For months, Leo organized the event. "Sign up early. The seats fill up fast," he admonishes. Leo, Jim, and myself were the first who signed up – simultaneously one sunny noon after Sunday service.
Friday, June 24, 2011
The morning started with a dreary, wet mist that showed no promise of ending any time soon. In spite of carefully pruning all except for the bare necessity for survival in the backwoods, my back-wrenching pile of luggage seemed no smaller than the bags carried during the previous two trips. The huge green duffel bag, faithfully transporting items for many years, held the sleeping bag, pillow, flashlight, and blankets. Another duffel bag, the newest addition to my vast collection of bags held bathing suit, booties, and other items that would get wet or muddy. I call it the dirt-bag. It held a special contribution to the camp, which should had come along in the first year. My EastPak backpack, a grizzled veteran of many trips since college held spare clothes and miscellaneous objects. The pile was huge, but most of that bulk served to keep me dry and warm. Normally, I tossed in one sleeping bag and one blanket. After reading the dreadful weather reports, another heavy blanket dropped in. I don’t like being cold.
As our tradition, Leo picked me up and drove to the church’s packing lot to wait for the others. A half-hour later with Leo’s convoy organized, we went our way to the rustic town of Ashby. Also traditional was visiting Ashby’s branch of Wal-Mart for last minute shopping.
At Wal-Mart, Jim purchased a set of speakers to connect his laptop he brought over, an older model of his two. Impressive! It alone probably costs more than everything stuffed into my three bulging bags. Last year, Elizabeth brought over her iPod and a portable stereo setup. She’s not coming that year. Arlene, with her famous coffeepot, couldn’t make it either. More than one camper missed their nice touches of civilization in the rustic site. It’s nice to see someone willing to take up her torch. Strange that my only piece of electronics packed was the cell phone – a cheap, dumb-down cell phone. It would’ve stayed behind like everything else if I didn’t expect important phone calls. I even left my watch behind. In spite of my computer and multimedia reputation in places as far as Florida, Hawaii, and beyond, I wouldn’t contribute any hi-fi wizardry to the little group. One reason is my two stereo systems don’t travel well. Another reason is that the care of electronics in the wet outside environment is very different than from the comfort of homes. A single mistake and the only sounds coming out of the speakers would be dying squeals.
Stuffing our faces in a Chinese buffet became a tradition over the years, and that day was no different. By afternoon, the little convoy of three cars rolled into the Pines Campground. Light drizzle still showed no sign of letting up. The owners were nice enough to set up a plastic tarp over the picnic table and camp’s fire pit. Unlike last year and the year before, people mostly set up their tents on their own.
Leo helped Jim set up his tent. It holds four people. He likes to think big and roomy. He also purchased an inflatable mattress for relief from the hard, rocky ground. Last year, he brought over, as camping gear, a sleeping bag and a plastic grocery bag filled with his gear. He borrowed Leo’s tent. Jim declared, "Never again", after suffering his long weekend pledge of poverty.
Sandra’s tent is a little smaller. Mine is, by far, the smallest in the camp. It can hold two, in intimate closeness, providing they’re not overweight. The funny thing is that Jim’s tent costs less than mine. A one-man tent is even more expensive. Jim helped me steady the unwieldy poles, but in general, I had no problems. Practicing saved a lot of valuable camp time. Leo’s sleeping in his van – on top of his two large metal toolboxes laid out end to end. Jeff and Ann Mann, husband and wife, splurged by renting a small camper.
Drizzle mixed with showers continued as the group visited the waterfalls for several group photos. Sandra took a quick dip in the stream by accident. Her foot slipped on the moss-covered rock, plunging her sneaker under. Removing the sole should quicken the drying process.
Jim’s aspiration to be the camp’s DJ turned into a disaster. He accidentally dented the paper speaker cone while lifting it out of the box. The cheap woofer had nothing protecting the paper cone. He never before handled a speaker with the paper cone located on the bottom of the box. While working as a DJ during his youth, Jim arranged many speakers. Metal grating always protected everything fragile. The wires to his new subwoofer, twin speakers, outlet, and the computer’s earphone connection immediately became tangled up. Jim finally connected it into the computer. It made not a peep. That cord needed to be plugged into an outlet. Back into the box. He had to be satisfied with his laptop’s tiny speakers. Weeks later, Jim eventually replaced it with a better quality stereo for his laptops.
