The whole crew gathered at the Sea Horse Kathy’s Oceanside cabin for a feast of Tuna Putenesca  Pasta and bbq’d brauts, wine and conversation.

Sunday was forecast to be west winds.  We booked south for Tierra Del Mar hoping to get some short sledders to the beach to practice launches and landings.  The wind was from the south but seemed to be clocking around to the sw.  Be booked back to Oceanside where we found light sw wind on the beach and 8 to 10 mph sw at launch.  Jeff got his first two high flights and Mark his first 3 high flights.  Ken just wasn’t feeling up to it, but did get in some kiting practice.  A five-hundred foot high launch can seem somewhat intimidating.  I certainly admire a student who can accurately gage their own comfort levels and not let their egos dictate a possible anxiety induced incident.   Kudo’s to all three of these guys.  I’m proud to be associated with them.

I’m looking forward to our next adventure in learning…….JK

I blink awake and smell the moist musty odor of forest, the decay of early March dampness. I feel the biting cold on my face. All is still and quiet. The morning is shrouded in a gray misty fog that dampens the deep rich greens of the surrounding woodlands. I’m a bit disoriented, but soon regain my sense of reality. the haze of my dream disturbed sleep fades and i become more alert, recalling my current predicament. My dream memory is vague but troublesome, but not nearly as challenging as the stiffness and throbbing pain of my left shoulder.  I’m starving and parched. As I carefully rise and stretch, my makeshift shelter scatters about me. I imagine that I look like a human sized ground hog taking a peak at spring.  I don’t see my shadow since there is no sun, only the fog and muted shades of forest. I’m covered in moss and mud with sticks in my hair. I’m thankful for the polar-ile, dry-bibs and dry-top.  The dark purple dry-top probably stands out like a neon sign, against the muted gray background.  I suppose orange would be worse. If only I had grabbed my survival bag. I had snack bars, a first aid kit, flashlight, mosquito repellent, matches, fish hooks and line, a compass, a signal mirror, flares, twine, duct tape and water treatment tablets and my cell phone in the compact dry bag. The phone would really be handy right now. That is if I’m not in a cell reception dead zone, which is a distinct possibility.  No use wishing for something I don’t have. I’ll have to do without and ther’s no sense groveling in what is lacking. My first concern is my shoulder, then water, and maybe something to eat. Whatever I can forage will have to do. The weather has warmed somewhat and yesterday’s early spring frost is no longer apparent. Still, a drifting mist covers the forest floor and once again I’m feeling alone in the world; lost in the hills, stuck in a landscape of swamp and forest, a landscape of seemingly desperate isolation.

After satiating my thirst by licking the moisture from the leaves of the surrounding salal, I strip off my dry-top and polar pile, and check on my wounded shoulder. It’s swollen and lightly crusted in a dried reddish-brown blood and I think this is a good sign. Removing the blood caked lichen poultice, carefully disposing of it deep in the loamy ground, I disguise my work wiht moss, sticks and long dead decaying leaves. I wince in pain as I touch the exit hole near my clavicle. Probing through the pain, it feels as if a piece of my clavicle is missing. There’s a jagged and painful divot that doesn’t exist on my right clavicle. The bullet entered the upper fibers of my left traps and exited my shoulder three or four inches lateral of the medial head of the clavicle. The muscle tissue around the wound is swollen tight and painful to palpate. The muscles of my neck are tight and seem to be forcing my neck into a laterally flexed position to the left, and my left shoulder to elevate. The shooter must have been aiming down at me, probably at my head. I’m lucky I’m alive and there isn’t more damage.

The lichen must work, since there doesn’t seem to be any infection, no purplish migration under the surrounding skin.  i pack my would in fresh lichen I pull from a fallen alder tree and re-wrap the shoulder. The air is cool enough for me to rplace both pile shirt and dry-top. My pile short no longer covers my entire trunk and the cold touch of my dry-top against the skin of my belly, sides and back sends chills up my spine. I cautiously make my way back to the river where I smear mud on my face, in  my hair and over the purple of my dry-top. I lick more moisture from ferns and salal and set my course, once again, away from the river and upstream. My shoulder aches. I find that keeping my wounded arm inside my dry top with the sleeve as a sling, is a bit more comfortable, as I continue on, one arm swinging free.

