Whatever can go wrong goes wrong.
It must have been the spring of 1978. We had just gotten our Mad River Explorer canoe, and I specifically remember that it was acquired about the same time Joel was born. Previous to that time we had gone from a Richland square stern aluminum canoe purchased from an outfitter that unloaded it to us for $50, to a new Lowe Line aluminum 17' to the state of the art wooden gunwale Mad River cadillac of canoes. We were justly proud. And its first river trip was with several friends on the up and roaring Mulberry River in Arkansas.
Back then the billion dollar outdoor recreation industry was in its infancy. Whitewater kayak design was unheard of, and most kayakers were required to construct their own boats using fiberglass techniques. Outdoor clothing consisted of either blue jeans or cutoffs, flannel shirts, work boots, or possibly sneakers, and wool shirts if you were savvy in outdoor practicality, since cotton only makes one colder when wet. Neoprene was yet to be invented, as was fleece made from recycled petroleum products. So we were clad in blue jeans and cotton, but had graduated from ponchos to actual raingear, which was fortunate because it was a cloudy day at launch time. We were whitewater warriors, relatively young, fearless and out for adventure. Today, we were going to challenge the mighty Mulberry.
We put in on the Upper River at an access called Wolf Pen, still the standard upper access today. The river was tighter then; many trees have since washed out in floods, and the river has widened. It was difficult to converse over the roar of the intermittent whitewater in the rapids. All went well until we reached a named rapid named PHD, named by Harold and Margaret Hedges. They were early conservationists who helped introduce the outside world to the fabulous beauty awaiting those who wanted to venture into the back country trails and streams of the Arkansas Ozarks. The PHD acronym was cleverly applied to this rapid on the Mulberry, standing for Piled Higher and Deeper, since the entire force of the river slammed into a bluff where the river made a sharp left hand turn.
We all pulled into a gravel bar on river left to scout. There was a car sized flat boulder which split the current just 20 feet or so before the current slammed into the bluff. It appeared that about equal current was going on either side of the boulder. It was not apparent which way was best, being that our knowledge of river currents at that time was very limited. Our knowledge of steering a canoe was also very limited; mostly consisted of paddle forward with some steering from the stern, and if that isn't working, paddle harder.
The rest of the group left the gravel bar, one by one, and managed to navigate PHD on one side or the other, missing the boulder. Finally it was our turn, in our new royalex canoe. As we approached the big flat boulder, apparently we were indecisive. I can't remember for sure, that was 41 years ago. At any rate, we managed to perfectly slide up onto the flat boulder and skid to a halt in the middle of the rapid. This required me to get out onto the boulder and free the canoe, unceremouniously relaunching to finish running the rapid. Someone was thoughtful enough to snap a photo of me freeing the canoe, to preserve the embarrassing moment for posterity. This incident may have contributed to our decision to enroll in an a whitewater canoe course with the Arkansas 'Canoe Club the next spring, since we were starting to realize that all those canoe strokes that we facesciously referred to as "stirring the water" might actually have some merit.
Beer, back then, was an essential part of the river floating mystique. Lots of it. Presently the sun came out, the day warmed, and most became pleasantly buzzed. There were some "tumps", (turnovers) which were to be expected and was part of the party. I specifically one female member of the party drifting through a rapid, minus canoe, holding up a saved beer in celebration.
Back then when planning a river trip it ;was assumed that longer the trip, the better. We had set up a shuttle with just one vehicle at the end, which was very poorly marked lane to the river called Milton Fork. There was no bridge or obvious landmark. We had apparently assumed that upon reaching the takeout we would take drivers back and return with all the vehicles, which is the opposite of what most people now do, you want to have as many vehicles as possible at the takeout. So we had set up a trip much longer that we should have, and furthermore didn't pay much attention to how we were progressing as the day unfolded.
We continued on late into the day, as the spring sun was starting to wane. Finally we all stopped to discuss where the vehicle was parked. The consensus was that we had probably passed the takeout.
