1999
Uncle Wally's Weirder-Than Real Paddling Adventures (start)
by Uncle Wally
Everybody who paddles has paddling stories to tell. Some of them are pretty interesting. And they're all true, mostly. Trouble is, most folks are either a little shy about sharing their adventures with everybody else or don't have time to pretty-up their stories for publication. It's a shameful waste.
So I thought we'd start this column, see?, to give paddlers a soapbox from which to share their best, worst, and weirdest paddling tales. It's a chance to air your own (or somebody else's) dirty wet suit booties, so to speak. Just send. me your stories -- even bits and pieces of stories will do -- and I'll do all the dirty work. You're safe with me: all names will be changed to protect the guilty and the innocent alike. But the stories will still be true, mostly.
To start things off, I'11 tell you a story I already know. It really happened, a really long time ago. Honest. Kids, don't try this at home!
Well, there we were, finally setting up camp on Trout Lake. Leastwise, I think it was Trout Lake. We were there to fish for lake trout in any case so that name will have to do. And it was gettin' kinda late. Actually, it was gettin kinda dark. And we still had to put up the tents, get a fire started, and cook dinner.
Truth to tell, we still had to catch dinner. After all, this was a fishing trip. And real men -- real fishermen -- don't take along a lot of extraneous food when they're planning on feasting on fresh fish all weekend, right?
Trouble was, there wasn't a whole lot of fishin' goin' on yet. Mike was struggling to make our orange, K-Mart special, pup tents become at least vaguely three-dimensional. Butch, our self-appointed fishing guide, had gotten an early start on celebrating the weekend and was already feeling the effects of the better part of a bottle of cheap, red wine (Though, from what he said about how he felt the next morning, it may have been the worst part he drank first.) He was in no state to be trusted with sharp objects, not even small ones like fishing hooks. And Bob, having; noted Butch's debilitated condition, had gotten a fire going and was putting a pot of rice on to boil. The rice was supposed to go under a lunker. In the present state of affairs, it was beginning to look like Live Bait Helper.
So I decided it was up to me to at least try to reel in something to eat. I pitched my fishing gear in the canoe and pushed off onto the silky darkness of the quiet lake. Bob's fire was a bright little beacon to steer back to camp by. And if that died down, I figured Mike'd still be cussin' loud enough over those tents to bring me home.
That's how I happened to be out on the lake, communing with the mosquitoes and not catching a darned thing as the fiery tableau unfolded. The eyewitnesses explained it like this.
The rice started to boil dry and Bob said, Hey, Butch ya got any water handy?" To which Butch replied, "never touch the stuff. Wally's probably got some, though. Check his pack." And Bob did.
Now, in Bob's defense, I must explain that he's a real traditional, wood fire kind of guy who never messes around with camp stoves, not even in a driving rain. So how was he to know that a Sigg bottle usually contains white gas? And how could he possibly guess that my water bottle was out in the canoe with me?
Anyway, he rummaged around in my pack and came up, triumphant, with a small, gray flask full of something wet. He allowed he thought it was awful thin water I was carryin' around with me when he first splashed some in the rice pot. The second splash even overshot the rim, landed in the fire, and flared up to the mouth of the Sigg bottle still poised over the pot and.....
Well, there I was, sittin' out in my boat on a peaceful lake, communing with the mosquitoes and not catching a darned thing, when all of a sudden I heard excited shouts from the direction of camp and I saw a streak of fire come arcing out over the water. It was brighter than the comet Kohoutek (there, Uncle Wally is showing his age) before it landed on the lake in a small pool of flame that quickly consumed itself and was gone. It was, briefly and unexpectedly, spectacular.
Of course, I was pretty disappointed later to find out that my brand-new, Sigg fuel bottle had been turned into a Molotov cocktail and thrown to the bottom of a lake. But, far better to lose a piece of camping equipment in flames of glory than to lose a friend under similar circumstances -- even if it was mostly his fault we had a pretty hungry night of it that night.
Well, 'til next time, keep your paddle wet. You could tell me about your most memorable paddling equipment failure . . . or anything else you'd care to share. Remember Uncle Wally promises to tell the truth so nobody'd ever believe it anyhow and never reveal your true identity to anybody, not even the IRS.
EDITOR: This author wants to be anonymous and wants any submissions to be sent to me. See my EMAIL and address in front cover. Mickey.