I remember resting at a crude, three sided shelter a few miles upstream, across from a pair of waterfalls cascading into the river from a high cliff on river right.  I’m still thirsty and might venture sampling water from that source rather than from the river.  I know staying hydrated is essential and think that hard running, well aerated water will be less likely to have any biological contaminants in it.  I’ve experienced giardia twice a few years back and don’t want that discomfort and inconvenience on top of this new unexpected challenge.  Hopefully I’ll find something useful near that shelter.

My stomach rumbles and reminds me to eat.  What? The young shoots of Devil’s Club are edible and there’s plenty of that here. i recall reading that botanical researches had substantiated that Devil’s Club is effective in the treatment of adult-onset diabetes, a treatment used by the local Indian tribes for decades, and I wonder if diabetes was even a concern prior to the arrival of Europeans. I carefully pick the young sprouts of new green growing out othe old thorn studded, spindly stocks. being careful to avoid the sharp spines of the older growth. I cautiously chew and swallow these and find them to be very palatable and even sort of tasty.  I locate more young morels at the base of a cottonwood and consume these as well. I top it all off with a handful of lichen, relishing the hot peppery flavor; ignoring the dirt taste. I pull up a decaying piece of log and take care of my morning constitution then replace the log, hoping my disturbance will be undetectable.

Other than being hunted, and my wounded shoulder, I begin enjoying myself.  I’m even feeling a little smug at my own resourcefulness and have to remind myself to stay alert and cautious. Although the wilderness has continually offered escape from the day to day problems and demands of life in the twenty-first century, life can also present challenges and situations where one can not afford even the slightest margin for error – a fact I really have to keep foremost in my mind.

I find a well traveled game trail away from the river and work my way in what I guess is an easterly direction, upstream. The compass in my survival pack would certainly come in handy right now. I can always look at the moss cover on trees to determine relative north. The wind rustling the treetops appears to be from the southwest, and I’m thankful for that. Looking throught the tick canopy of timber I notice the sky is starting to clouod up. I thought is was warming a little. Soon there will be rain to cover my passage. Climbing up a steep rise, about thirty feet above the forest floor, I guess that I’m close to the shlelter that should be almost directly across the river from me.

Cautiously I approach the river, listening. I smell smoke, thanks to the southwest wind. I hear distant voices, angry voices. Bombastic in tone, one voice stands out about the others. A stream trickles south towards the river, then splits around a large moss covered boulder and follows two separate courses, just meters apart. This must be what makes the twin waterfalls.  I notice a thicket of miner’s letuce and harvest a few of teh thick egg shaped basil-like leaves and some of the smaller lance shaped leaves.  Both taste similar to commercial lettuce.  A couple slices of bread and some sliced turkey would be nice.

It’s time to crawl. My heart beats heavily in anticipation as i move along just inches at a time until I gain a view. looking down and across the river. I see three men.  I keep my body low and draw stability by grounding myself to the earth, and I watch. Are these potential friendlies or are they my perpetrators? Under the shelter, across teh river, leaning against a cedar bolt, next to a blonde man of thirty some years, is my survival bag. I have no doubt, these tree are my enemies. I sure coiuld use my survival bag. I spy my life jacket hung over a vertical hitching post in front of teh shelter, and ownder about my van and if the keys are still in the pocket. I imagine they have already taken care of my van. Leaning against teh shelter is my paddle. Scanning the area from my shaded, brush tangle overlooking the river, I notice the absence of one piece of equipment: Slice.