One more piece of bad news was forgetting to bring his video camera’s charger. Already its charge indicator hovered at one bar, forcing him to be choosy what to record - a shame. Jim enjoys his hobby. Last fall, he recorded a video series of the Blue Hills hike.
Sandra and I passed the evening playing Ping-Pong. We both enjoyed ourselves. The only problem was the ball’s tendency to scoot into the most difficult to reach fissure between the arcade machines. Miraculously, we never lost our ball. In the process of hunting, I found two crushed ping pong balls.
The sky darkened and the drizzle deteriorated into rain. We huddle under the tarp, warming ourselves near the fire. We joked about the load of wood Leo brought over last year. He picked them up from the free scrap pile by the roadside construction site. They were almost impossible to burn. One group said they were treated with fire retardant. Another group said that they were still damp. My load of old Wall Street Journals became a big hit in starting the fires during our vacation. At last, we easily built up our fires into healthy engines for cooking and keeping warm. This turned out to be the first ECCOA camping trip I went where we didn’t need napalm and flame throwers.
Heat grew in importance as the evening sky darkens. To our disbelief, we could see our breaths – on the last weekend of June. Dense smoke from the fire drifted over the picnic table and against our face. Like clockworks, a small depression on the tarp filled up with rainwater; its weight pushed the load over the edge, creating a waterfall splattering into the ground. Everybody kept away from that edge. By common consent, we decided to turn in early to sleep. Tomorrow would come quickly enough. By 9:30, the camp quieted down.
The night wasn’t quite over with us yet. A bright flash woke me up close to midnight. Rumbling made very clear its cause. Lightning! And I’m lying beneath two high metal poles that would attract them things. Towering trees surrounded me. Hopefully, the bolts would travel through the poles into the ground without touching me. At the same time, Jim, bedding in a higher tent with more metal, had similar thoughts. For the rest of the night, no more lightning flashed to my relief.
Will comforting watery sound of the brook turn into a deadly roar of flood sweeping away our tents? My ears detected no change to the sound. After thinking it over, I decided that the camp owners wouldn’t be dumb enough to put campsites in a flood zone. I eventually drifted back to sleep in the midst of downpour pattering on the plastic sheets.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
The stream obediently kept to its boundaries, just as it did during the Great Thunderstorm of 2009. Back then, we planted a tent in a similar spot. Can’t believe I forgot that little fact last night. For good ventilation, I didn’t fully zip the rain fly on the front entrance. It worked well. Frigid wind blew through. Dense rain hissed for several minutes before I realized my mistake and sealed the entrance. Some water got in. Somehow, my new tent survived its baptism of water and mud. Sandra wasn’t so fortunate. Her tent had a hole. The foul weather found it easily enough and drenched the floor.
At dawn, Leo made sure everyone got up for breakfast. The little group of hardy campers felt amazed just how cold it got that early morning. Sandra needed to don her winter boots and coat. It may look silly on the last days of June, but she didn’t care. "I kept warm", she told us. Heavy shirt and spring corduroy jacket hugged my body. In spite of two layers of heavy blankets and a sleeping bag, I wished for more stored inside the bags.
Dave Pendleton, living in a trailer that trekked across a wide variety of America, potential hours worth of tales to share, cooked us a traditional breakfast of sausage, eggs or pancakes. It depends on our wish and the four dollars price is right. Karen Pendleton, his wife for many years, hung around to socialize.
Into the gloomy morning, our convoy of two cars departed. The Pendleton’s son wanted to go rafting with us, so he purchased a spot. We expected to meet Dennis and his wife, June at the Crabapple. They were driving all the way from Boston. Sadly, Kelly, who planned to ride with them from Dorchester and spend a night at the campsite, changed her mind and stayed home. We felt sorry that we would not share our experiences in the rapids with Kelly.
Regrettably, I forgot my old eyeglasses to wear on the raft and also forgot my bags of munchies for the road trip. Looked like I went a little overboard on packing as little as possible for the long weekend. Oh well. The munchies won’t go to waste. They’ll eventually be packed for my work lunches.