Some wanted to hike back up the riverbank to look for the car at the takeout. Others thought this was poor judgment, with darkness imminent we needed to try to find a way out to civilization. A rather heated discussion was held, with eventually the "find civilization" group being in the majority. So three of the party set out on a rough trail up the hill on the south side of the river, which eventually led to a gravel road. It was a dark sky night, we had no flashlight, but we eventually stumbled to a gravel road, and there was a light ahead at a farmhouse. We made our way in the dark, and found somebody at home. We asked for directions to Milton Fork, and found we were not far from a gravel road junction that turning left took us down to the ford. Our vehicle was parked on the opposite side of the ford.
iginal We descended the hill, and we could tell by the sound of moving water that we were almost to the river. It was pitch dark. We somehow managed to wade across the river without falling into the water, and made it to the 55 Chevy pickup on the other side. By this time it was probably 9:00 pm. It was then that the Chevy's owner remembered that the truck was probably almost out of gas. There was no way of knowing, since the gas gauge was broken. His original plan was to stop at Turner Bend Store, the only gas pump for miles around, on the way back. By this time Turner Bend Store, of course, had long since closed. We had no choice but to go back for the vehicles, hoping we had enough gas to get there.
We did make it to the vehicles at the put in. We did find our way back to the people and canoes waiting around a cozy fire. Miraculously someone actually remembered to bring fire starting materials. The story was told of the vehicle retrival, and canoes and people loaded up to make their way out. We were in our 78 VW bus, and a good friend and his son were riding with us. At this time it was about midnight. He then revealed that since the next day was Easter (actually now today); he had promised his wife he would be back to attend church service.
The gasless Chevy truck couldn't be abandoned by the group, and no one had siphoning materials to siphon gas from another vehicle. It was probably 1AM. We headed south toward I-40. Back then even Clarksville had no all night stations. We were directed 20 miles west to a truck stop at Alma, AR. Here we filled up at 3AM. The majority of the party headed back to make an impromptu camp somewhere, but we continued back to our home in Billings, MO, arriving just as a beautiful sunrise was in the making. Remember, our friend had to be back for Easter service, which he barely was able to make, with no time to spare.
There were a few good things that happened that weekend. No one lost their car keys. No one got hurt. We all learned more about what not to do than we probably had ever learned before in the span of one weekend. And some members learned who not to go with us on a river trip.
Many people have a story of a trip where they did everything wrong. Some could probably even top this one. But not many.
Back then the billion dollar outdoor recreation industry was in its infancy. Whitewater kayak design was unheard of, and most kayakers were required to construct their own boats using fiberglass techniques. Outdoor clothing consisted of either blue jeans or cutoffs, flannel shirts, work boots, or possibly sneakers, and wool shirts if you were savvy in outdoor practicality, since cotton only makes one colder when wet. Neoprene was yet to be invented, as was fleece made from recycled petroleum products. So we were clad in blue jeans and cotton, but had graduated from ponchos to actual raingear, which was fortunate because it was a cloudy day at launch time. We were whitewater warriors, relatively young, fearless and out for adventure. Today, we were going to challenge the mighty Mulberry.
We put in on the Upper River at an access called Wolf Pen, still the standard upper access today. The river was tighter then; many trees have since washed out in floods, and the river has widened. It was difficult to converse over the roar of the intermittent whitewater in the rapids. All went well until we reached a named rapid named PHD, named by Harold and Margaret Hedges. They were early conservationists who helped introduce the outside world to the fabulous beauty awaiting those who wanted to venture into the back country trails and streams of the Arkansas Ozarks. The PHD acronym was cleverly applied to this rapid on the Mulberry, standing for Piled Higher and Deeper, since the entire force of the river slammed into a bluff where the river made a sharp left hand turn.
We all pulled into a gravel bar on river left to scout. There was a car sized flat boulder which split the current just 20 feet or so before the current slammed into the bluff. It appeared that about equal current was going on either side of the boulder. It was not apparent which way was best, being that our knowledge of river currents at that time was very limited. Our knowledge of steering a canoe was also very limited; mostly consisted of paddle forward with some steering from the stern, and if that isn't working, paddle harder.