CHAPTER SEVEN

From my stealthy prominent above the river I watch the drama below. There seems to be much pointing, pleading and arguing. On man seems to be nipping at a flask pointing and shaking his head in what I perceive as obvious denial. All three are dressed in a variety of camouflage, looking like duck hunters or members of a redneck militia.  The blond man is sitting in a folding lawn chair with his eyes cast toward the ground. The man with teh flask is about my height, but heavy in the gut. He’s wearing a ball cap with ear warmers pulled down over his ears and I really can’t make out his hair color. The third man, the one who seems to be running the show, is slightly over six feet and well over two hundred pounds. He seems angry as he addresses the other two in an aggressive and threatening manner. His brisk hand movements and loud voice displays a gestural vocabulary of a disappointed totalitarian. He’s smoking and ranting at his two companions, more pointedly at the blond man. His actions push my buttons and I immediately identify why.  His display reminds me of the interactions between my father and I in my teen years. I force my emotions down.

In retrospect, I would say that my father was most often out of temper with the world, and I was the brunt of his displeasure. The shear force of will from the big man has both the others crawling into the depths of themselves, into the internal safety of their personal and not-so mysterious solitudes. Or, so I imagine. I could almost see them both regressing into an emotional fetal position, a protective mental posturing, fending off the critical blows being delved out by their controller. I feel a sense of empathy for the two, and rage against the larger man.

Reflecting back, I can still visualize my father standing over me, telling me how worthless and shameful my actions have been, my father telling me how I couldn’t do anything right. My fathers expressed fear that I would amount to no good was the demise of our relationship. I recall his words: “worthless, no-good, never-amount-to-anything bum.” For years no matter how I tried to please my father, my attempts where met with criticism and disapproval. For a time I felt like a victim of my father’s negativity and continued to live my life in is shadow, not really completing any majore tasks, leaving closure for someone else. My father died without closure and more than likely without love. Not so many years ago I came to the realization that my father had provided for me the best he could, and he certainly was the force in my life that lent me the opportunities to appreciate nature. Without him I might not have developed the passion I have for the natural world. His criticisms were nothing more than his fear and dramatizing his past, probably in the same fashion his parents exposed him to. I’m certain his childhood was much more challenging and emotionally traumatic than mine. I think of how past generations tried so hard to motivate with negativity. Thank God for generational evolution.  My father just did not have the proper tools to parent.

Returning from my reflections, I watch as the big man continues dramatizing his displeasure. How is it we humans go through life acting out our fear in this manner? I am beginning to get the bigger picture.

There are beer cans lying around and a campfire is burning. Redneck pot growers hunting human prey in a designated wildlife refuge  I don’t imagine is a state approved activity. These pot growing rednecks are mo doubt more familiar with this area than I am. It is apparent that they are on a hunting trip, and I’m the hunted. I count tree hunting rifles and who knows how many handguns they might have. I am out gunned, armed only with my own knowledge, and hopefully enough stealth to deal with this ominous task that threatens to swamp and drown the life from me. Cunning as an outhouse rat, I continue my vigilance.  A distant rotor whack of a helicopter disrupts my observations.

I hope you enjoy my first effort:

SPIDER MILK, by John Kraske

CHAPTER ONE

Some events can change your life forever, marriage, divorce, the death of a child.  In my case all three had an emotional strangle hold on me and, as a result, I sometimes questioned my place in humanity. I’d frequently question what I hadn’t done or what I might have done differently. Three years ago, the loss of my twenty year old daughter in February was devastating. Elizabeth, a product of my first marriage, had taken to using drugs in her early teens and had been difficult and rebellious for whatever reason I never could understand.  Three years and one month ago I attended her funeral, a painful reminder of how we all are a part of each other.  That particular event, her death a result of a failed liver brought on by an overuse of methamphetamines and an overdose of heroine.  My only child’s battle with drugs had been a long, difficult, heart breaking road to travel. It took a huge toll on everyone close to her, driving a wedge between her mother, my first  wife, her family, me and my family. But, there is nothing I wouldn’t give to be on that path with her again. I might have done something differently. Unfortunately one rarely gets a second chance and I feel as if a huge part of me has gone missing.

A little more than a year ago I married the drop dead gorgeous Amy D’Gala. Her third marriage, my second. Since last Christmas, however we have been on shaky ground and I am now questioning the viability of our marriage. It certainly seems to be on shaking ground.