The ride blurred into an hours long fog of cheerless clouds, pristine forests, hills, and small towns hugging the road. Ahead of us, Dennis and June pulled into a fast food chain. Leo decided to join them at that point. We pulled over for a break and hunted for them. In spite of looking everywhere, we couldn’t find a trace. Leo called and discovered that they stopped at another branch located further down the road. Fast food chains all looked alike.
The weather brightened slightly when we pulled into the parking lot of Crabapple. With our greetings over, I quickly filled in the legal form agreeing that if I suffered permanent paralysis or died I won’t hold them responsible. The rapids are not completely tame in spite of its flow being controlled by the dams. People can get hurt no matter how many precautions they take.
After that being settled, I rented a full wetsuit, booties included, for twenty dollars. As a certified scuba diver, I respect cold water. With time, the exposure can turn harmless discomfort into a dangerous hindrance. Harder exercise won’t help the continuous shivering. It only causes exhaustion, making him more susceptible to the cold. Instead, he must remove himself from the wet right away. Water conducts heat twenty times more efficiently than air. A swimmer can become chilled after immersed long enough, even in waters at a tropical 86 degrees. A wetsuit works by providing a thick layer of insulation. By minimizing the water circulation, it allows the body to easily warm the water touching the skin. Consequently, they must be tight. If putting it on is a fifteen minutes struggle, then you picked the correct size.
The night passed with unbelievably frigid temperature; downpours made it worst. Heavy clouds still blanketed the area. We won’t be seeing any 86 degree waters here. Almost everyone had the foresight to rent wetsuits. June decided to wear a clear plastic bag, tinted red, to protect her from the spray.
I could get by without a wetsuit by dressing warmly. The rafters are simply getting splashed. They’re not scuba diving. Any sweater and jacket may work well enough, as long as they aren’t out of cotton. They’re no good when wet. With my camping wardrobe all spun from cotton, I need that wetsuit. Wearing cotton clothing and sleeping between blankets probably out of cotton for the three camping trips that have a reputation of cold, drenching rains showed that I still have a lot to learn about roughing it out. I need lots of purchases ahead if I wish to be labeled as a serious camper.
To my astonishment, Jim brought his video camera, protected by a Ziploc bag, for the rafting. He expected that tucking it inside his life jacket should keep it safe – maybe. That HD recorder probably costs almost as much as his laptop. Because of his fearlessness, he would be capturing more interesting imagery than whatever my camera will get while sitting uselessly inside my closet. He would, providing it doesn’t drop into the drink.
I left my good glasses behind in the car. They’re too expensive to risk losing. Waves had ripped away diving masks held securely by heavy-duty straps. Once, a woman fell off the raft and lost her sandal. A guide ignored it floating pass while helping her. Crabapple frowns on employees showing concern over material things when a life is at risk. A flimsy eyeglass holder wrapped around my head probably gives nothing more than a false sense of security. Spending the next few hours without eyeglasses shouldn’t cause any hardships. I can still see clearly enough to not crash the raft into the rocks. Besides, the guide’s steering, not me.
After the guides finished teaching their brief raft class, our group boarded the bus and set us on our way to the final leg. The wetsuit and floatation vest felt hot.
Partway up, the guides pointed out Zoar Gap. It was an endless stretch of raging water striving mightily to tear boulders off their bedrock and bitterly pound them into our pitiful rafts that would soon intrude into their territory. Current howled hateful noises, describing hideous ways it kills. It dared man to pit their weak muscle against the miles long mass of grinding, bulging river. "Oh Shoot!" It looked like a crazy thing to do. I try to keep myself reasonably healthy from long walks and can swim proficiently since childhood, but I need more – like maybe being born on planet Krypton.
Along Deerfield river, Fife Brook section, the rapids we’ll face range from class I to class III. Class I is the easiest. Zoar Gap is class III, the most difficult section of our trip. If you’re not careful, you’ll soar from your raft. Because of the heavy rain, the river flowed unusually fast that day. A guide upped Zoar Gap to class III+. The classification system can get subjective because of the wide variety of factors to consider. Obviously, the faster currents receive higher number. It also takes into account of the type of boat used. Crabapple’s large 6-man inflatable raft makes the trip easier because of its excellent stability. It rarely flips over. Using a kayak would give the same rapids a higher number. Colder water gives the rapids a more difficult grade – one more hazard to take into account. The rapids’ isolation from civilization also makes a difference. Our river runs close to the road, making a rescue easy, bringing down the classification number.
