before being able to re-access the rivah at Sang Run two rivah miles above Gap Run.  Gap Run actually provides perfect put-in access to the UY at Wait Rock, directly above the gorge.  The Gap Run valley is flat pasture lands for a half mile before sharply turning directly into the Upper Yough.  It enters the rivah at the famous safety spot at the Great Bend of the rivah.  The banks of the confluence of  Gap Run and the Upper Yough have bared witness to many safety sessions over the years.  If that forest could talk it would have many stories about the antics of whitewater Dirt Bags from deep inside the protection of our whitewater utopia.

The Great Bend of the Upper Yough

  Gap Run most certainly provided an excellent starting point for the exploration of the surrounding area, however, the expanse of the farm that intrigued my spirit of adventure more than any other was the forest behind Bishoff Hill.  Based on my study of the map, Bishoff Farm was the last farm that existed before the earth dropped away into the heart of the Upper Yough gorge.  Behind Bishoff Hill lay mile upon mile of steep, wooded forest dropping directly into whitewater bliss................it was an outdoor enthusiasts playground, with no one to explore it but me.


“People don't get it. He didn't even have a fuckin' map; what kind of idiot? THAT was the point. There's no blank spots on the map anymore, anywhere on earth. If you want a blank spot on the map, you gotta leave the map behind.”
                                                                                      ~Jon Krakauer~

   After a few hours of pleasant conversation and battling the food coma developing from the feast that had been bestowed upon us, Marcie and I decided to make an adventure to the top of Bishoff Hill to view the sunset and explore the area from a prime vantage point.  The Western Maryland air stung with the sharp chill it is famous for, so we broke out the heavy winter gear, packed some Christmas cookies, water, and a blanket, and set out for the top of Bishoff farm.  

   The walk up the hill was crisp, pleasant, and clear.  Bishoff Hill is the perfect vantage point to see the entire flow of the Yough Rivah from the ski resort to the gorge.  The tractor artery up the mountain winds through pasture lands and lines of fences before slipping into scattered groves of small trees and shaded fields.  We enjoyed the evening walk, and took our time to the top.  Once the sharp climb leveled out, we were greeted with a picnic table and fire circle in the middle of a small pasture, looking out over the quiet, elevated cove towards Wisp on the southeastern corner of the valley.

Bishoff Farm and The Wisp

   The backside of Bishoff Hill revealed the mystery's of the Upper Yough gorge and the adventures that lay within.  Through the broken landscape of trees the Gap Run valley could be seen snaking it's way around Bishoff Hill and into the Yough, were the mighty rivah turned around the corner and dropped towards Friendsville 7 miles to the north.

The sun dips behind Piney Mountain, revealing the depths of the Upper Yough from Bishoff Hill

 

   The sun sank behind Piney Mountain and an icy wind developed, cutting deep into our bones.  Marcie and I curled up together on the picnic table and watched as the sky slowly turned a soft pink and purple, before fading off to a palate of deep blues.  I sat there thinking about how the landscape below on all sides held decades of whitewater history.  Throughout those decades, Bishoff Farm has stood in the center of it all, quietly watching over the valley, from the slopes to the gorge.  Marcie and I curled up closely to fight off the biting cold, the sun set slowly in front of us, and Mother Nature delivered one more gift for the holiday season.

The sunset from Bishoff Hill..........perfection.

“A large drop of sun lingered on the horizon and then dripped over and was gone, and the sky was brilliant over the spot where it had gone, and a torn cloud, like a bloody rag, hung over the spot of its going."
                                                                   ~John Steinbeck, The Grapes of Wrath~

See ya on the rivah.......hopefully discovering as many whitewater secrets as I am.  PEACE 

For a complete listing of all the short stories within The Island Chronicles, please click here on The Table of Contents.