As a child, as far back as I can recall, I found distraction, solace and relief in the natural world. As an adult, I’d been told that being alone in nature was my crutch for denial. That particular advice I received from a shrink Amy had recommended. Dr. William, “call me Doctor Bill”, Nightingale, a long time associate of Amy’s, who certainly had his own compulsive disorders including golf, seducing his attractive female clients, enhancing his home entertainment center with all the new fangled gadgetry, motorcycles, and expensive European cars. Dr. Bill, in my opinion was the most screwed up human being I’d ever met.  Huge ego and very concerned with his own appearance.  The perfect consumer.

I continued looking for answers with other counselors, ALANON, institutionalized religion, and various other forms of professional comfort.  All of it interesting and helpful to a point, but still nature is where I’d retreat in times of emotional chaos, a place for spiritual amplification. And, now, here I am, questioning my decisions once again:

COLD! Yes, I’m cold, but not stone dead cold, not yet. But if I don’t get out of this chilling water soon I’ll get there. My kayak is gone.  My wounded left shoulder is on fire, a terrible pain has blossomed down my arm, and a trickle of water is invading my dry top, wetting it’s interior, making my polar pile shirt damp, spongy and very cold. The icy dampness sends shivers up my spine. It seems an eternity since my kayak, filled with gear, upside down and taking on water, floated away.  It won’t get far before it hangs up in a log jam, wraps around a rock, or runs aground on a gravel shoal. I look at my watch and am surprised by the reality that only a half-hour or so has passed, but it’s beginning to feel like hours. The pre-spring run-off; the icy snow melt from the distant Cascades, is getting to me. The setting sun, pewter sky, and faint watery mist lingering low along the banks of the Hopper makes my perspective dreamlike. I’m shivering but don’t dare slip out of hiding under the tangle of drown trees I have taken refuge in. The wet coldness seeps into my bones and that ever lurking impetuous part of me wants to bolt for dry ground and take cover in the surrounding forest. Despite the chill and my compromised dry top, my more practical side is telling me I should wait for darkness to lend cover for my escape from this shockingly nightmarish turn of events.  ‘Remain calm’, I remind myself.  What the hell just happened?  And, why?

CHAPTER TWO

Daylight had been waning as I paddled my sea-kayak down the Hopper River after a day of solo exploration up into the coastal headwaters of this tidal influenced tributary. The Hopper follows a slow course as it gently steps down the thick evergreen shrouded coastal hills.  It meanders out of a mix of steep rock canyons, twists and turns through miles of grassy meadows, swamp lands and tidal marshes before emptying into the shallow, channel etched Wilkes Bay.

Close to the crack of dawn, I had put in at the highway bridge that crosses the mouth of the Hopper.  My drive along the shores of Wilkes Bay to the mouth of the Hopper had been undisturbed by traffic, a welcome reprieve from months of two hour commutes in the rude and hectic traffic jams of the greater Seattle area. But all that was behind me. Along the Wilkes Bay Highway, vast flocks of Canadian geese fed in the cool, wet fields, alert sentinels posted around the perimeter of the feeding gaggle. The morning’s earliest light painted the landscape in pastel as it crept from east to west, the first rays of sunshine streaked the sky with feathery shadows and plumes of orange and red over the evergreen hilled horizon. In the tidal grasses along the shore of the bay, Great Blue Herons stood like bent old men reflecting on some distant memory. Morning was on the rise and this drive always filled me with awe and gratitude. The dawning of a new day, to me, is energizing, and soon i would be paddling my favorite kayak I call “Slice of Life”; a long narrow kevlar beauty, light gray trimmed in forest green – perfect Northwest colors. I was out to probe the Hopper solo, taking a time-out from my muddled and complicated city life.