In time, the intimidating stretch disappeared behind us. The bus trip took on a feeling of a fantasy school field trip. Every person seated inside wanted to come. They sensed an expectation of an exciting adventure. Truthfully, a few felt anxious. Anticipation built with every mile nearer to the launching point.
Our group briefly clustered at the parking lot before walking down the steep hill to the collection of blue rafts. Hopping in went smoothly and we shoved off. Our rafts flew at a pretty fast clip once the current took hold. The ten-mile trip may take between three to four hours.
Rowing is easy enough to synchronize during the smooth stretch by watching the rower directly in front. But when rapids hits, paddles clattered against each other from the distractions. During one peaceful stretch, a freight train rumbled by. The cars seemed to stretch on and on. I thought of my long-time friend’s train collection while they rolled along the tracks clinging precariously on the steep tree covered hills. The scenery is absolutely fantastic. One of the main reasons I took the rafting trip is to sightsee. Raft, jet, feet – all are useful tools employed in the art of seeing new panorama beyond my apartment.
Signs ahead warned boaters that they would not experience smooth sailing beyond the bend. Some still haven’t yet mastered the paddling. Our guide told us his plan. First, we paddle with all our strength to get into the best position. Then we hold on while the rafts absorb the river’s wrath. Knives and some sharp rocks may tear the tough raft, but punctures should not be a problem. Everyone left his arsenal of knives behind, instinctively understanding the unwritten rule, "No whittling allowed!" The river smoothed all the rocks a long time ago – probably before grandma was born. Unlike the Titanic, multiple compartments divided the rafts; leaks won’t easily sink us.
The guide described when a young and foolish man decided to brave the gap alone. He floated on a pathetic inner tube with another inner tube, holding his beer supply, trailing behind. A rope connected the two. Of course, they both flipped over, losing the refreshment. Our guide later salvaged a pristine can of beer lying underwater on the riverbed. More may be waiting underwater somewhere.
Our raft slipped though upright. We got splashed during the speedy ride, but everyone held on. Wedging my feet under the inflated seat helped me stay aboard. The rest of our convoy safely slid through the treacherous gauntlet of rocks and roaring waters, except for one. Awesome power of foaming water rammed it dead center onto a massive boulder. The swollen current forced the raft forward and on top of the unmovable rock until it could move no further. Jammed! A young girl flew off a raft into the merciless grasp of the rapids. She slammed against a boulder and tried to hold on. Moments later, the river swept her off. Her head went under. A guide had to hold the girl’s mother to keep her from jumping overboard after her distressed daughter. She could do nothing other than watch the drama. Hand over the popcorn please. Jumping in would’ve done nothing except forcing the guides to rescue one more person. Of the three rescue techniques they taught before sending us to the river, none required leaving the safely of the raft.
The girl’s head popped out of the water. A pair of oars floated passed our raft. "Nose and Toes" was the term drilled to the group during their safety lectures. A guide yelled for the girl to keep her feet up. She speedily responded. The river is shallower than it looks, often not deep enough to cover an adult’s legs. If her foot caught on a rock, the current could push her underwater, ending with a drowning.
The lead raft was the closest to the girl. A guide, sitting on the stern, tossed a perfectly aimed rope at the swimmer, making sure the rope’s end flew well behind her. She grabbed the easily reachable line and he pulled her into the raft in no time. The guide even managed to salvage the two oars soon afterwards. The mother must’ve experienced agony in wanting to do something, anything to be by her daughter’s side. The shaken girl’s staying on the raft and what a raft - filled with rough-looking men, hungry men. They stared at the little girl. Some have missing teeth. How many were raised in broken families? How many grew up in the gangster infested inner city? At least one still lives deep within the urban jungle. He takes pride in his bass belch that could strum the tent walls like a guitar string. What happened to their shaving kits? Did they eat the razor blades? Another had been scratching his crotch since launch. The girl cried.