The rest of the group left the gravel bar, one by one, and managed to navigate PHD on one side or the other, missing the boulder. Finally it was our turn, in our new royalex canoe. As we approached the big flat boulder, apparently we were indecisive. I can't remember for sure, that was 41 years ago. At any rate, we managed to perfectly slide up onto the flat boulder and skid to a halt in the middle of the rapid. This required me to get out onto the boulder and free the canoe, unceremouniously relaunching to finish running the rapid. Someone was thoughtful enough to snap a photo of me freeing the canoe, to preserve the embarrassing moment for posterity. This incident may have contributed to our decision to enroll in an a whitewater canoe course with the Arkansas 'Canoe Club the next spring, since we were starting to realize that all those canoe strokes that we facesciously referred to as "stirring the water" might actually have some merit.
Beer, back then, was an essential part of the river floating mystique. Lots of it. Presently the sun came out, the day warmed, and most became pleasantly buzzed. There were some "tumps", (turnovers) which were to be expected and was part of the party. I specifically one female member of the party drifting through a rapid, minus canoe, holding up a saved beer in celebration.
Back then when planning a river trip it ;was assumed that longer the trip, the better. We had set up a shuttle with just one vehicle at the end, which was very poorly marked lane to the river called Milton Fork. There was no bridge or obvious landmark. We had apparently assumed that upon reaching the takeout we would take drivers back and return with all the vehicles, which is the opposite of what most people now do, you want to have as many vehicles as possible at the takeout. So we had set up a trip much longer that we should have, and furthermore didn't pay much attention to how we were progressing as the day unfolded.
We continued on late into the day, as the spring sun was starting to wane. Finally we all stopped to discuss where the vehicle was parked. The consensus was that we had probably passed the takeout.
Some wanted to hike back up the riverbank to look for the car at the takeout. Others thought this was poor judgment, with darkness imminent we needed to try to find a way out to civilization. A rather heated discussion was held, with eventually the "find civilization" group being in the majority. So three of the party set out on a rough trail up the hill on the south side of the river, which eventually led to a gravel road. It was a dark sky night, we had no flashlight, but we eventually stumbled to a gravel road, and there was a light ahead at a farmhouse. We made our way in the dark, and found somebody at home. We asked for directions to Milton Fork, and found we were not far from a gravel road junction that turning left took us down to the ford. Our vehicle was parked on the opposite side of the ford.
iginal We descended the hill, and we could tell by the sound of moving water that we were almost to the river. It was pitch dark. We somehow managed to wade across the river without falling into the water, and made it to the 55 Chevy pickup on the other side. By this time it was probably 9:00 pm. It was then that the Chevy's owner remembered that the truck was probably almost out of gas. There was no way of knowing, since the gas gauge was broken. His original plan was to stop at Turner Bend Store, the only gas pump for miles around, on the way back. By this time Turner Bend Store, of course, had long since closed. We had no choice but to go back for the vehicles, hoping we had enough gas to get there.
We did make it to the vehicles at the put in. We did find our way back to the people and canoes waiting around a cozy fire. Miraculously someone actually remembered to bring fire starting materials. The story was told of the vehicle retrival, and canoes and people loaded up to make their way out. We were in our 78 VW bus, and a good friend and his son were riding with us. At this time it was about midnight. He then revealed that since the next day was Easter (actually now today); he had promised his wife he would be back to attend church service.
The gasless Chevy truck couldn't be abandoned by the group, and no one had siphoning materials to siphon gas from another vehicle. It was probably 1AM. We headed south toward I-40. Back then even Clarksville had no all night stations. We were directed 20 miles west to a truck stop at Alma, AR. Here we filled up at 3AM. The majority of the party headed back to make an impromptu camp somewhere, but we continued back to our home in Billings, MO, arriving just as a beautiful sunrise was in the making. Remember, our friend had to be back for Easter service, which he barely was able to make, with no time to spare.
There were a few good things that happened that weekend. No one lost their car keys. No one got hurt. We all learned more about what not to do than we probably had ever learned before in the span of one weekend. And some members learned who not to go with us on a river trip.
Many people have a story of a trip where they did everything wrong. Some could probably even top this one. But not many.
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