I parked near the mouth of the Hopper, hefted Slice off the roof rack of my van, loaded gear and within minutes was dipping my blades in the slow-moving, mirrored green tidal flood. With stealth, Slice and I wandered upstream for miles on this tidal fed, Everglade-like Northwest jewel. The weather was brisk, and clear until the sun warmed the crispness out of this frost crusted early spring day.  Early on I was gifted with a brief glimpse of a lone wolf dressed in it’s winter finery, quietly loping along the northeastern bank of the river, its’ thick gray coat blending with identical grays of the weather bleached driftwood, thinning pockets of fog, water and sky. A good omen. I was amazed, having believed the wolf long extinct from this part of the country. A flicker of blue from a tree on the opposite bank drew my attention away for a brief moment.  A Kingfisher broke from the river’s surface, a silver fingerling in its beak. I turned back to check on the wolf to find it was swallowed up in the gray early morning ground fog. Was it really a wolf or just my imagination?  Still, I was thrilled. All was quiet except the plunking of water droplets falling from the blades of my paddle. The wolf would remain my secret, one of those gifts solo exploration sometimes offers up. My mind gradually cleared and my batteries were charging.

As the morning progressed and the day brightened, paddling upstream past the tidal influences of the Pacific and Wilkes Bay, I climbed rapid after rapid, eddy hopping up one slow moving rapid after another. Each and every ascent offered up a unique challenge that put to use every whitewater paddling technique I have tucked away in my twenty years of kayak exploration.

For aquatic travel a sea kayak like Slice is much more efficient than paddling a whitewater kayak. The downside is that Slice is not nearly as agile and maneuverable as its river cousin. Slice is extremely fast though, and glides effortlessly in a straight track, up and over resisting currents. The steeper rapids required more effort but as long as I kept some momentum, together we would always achieve our upstream goals. Early in the day my presence periodically disturbed a solitary blue heron which grumped a deep throated croak of displeasure as it laboriously took to wing and flew off ahead of me, following the river deeper into the coastal hills. I’d often wonder if I had disturbed the same individual over and over or if I was having a disruptive influence on several individuals.  I made a mental note to research this prehistoric looking species.

The Hopper is clear and cold, littered with logs and rocks that provide still water sanctuaries for me to rest and recuperate in after an energy draining dash up a particularly hard running rapid. The vertical drop of the river is slight and doesn’t offer up too difficult a challenge for my paddling abilities. The few rapids that did, I was able to portage around. This day I would probe farther up the Hopper than I have ever attempted in the past.

The day was glorious with the sun quickly warming the ground frozen by the previous night’s frost. A find mist rose out to the dampness reminding me of just how blessed I am to live in the Pacific Northwest. New leaves were being born all around. Spring was on the rise and these early blooms filled my heart with warmth and gratitude.

CHAPTER THREE

I was named John Paul Davidson, the boy with three biblical handles. John and Paul two of Christ’s disciples, and the son of David, the guy who thumped the giant, Goliath, in the Valley of Elah. I spent the first four vague years of my life in the general area that is Wilkes Bay.  My father was in the Coast Guard and farmed cranberries on the side.  Cranberries, horesetails, cattails, skunk cabbage, gray skies and lots of rain dominated those four years. I was weaned on clam fritters, clam chowder and cranberry sauce. My fondest memories, although somewhat faint, are of my older brother, Ed, paddling me up and down drainage canals and channels in a home built plywood kayak on which my father had stenciled the name Eddy-John.

Edward Paul, John Paul and a few years later peter Paul, the Davidson brothers moved south to the Oregon coast when their father, Paul George Davidson was promoted and reassigned as Officer In Charge of a Coast Guard lifeboat station.

I had been told I was named after my Finnish maternal Grandfather, Johan, who I never had the pleasure to meet – he had died long before I took my first breath on this earth.  At an early age, probably because there were already too many Jouhns in my elementray school class, I took to calling myself Johan instead of John. My mother’s family, the Finnish side of my northern European heritage always seemed somewhat socially isolated and I assumed that naming me John instead of Johan was brought on by my parents wanting to move us further into the cultural mainstream away from my mother’s foreign heritage. Still, I think my mother appreciated that I insisted on Johan. I remember, clear as a bell, my father’s critical comments, “What’s wrong with the name we gave you? Johan is too foreign and much too feminine.  It sounds like Joanne.  Are you queer?”  Naming all his sons’ middle names after his first name, I always felf, was pretty egoic and what he, my father, considered his superior German heritage.