In time, the convoy moved to a safe spot in the river, allowing the frightened girl to reunite with her mother. The men handed over the lost oars. She was unharmed and never was in any danger. Even in jail, child molesters rank lowest in the hierarchy – forever stuck in the despised untouchable caste. The girl reassured the concerned guide that her tears came only from the helpless feeling of being caught swimming in the rapids. It certainly is a scary experience. Some adults refuse to go white water rafting because of their fear of falling overboard.
A few minutes after the adventure, we gratefully parked our rafts and ate our picnic lunch. Rapids and hard paddling can bring a hearty appetite. The sandwiches tasted so good. While building our sandwiches, the clouds thinned and sunshine broke through. Blessed rays lifted our spirits. It had been so long since we saw your bright face.
Throughout the first half of the journey, I expected to hear a tiny splash, then curses echoing along the lush hills, polluting them. But Jim held onto his camera and kept it dry. He handed his precious trove of new memories over to the bus driver for transporting to headquarters. Success! His risk paid off handsomely.
In time, we shoved off for the second half. A good-size water brawl drenches a guy about the same as falling in the river. Even Jim has a limit in tolerating risks. Nothing stays dry after enemy boaters prime their artillery and come after you. Commonly, heaving streams of water drench the friendlies solely because they got in the way. Some eagerly gaze at the twin water buckets at the bow. It’s going to be a great battle.
Uh No! We moved too far ahead. We’re missing the action. Hard paddling seemed to do no good. Much later, Dennis and June’s boat pulled behind us and we got into a good drenching water duel. June still wore her plastic bag, but all it did was paint a bright target for buckets full of water to aim. We had to cut it off short because a man who didn’t rent a wetsuit shivered from the cold. The frigid water shocked my skin after every hit. Renting the wetsuit was a great investment.
Nobody did the wheelie that day because the current flowed too fast. It also all too quickly brought our rafts to our ultimate destination.
Nobody in our convoy fell into the river except for one girl. Not like last year when several people tumbled into the river. They’re usually overweight, to the regrets of the guides’ aching backs. The guides struggled mightily to drag some people aboard. Meanwhile, many skinny and small people tenaciously gripped the cord and hung on. In all, our rugged little group did very well that day in the challenging river.
While waiting for our bus to pick us up, a loud, piercing hiss cracked the quiet forest atmosphere. The voice of radioactive mutant bobcat and 40 foot anaconda erupted with fury. What in the world was that? More hissing noise burned. It turned out to be the workers deflating the rafts to make them easier to transport to the starting point. They were so pressurized that I could drum pretty good beats against the walls. The raft was hard enough to make sitting on them uncomfortable after an hour or so. I had visions of us getting launched into the air if we sprung a leak.
We all returned for a wonderful feast of barbecued chicken. We also had to deal with the wreckage from the drenching rains. Jim’s new tent leaked badly. Nobody knew exactly what went wrong. My best theory was that they might have incorrectly positioned the rain fly. During the night, raindrops dripped on his face like Chinese water torture. Worst, the dripping water and puddles seeped deeply into his laptop sitting on the floor. He dried it as best as he could, but it refused to power on. He placed it near the heater inside Mann’s camper to let it continue drying, but it still stayed in a coma. During the long weekend, the couple became popular for sharing their luxuries. Jim hoped that turning on the laptop’s power would warm up the unit enough to evaporate the moisture. Nobody had any idea how much arcing shot across wet circuitry while the machine was on. During my years as a computer scientist, I had seen some pretty sensational electrical failures – smoke, buzzing, sparks, the works. This had promised to be another spectacle to talk about, maybe even better than the time someone accidentally vaporized part of the plug to his vacuum cleaner. Break out the marshmallows.
Jim’s laptop stayed inert. Only the power light worked. He gave up and put it away. With the darkening sky, came our traditional fire. Leo swung his axe to split the wood. Last year, he used a power saw. The newspaper came in handy again. The only problem was flaming pieces of paper floating too far from the fire. Tissues made an even worst nuisance. Jim loves campfires. He could spend hours tending with the wood. Under the protective tarp, we expressed admiration of the raft guide’s quick thinking when rescuing the girl. We also jeered at the Keystone FBI, blundering along – always several steps behind Whitey Bulger. People debated whether the captured man really was Whitey or a fall guy.
