Weekend on the North Fork J. M. Strother There's a reason I don't drink beer and canoe at the same time. Back in my younger days, when I was so inclined to do that sort of thing, I decided that it looked like the perfect weekend approaching – the kind of weekend best spent floating, fishing, and camping. So I gave my best friend, Billy, a call and asked him if he was up to a weekend on the North Fork. He jumped on the chance like a rooster on a June bug. I told him I'd take care of the consumables if he brought the camping gear. He agreed, and reminded me not to forget the beer. I didn't. We put in at the public access just off old Route 12. Being young and invulnerable we of course did not bother to tell anyone where we were going, nor how long we expected to be gone. Just for the record, we were going to Cinnamon Flats, a cinnamon colored sandstone formation about 12 miles from civilization, and expected to be gone until late Monday afternoon – it being a three day weekend. The first day out was splendid. The river, well below flood stage but nonetheless high and swift, carried us effortlessly downstream. We never had to portage the canoe, not even at The Breaks. Instead, we had an exhilarating run through some nice white water. Nothing spectacular mind you, and it sure beat carrying the canoe and all that gear, as was normal for that particular rock strewn section. It was certainly enough to get the adrenalin going, especially after three beers. We holed up around Jason's Mill to do some fishing. We had both brought our tack and the fishing was great. So good, in fact, that we probably spent a little too much time doing it. For it was getting on towards dusk before we got to our first camp site, at Buffalo Spring. By the time we got all the gear unloaded from the canoe it was fully dark. We were both hot and hungry, drunk and sweaty, and more than just a little bit irritable. The mosquitoes were biting, and we still needed to pitch the tent. “You pitch the tent while I get the fire started,” I instructed Billy. He grumbled, but began to unpack the tent. Billy is not exactly a neat freak. Nor is he known for his patience. As I gathered firewood I saw and heard him struggling with the tent. Seems the last time he had used it he had not stowed it very carefully. It was just one big jumbled mess. About the third time he fell amid the heap, cursing loudly, I took pity. I handed him the firewood and told him I'd take over. He looked very relieved. “Goddamn, Billy. How'd you get this thing in such a mess?” I was regretting my noble act. The tent was twisted up on itself something terrible, and the guy lines like to drove me crazy. But at last I had beaten the beast, and had it laid out reasonably flat under my knees. Frazzled, I looked up from the (finally) unmangled mess and asked, “OK, where are the tent stakes?” Billy looked at me from over the campfire with a perplexed look on his face. “Tent stakes?” I could have killed him. We managed to improvise tent stakes from broken tree limbs. Had to pound them in with a rock. Billy had also forgotten the hammer. “In the same bag as the stakes,” he explained. But at last the tent was pitched, and we settled in for fire roasted fish, spring cooled beer, and a companionable night of shooting the bull under shooting stars, before turning in under a gentle breeze. The tent only collapsed once that night. We got a late start the next day, taking the time to fish for breakfast since we had made such good time the day before. We figured we'd make Cinnamon Flats at least two hours before dark, so took our good sweet time getting underway. It was well onto 10am before we put paddle to water. It would have worked out that way too, had fate been more cruel. But about two miles downstream of the Route 15 bridge we had an unexpected treat. We rounded the bend just in time to see the naked form of a nice looking gal dive into a swimming hole. She had jumped from, a rock overhang, a natural (and popular) diving platform. We were even more delighted to see that she had a companion swimming in the pool with her – also of the female persuasion. Needless to say, we were in no hurry to move on. It did, however, put us way behind schedule. By the time we left Alice and JoAnne, we were way behind schedule. But we had two two new friends – and some serious paddling ahead of us. The thought of trying to pitch that tent in the dark again was distressing, to say the least. One might say we became reckless. We certainly had no notion of stopping when we got to Big Bend. Big Bend is just that, a big bend in the North Fork just about two miles upstream of Cinnamon Flats. The river narrows as it goes around the bend and therefore picks up depth and speed, even in low water conditions. We knew it fairly well, though had never floated it when the river was this high. We had never heard of there being rapids, under any conditions. As we entered the bend Billy twisted round towards me and asked, “What's that sound?” Concerned, I leaned forward, now doubting myself. I wracked my brain, but could not recall any rapids, ever, along this stretch of the North Fork. Plus, it did not sound like rapids. It was more... organic. I shrugged. “Beats me.” Now, more cautious (or sober) canoeists would probably have made for shore, to scout things out. But it was already getting on towards dusk, and we still needed to make camp. Whatever it was, it wasn't likely to be life threatening, and by now if we did not make camp before dark, Billy was in mortal peril of being killed by me – personally. So we paddled on. We picked up considerable speed as we swept around the bend. But while the water was swift, I was relieved to note that it was not white. I felt we were fine. Unfortunately, it is a very sharp bend, so we never saw it coming until it was too late. “What the hell?” Billy's paddle froze in mid-stroke. I began back paddling with a fury. But nothing, I mean nothing, was going to stop us. Up ahead, standing in the middle of the stream like they had nothing better to do, was a herd of cows. Now, at that time in my life, I did not know a whole bunch about cows, other than they made good eating once cut up into steaks. It also occurred to me that they look downright intimidating, if not outright dangerous, when viewed from canoe level. There were about eight of them spread out before us, and no way on Earth to avoid them. Turns out cows are actually pretty placid animals. But at the time I did not know that. And neither did Billy. I guess that's why he reared back and gave the one closest to us a solid whack on the rump with his paddle. We learned something else about cows that day. When you startle them like that, they move. And when a cow moves, it tends to shit. The cow Billy whacked shat right in our canoe. But she got out of the way. So did all her friends. At the same time. The water churned and swirled. We probably got bumped by one or two of them. The next thing we knew the canoe was swamped, and we floundering midstream – desperately trying to catch the food, the fishing poles, the tent. The canoe. The beer. Billy concentrated on the beer. The cows all seemed to head for the east shore, so I shoved our swamped canoe, with what supplies I had managed to salvage afloat in dung fouled water, towards the west shore. I hauled it onto a muddy beach and turned to see Billy sloshing ashore gripping a precious bundle. “I saved the beer!” he declared triumphantly. I looked down at the soiled contents of the canoe and lost it. “What about the Goddamned paddles!” I shouted in his face. I raced forward, yanked the beer from his stunned grip, whirled, and hurled it just as far as I could. I whirled back on Billy, still livid. “How the hell are we going to get to the car now!” Billy looked at me, mouth agape, and then looked downstream to where I had tossed the beer. “Aw, Jack, now what'd you go and do that for?” He looked like he was about to cry. Drained, I sank to the ground, kneeling next to the reeking canoe. I looked at the soiled contents and began to chuckle. “What?” Billy wanted to know. But I could not answer him. Every time I opened my mouth I began to laugh again. Harder. Soon he was grinning like a drunken fool. Hell, he was a drunken fool. We both were. “What!” he insisted again. “Talk about being up shit creek without a paddle...” We both collapsed to the ground in gales of laughter. They found us hitchhiking Route 15 around noon the next day.