More recently, over the past few decades, I had driven by Wilkes Bay to visit my aging father who still resided near my boyhood home on the northern Oregon coast. Passing by the wetlands, swamps, and shoreline and over the numerous rivers my attention had often been drawn to the multitudes of exploration options. Not until just a decade ago, after my father had passed away, had I made an effort to satisfy my natural curiosities and began periodic probes up teh tidal influenced rivers that feed the Wilkes Bay estuary system – the home of my beginnings. The wetlands and swamps surrounding this damp country became my private retreat during times of stress, chaos and emotional confusion.

Solo exploration has been a favorite past time of mine as far back as I can recall. I so much for granted as a child, knowing nothing but the coastal woods and beaches around my boyhood homes.  We did have television, but for me, watching TV was equivalent to being robbed of time. Unlike, nature is nurturing; television is distracting, filled with chaos and drama and manipulations.

CHAPTER FOUR

Reflecting back, my earliest memory is of being left in my crib. I recall shaking the side-bars, crying and hollering for someone to pick me up, or at least place me in the center of family activity. The result of my crying and carrying on was usually met with a threatening, “You better lay down and go night-night!” Or, a reprimand in Finnish, “paha poika” – meaning “you bad boy”. Perhaps it was these scoldings that formed the seeds of my need to be along from time to time, sprouting into a man of solitude and independence.

Alone and isolated in my wet and cold hiding, I reflect on these childhood memories. Blessed with the curiosity and interest of an abandoned infant, I recall entertaining myself watch from my crib, my cell, for anything of interest to occupy my otherwise idle mind.  Of greatest attraction to me was the movement and activity that took place in the farthest reaches of that isolated and lonely space that served as my nursery. From the recesses of my mind I weave a memory of what I recall was the interesting activities of a spider.  She captivated my young and forming mind as she spun her web or sucked the life from some flying insect that had been entangled in her web. Her activities settled in my memory and as I developed, so did a passion for the small, infinite workings of the natural world, a world I could embrace and would, more often than not, return my appreciation with some awe inspiring event. In a way, I was nurtured by the spider.

CHAPTER FIVE

Was my being shot a hunting accident, or was I purposefully targeted? Hunting season is usually in the fall, not late winter or early spring.  My sense is that I was targeted.  But why? Perhaps I was shot at by whoever it is that might be the operator of what looked like a pot growing operation, set back from the river further upstream.  None of my business, I thought, and paddled by. So what the…

Like a spider, I feel a dangerous presence and am drawn out of my ruminations. A moment passes. I feel the vibrations of danger. My senses are peaked. Next I hear the voices that are attached to a presence that cuts off my nostalgic wanderings. two men are talking, but I can’t make out their words, only a harsh babble, one voice a slow country drawl. I focus and listen, hearing only the partial dialogue, “…still in that canoe…must be dead..you know I don’t miss…” Their conversation becomes more audible as they approach. Then, in a more clipped and scolding tone, “you shouldn’t have shot him, y know…” This distinctly different voice is cut off by a large splash that resounds from near my tangled hiding place. Then I hear the first voice, “Stop throwing rocks, let’s find that canoe and I be we find a body…it’s gotta be down stream. Do you think…” The voices fade and blend into the distance, drowned out by the slow trickle, plunking and gurgle of the river.

I remain still, barely breathing, an autonomic response to fear.  ‘Breath long slow controlled breaths. Listen, feel”, I remind myself. Breathing deeply and listening intently, even my shivering begins to subside.