Meanwhile, a second group hung outside the cabin, inside the roofed patio. One person living in the backwoods owns a fancier cell phone than what many people at work use. Someone also installed a more sophisticated wireless LAN communication system in the campground than the one that doesn’t exists in my apartment. That camp’s laptop runs rings around my home PC, the one used for writing my blogs. Feels humbling.
A lady observed her fiftieth birthday. To celebrate, people passed around the cake. "Do It! Do It! Do It!" people chanted. Succumbing to peer-pressure, they both jumped up and briefly wrestled. She nailed another woman with the plate full of frosting. In return, a plate landed on her face. Dessert smeared on her new Bruins Stanley Cup 2011 champion shirt she wore. She had a lot of trouble finding that shirt too. She cleaned it as best as she could. The camp manager washed off the deck with a hose. It started raining after the dinner and never let up. No need to worry about water conservation.
The night was still pretty young when we went to sleep under the sound of pattering rain. Sandra stayed dry this time thanks to Leo covering her tent with a plastic tarp. I stayed dry. A heavy blanket under my sleeping bag worked well as insulation and a buffer against possible seepage. It took an edge off of the hard ground.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
The rains drenched the campgrounds worst than the 2009 thunderstorm that forced a number of campers to leave for home. In spite of the wet vacation, not a single person in camp quit. My hat’s off to the rugged men and women who toughed it out. Just like 2009, we experienced one shining silver lining from the rains. Not one mosquito bothered me. They don’t have adequate rain jackets. Judging from the big buckets of rains crashing down during the night, wet suits seemed like the best items to wear.
Having the camping trip so early in the summer caused some controversy. Several rather wait for mid July or early August, which comes with nicer weather. Seeing ones’ breaths tend to bring that issue up. Leo replied that more people are available on late June. During the lazy days of July and August, most probably drift away on vacations making any kind of scheduling impossible.
My early bird habit woke me up before everyone else. Cleaning the tent before packing it sounded like a good idea. Where to hang my tent for cleaning? Good question. Many places have sharp points or splinters. Maybe next time, a clothesline, to tie from one tree to another, would be part of the gear. I removed my sleeping gear and packed them. Not long afterwards, Jim exited his tent and built a cheery fire one last time. Thick smoke threatened my tent. Not wanting the ash to dirty it, I lifted the whole thing up, plastic floor-mat and all, and carried it away. Compact is convenient. Most of my stuff sat in Leo’s van. He’s still sleeping. Reluctant to disturb him, I went for a short walk along the road deeper into the campsite, in parts never before seen.
A few employees hanging out on their porches greeted me. They lived in trailers, but have land to satisfy their creativity itch. One guy has Native American decoration, but that doesn’t mean anything. I own souvenir from Hong Kong and Brasil, but never traveled overseas. Another man built a fence out of sticks held together by string. An arch out of wooden branches rose from his path leading to the front door. We had fun passing the time talking.
In time, the campers put away their gear under the clear sky. Sunshine warmed up the site enough for a swim, in spite of the water still chilled a touch above freezing. We all felt impressed how clean they kept the water in spite of the large number of trees. I remember seeing one lake covered, one weekend, by billions of dead insects. The manager felt a sense of pride from its clarity. He runs the filter pumps 24/7. Any less, the pool clouds up. He learned that the hard way. The pool is a demanding taskmaster – rebuking anyone slacking off with murky waters nearly impossible to clean. The manager also discouraged people from jumping in wearing clothing or sun block. It would help if he installed an outdoor shower to encourage people to wash themselves before taking a dip.
All morning and noon went past comfortably. We enjoyed our last sun-brightened hours in camp, then sadly set off for home in Dorchester or Quincy.
The unpacking went smoothly. The small tent helps. Clothes went through the laundry machines. Some still smell smoky, but that mattered little. The ratty clothing should’ve been tossed into the trashcan a long time ago. They were spared only because they were my best camping outfit. My gear was then filed away under "Survivalist", ready for the next trip. Hours later, we gathered back at church for an ice cream Sunday event with plenty to talk about. As for Jim’s crippled laptop, after returning home, he successfully turned it on and downloaded his vacation videos to it. That’s one tough computer.
