Curt and Bonnie’s Excellent Adventure

Now that it’s over, I can say it was an excellent adventure. Don’t ask Curt, though. He probably needs a couple of weeks.

When our friends Paul and Nancy suggested going canoeing, it sounded like the perfect way to spend a gorgeous summer afternoon. Unfortunately, Paul’s first choice of outfitters wouldn’t rent out their equipment because the record rainfall this summer had swelled the Rock River to hazardous conditions. But he found a willing outfitter on a smaller, safer river, the Kishwaukee. Did that give us pause? Not a bit.

They picked us up early for the hour-long drive, stocked with coolers full of sandwiches, wine, watermelon, and pasta salad for the sandbar picnic we anticipated. The morning started a bit foggy, but by the time we arrived at our destination the sun was bright with enough clouds to bring episodic relief. We bumped down a puddly, mud-packed road and found ourselves smack-dab in the middle of a campsite where the campers were just crawling out after the previous night’s party. The outfitter’s place of business was strewn with tents, broken-down vehicles, garbage, vomit, and three brutally revolting port-a-potties which we were desperate enough to utilize. We remained undaunted, waiting an hour past our appointed time for the proprietors to render operable one of their dilapidated shuttle buses.

Eventually the bus made it to the drop-off site. Pictured are the four of us, spirits still high, ready to embark on our (reputedly) three-hour idyll. (This is the last picture destined ever to be taken by this camera, God rest its soul.) Curt portentously entertained us all with a few bars of the theme song from the movie Deliverance as we shoved off in two canoes. Within moments, we discovered that we leisure canoers were dealing with a swifter current than we’d bargained for.

Everything went swimmingly (ha, ha) until I decided to take some photos. Owing to my brief distraction--and according to Curt’s later (unsolicited) assessment, my poor grasp of basic canoe techniques--the tree limbs we collided with dumped us in an instant into the rushing current, leaving us entwined with the tree limbs and struggling to the surface. We clung to the capsized boat and watched our oars, as well as our cooler full of delicacies, rush away from us. Apparently the roar of the water drowned out my helpful remark: “What should we do?” Not getting a response, I grabbed for the life jackets, which we had not deemed critical enough to actually wear, and was swept downstream myself. Paul and Nancy were able to grab one oar out of the water and to help me hang on to the side of their canoe. By the time we reached an accessible sandbar to pull out, Curt was nowhere to be seen.

We waited, hoping he’d come floating along, but he didn’t reappear. We worried, of course: Had he been injured? How would he even begin to free the canoe from the limbs, right it, empty the water and maneuver it in this current without any oars? We shouted at other passing canoeists, asking if they’d seen him. “Yes, we saw him,” they shouted back as they flowed along. Why hadn’t he asked for their help? Should we try to go back somehow? Should we eat some cheese from Paul and Nancy’s stash? Finally, after what seemed ages, Curt appeared on the opposite bank, having single-handedly heaved the canoe out, climbed out himself, and walked the path downstream to find us. Relieved to see him in one piece, now all we had to do was find a way to get a paddle over to him on the opposite bank so he could go back for the canoe. Paul tried to ford the river carrying a paddle, but had to turn back due to the current.

Our salvation came in the form of a group of tubers who stopped at the sandbar to cook hotdogs. One of the young men valiantly forced his way upstream to a spot he knew was shallower, waded as far across as possible, and then hurled the paddle with all his might onto the opposite bank. We cheered as Curt retrieved it, hoping he wasn’t wallowing in a patch of poison oak. In ten minutes more he came paddling our ill-fated canoe down the river to rejoin us.

All’s well that ends well, right? We completed the trip, which played out quite uneventfully (Curt having sustained only slightly worse scratches and bruises than I), enjoying the unspoiled views and speculating how much we’d be charged for the lost life jacket and paddle. The current slowed as the river widened. The salad and blueberry crisp were fish food, and the wine and water bottles were at the bottom of the river; but Nancy’s sandwiches tasted mighty good.

Will we do it again? Probably. But our young tubers, who reportedly enjoy their sport every weekend, were surprised that the outfitter sent unwitting amateurs into such a strong current. They suggested a trip to the Farm and Fleet, where tubes and cooler floats can be had for as little as $15. Considering the loss of a camera and cell phone (not to mention my flipflops and Curt's hat) on top of the canoe rental, that’s a real bargain. So what if tubing is less adventurous? We probably wouldn't need Advil, Valium and jacuzzis afterward, either.