Fortunately, I had removed my life jacket and a polar pile vest before replacing my paddle jacket. For some reason I left my life jacket and vest off, strapped to the rear deck of Slice. A practice I have often been criticized for. Sort of teh way I am abut seat belts as well. No life jacket allowed me to seek refuge under water and into this hiding place after I was hit by the bullet.  The force of the impact was so powerful, so surprising, I was upside down before I know what had happened. At first I wondered if it was thunder I had heard as I was knocked sideways by an intense impact to my left shoulder. A sharp burning pain in my shoulder confirmed this suspicion. Why it happened I would consider later. Instinctively I executed a wet exit, pulling my spray deck cord, tucked forward and rolled out of my kayak. My paddle and boat floated away and my right foot became entrapped in a tangle of submerged logs and branches, holding me beneath the river’s surface. Investigating my foot with my uninjured right hand I was able to work my foot loose. Then I was swimming, my head spinning and my left shoulder burning. Thank God for adrenaline and my presence of mind to remain underwater and find refuge in this tangled midden of logs and roots, one of the many scattered along the river’s path to the sea. When the river flow and velocity is up these deposits of floatable debris can produce unwanted challenges for the unaware kayaker, but I now consider this particular tangle a gift. It provided me with a sanctuary of darkly shadowed depth. I am well hidden.

I’m not hearing voices or sensing their foot falls now. Darkness approaches. My shoulder is throbbing, and movement of my left arm is painful and difficult. inhibited by numbness and swelling. Shit, all my stuff is with Slice. I’ve got to get out of the river. And go where? Down stream? I must be at least seven miles or so from where I put in this morning, probably ten or twelve hours ago.  Think.  God I’m cold. These guys would expect me to go down stream to my car, unless they believe I’m dead. No, even if I were dead they would do something with my car. My keys are in the pocket of my life jacket, attached to the deck of my boat, where ever the hell that might have ended up.

Now I wish I had filed a float plan, or at least let someone know where I was going. Leaving home after an emotional fueled dispute with my wife, I was sent packing and down the road to spend the night at my friend Joe’s.  I think I left a note for Joe saying I was going camping.  In my chaotic state of mind, I had no idea where I was headed, so didn’t leave a clue. I just went away for some solitude and space to thing ans sort out my options. I’d planned to call Amy this eventing and let her know that I’m still alive and well and I’d like us to continue in counseling, but with someone other than her friend, Dr. Bill Birdsong or whatever the fuck his name is. I was certain I could reason with her and make a compromise to see a mutually unknown professional.

All the drama Amy and I were manifesting just made me feel like we both needed a break to consider the dynamics of our relationship with each other. Stupid me, not float plan. I hadn’t left a single clue with anyone about where I might be going. Nothing but my car parked at the mouth of the river would give anyone a hint of where I might be. I’m sure my care will be moved.

I need to get out of the water and warm up. Fortunately my dry top and dry pants have kept me somewhat dry. I can feel the weight of water in the sleeve of my left arm. I tug the seal at my left wrist and let out what seems like a couple of gallons of water, reducing my weight by at least ten pounds. Or so it seems. The tear ub the shoulder of my dry-top is just big enough stick my thumb through. I’ll have to keep my upper shoulder and head out of the water. There is another hole in teh front, near my clavicle.

Okay, survey time. I wiggle my fingers.  They’re cold but seem to work just fine, so there’s apparently no nerve damage. The bleeding seems minimal, so no major artery damage. I’ll need to attend to this soon. Fortunately I’m dressed for teh cold and wet. My purple dry top with the polar pile shirt underneath are a little damp from leakage through the bullet hole, but sill provides a semblance of warmth. The ploar fleece pants under my waterproof paddle bibs seem to be doing their job. My poly/wool blend socks in calf high neoprene booties have taken on some water, weighing my feet and legs to the river’s gravel bottom. I have a ten inch hunting knife tucked in the lateral cuff of my right booty and my neoprene spray deck is still around my waist. My watch, on my left wrist, reads 5:35.

I have no food or drinking water, no matches, and no first aid kit. I feel thirsty and silently chuckle at the irony of being unable to quench my thirst with all the water around me. All these supplies are in my survival kit, which I assume, is still in my boat. I don’t know how many times I had thought to tether that kit to my body, jsut in case I ever became separated from my boat. I assumed that type of situation might occur during an open ocean adventure. Not paddling a tidal estuary, like now.

