Landscape

The first week of paddling has been defined by slow water inhibited by dams and portages. 5 dams in 4 days and in between each a long paddle through slack water. At each dam we begin the slow process of portage, the loading up of gear on backs and in arms to carry as much as can be managed each trip but never have we gone far. Out of nowhere a sunbeaten face leans out of a pickup truck window to ask "You fellas need some help? Throw that gear in the back and we'll go load up the rest." Information pours out along the ride and within an hour we've finished a portage that should have taken several. Back on the water with a handsake and a good luck.

Between the dams the Montana landscape changes instantly and dramatically. One moment paddling across a wide open lake we suddenly plunge into the Gates of the Mountains defined by towering rock faces looming over a narrow channel as if challenging all intruders. Then suddenly after only a few miles of imposing rock the canoe glides around a bend and the rocky cliffs disappear to be replaced by rolling fields of wheat continuing on for several days. Outside of Great Falls the rolling fields morphed into rough and rumpled hills like tousled bedsheets hiding, perhaps, a left and lonely lover.

We are in Fort Benton now leaving tomorrow for a 300 mile stretch until the next legitimate town of Fort Peck. Ahead of us lies 150 miles of river followed by 150 miles of lake. Looking forward to what the morphing landscape of Montana will reveal in the days ahead.

Bachelor party, Keystone, and Crickets

It was sometime after midnight that Wilson, Hogan and I stood poolside in McKinney's backyard. Everyone else had gone to bed and we were heading that way soon, just wrapping up a piece of forgotten conversation.

For some time I had been tuned in to a conversation between crickets and cicadas and I couldn't leave the outcome unknown. I climbed into my sleeping bag at the side of the pool and watched the clouds swallow the stars as I eavesdropped on the crickets and drifted off to sleep to a symphony of insects.

I woke up at around 5 am soaking wet with rain coming down hard and only getting harder. My clothes layed out neatly by the pool were in a puddle of water and my sleeping bag was soaked through. I retreated to the comfort of home.

Breakfast was at Waffle House with Regan and Wilson. First visit to a Waffle House since January of 2009 when I seized on a Houston sidewalk 30 minutes later. Apparently Waffle House is not directly related to epilepsy, only deliciousness.

The bachelor party started that day at noon and finished at 11 when most of the participants were passed out or off to the bars. We spent the day lounging by the pool drinking copious amounts of Keystone Light, Coors, and sipping whisky.  By the end, Tex was racked out on his couch, a frozen pizza slowly charring into a blackened husk to be found in the morning while Regan and I awaited Pizza Hut to deliver our salvation contained in a greasy, doughy pie containing the secret to late night sobriety, and some chicken wings. Over lots of water and pizza and wings, we waxed philosophically, defining the night with good conversation and somehow went to bed sober.

Regardless of who remembers how much or how little it was a successful reunion of old friends brought together by a future union of two people meant to be together. We sent McKinney off in proper fashion with the drunken toasts of well meaning and unintelligable friends, stories of long ago, and in anticipation of stories to come.