I really do need to work on this procrastination problem I seem to have going on.

I’ve got to get out of the river. I listen intently and hear no voices. I slowly wade to the right bank of the river, somehow expecting to be shot again, doing my best to avoid leaving foot prints in the mud and sandbars that line the river. The contrast of forest and sky is diminishing as the daylight fades in the west.

My shoulder is seeping blood and sore as hell. I move away from the river, having decided to head upstream away from my original destination and hopefully to the highway I know crosses over the Hopper River father to the east. There’s a bar and a restaurant somewhere near this crossing and hopefully a place to call the police. How far upstream is it to the highway, I wonder.  I brace myself for what I expect will be a very  challenging journey through swamp and tick, tangled forest. I really don’t know. My earlier probe hadn’t taken me that far because the river was choked with logs and its vertical rise created steeper rapids that proved too difficult to ascend. A good rain and flooding conditions might clean up the log jams, but some I suspect are too well established and have become permanent obstructions. I should have been more precise in my bloat plan and studied the topo maps more thoroughly. For now I need shelter and warmth.  I fashion a makeshift sling out of my spray skirt to minimize movement in my wounded shoulder, and proceed in a northerly direction away from the river. I proceed slowly and as quietly as possible, careful to not leave sign of my passage.

This rapid change of events, the cold and my fear has left me exhausted, my life seemingly compressed into a vague and not so distant future. I’m cold and hungry. My shoulder needs attention to prevent infection. At the base of a large cottonwood I probe my fingers through old decay and discover a few morel mushrooms.  Dusting of the loamy dirt I devour these quickly.  The taste a bit dirty, but might help satiate my hunger.

Shivering, I strip to the waist and use my knife to cut a three inch wide strip off the bottom of my pile shirt to use as a bandage. The forests surrounding Wilkes Bay are wet damp places, even during the warmest days of summer. Lichen hangs like old men’s beards from the bark and branch of almost every tree, dead or living. This greenish-gray plantlike organism is the result of a symbiotic relationship between algae and fungi. It is loaded with polysaccharides and can serve as an antimicrobial compress to stop bleeding and prevent infection. I harvest a good supply which I fashion into two compresses, wrapping them in place over both the entry and the exit wounds in my shoulder. Replacing what remains of my pile top and dry top, I taste the remaining lichen. It leaves a slight hot early aftertaste, but is not too offensive.  I eat a couple of handfuls.  Good medicine as I recall.

It is extremely dark when I find a large moss covered log, set well back from the river and any game trails in the area. I bend to the ground and dig a shallow hole next to the log, lie down and cover up with dirt, moss and ferns. I wrap my head in my spray skirt as best I can to prevent heat from escaping. I pull my arms down into my dry top, struggling through the waist opening. I tie the sleeves in knots to prevent the escape of my body heat, and pull my one good hand back inside my dry top. I’m a bit claustrophobic, but warmer.  Hopefully in the morning my thoughts will be more clear and I can formulate my plan to survive this nightmare.

As I lie in my makeshift, earthen bed, I begin to ponder my current situation. So why do I feel guilty about this predicament? Is it that I am supposed to stay home fighting with wife, manifesting the anxiety that we both are going through? Anxiety created by both of us dramatizing our pasts has clouded all practical reasoning. Why do I feel guilty?  I haven’t abandoned our marriage.  I’ve only taken what I call a time-out. This was to be a time to think, a time to be away from the emotional turmoil and anxiety distracting me from clear thinking. An I have a load of reasoning to do right now without the emotional distractions of our marital dramas.

Real or imagined, I feel crawling creatures investigating the possibilities of my presence. So what kind of insect is going to find the hole in my shoulder? Ant? Beetles? Worms? Centipedes? Spiders? I don’t really care as I have larger problems to be concerned about and if I don’t get some sleep I’ll be less able to contend. I change this thought pattern, but still fall asleep in a torrent of confusion.