PHONE HOME
By Adam Kibbe
“Ohmigod, chairs, cushiony foam pads, sand beaches? Don’t even
think of going to Montana on your next trip, guys. They don’t want
you!”
So commented Sir Rakkity, The Great Beartooth Adventurer, when, after weeks
of dribbling out individual, archetypally landscapy images of our three-man
trip to First Debsconeag (that’s DEB-skuh-nee), Michael finally posted
to the blog some theretofore unacknowledged images of the cushy truth. A
trip so serene and benevolent it was hard even for us to believe it was October
in Maine—sunny and still, and our destination a broad, picturesque,
sandy beach (not that we knew that in choosing it). Getting there was
more the adventure (what little there was), crawling over moguled roads that
were as rough as Mike’s truck could handle, then a meandering paddle
up a slightly baffling complex of shallows and deadwaters, many places barely
passable in the seasonal low water, and the final approach down an elusive
channel-within-a-channel of the stream that leads out of the lake. After
that it was pure vacation; firewood readily available, stars most nights,
the temperatures benign, and the only complaint the shallow waters, which
forced Mike to wade way, way out for his ritual ablutions.
For folding nylon camp chairs and inflatable mattresses we make no apologies,
having cheerfully endured the ground and stumps enough in our many years
of camping in Maine. The base camp model to which we have become accustomed
makes it illogical not to bring such comforts—we curse ourselves
when we forget. And that we happened upon a sandy beach and did not
turn our backs on it cannot be said to be weakness. The dental records
of our gift horses remain private information.
And so we spent a pleasant few days all but alone on this remote but easily
reachable lake, the ease of access deliberate, as there was an off-chance
that Schreib could join us later. A man and his dog—the last
remnants of a longtime group not unlike our own—put in beside us and
spent one night fewer than we did on the far end of the lake, where we could
see his fire twinkling across the waters; and two women made a bonfire down
the beach from us one night before moving on. Otherwise we loafed alone. Our
one big expedition took us back along our entrance route, across the open
deadwaters into which we’d put in, and up a spur of the Penobscot River
to the runout of Debsconeag Falls. From our landing below the falls
we hiked up to above them for lunch, which afforded Michael a dunking in
the whirlpools before the falls (where we saw our one-and-only river otter!),
one of the more exciting dips he’s taken in Maine’s bracing fall
waters. And our departure gave us a minor echo of the thrill of running
rips as we ran with the currents through the boulder fields and back to the
open deadwater.
We explored our little corner of the world, too, though it was mostly flatland,
and Michael and Q went off without me one fine afternoon in search of some
elevation. I had hurt my back the first day wrestling a soon-to-be-firewood
tree trunk into the canoe and wanted to relax, baby my back, and read a very
good book I’d brought, but they were jonesing for some activity. And
so I waved their departing forms goodbye from the shores like a sailing widow
watching her partner depart for unknown lands, then settled without regrets
into a chaise lounge I’d built of sand, Thermarest pads and paddles,
and read in blissful sunlight and solitude. When they came home at
dusk I had a fire roaring and appetizers on, and they regaled me with tales
of their near demise on a bluff they’d found, and the sober realizations
to which they’d come about each other’s characters in pondering
the possibility of the other’s death or dire injury. Possibly
by the other’s hand …
But the most memorable adventure involved a cell phone call.
For unrelated reasons, neither Dan nor Schreiber could come this year, though
there was a possibility of Schreib joining us mid-trip. I’d like
to say we considered not going without them, but I’m not much for social
prevarication. We did discuss bringing lifesize printout replicas
of them to put in chairs (yes, those unseemly chairs) beside the fire for
photographic hilarity, but we’ve enough trouble remembering to pack
clothes and food, and also ran out of time (and besides, there’s always
Photoshop … ). But we did miss them at times, and we’d
arranged to try calling Schreib on the off-chance he could make it, except
that on the appointed night we found our cell phone’s battery dead …
Michael posited that we could paddle back to the truck to plug the cell into
the charger and make the call, and Q was certainly up for the attempt. I
seemed to be the only one who gave any weight to the fact that they’d
be paddling back in full night across those dicey shallows, and trying to
find a channel hard enough to find in the daytime. And all this without
me, their navigator. Cell reception was so iffy that I didn’t
think Schreib would take our not calling as abandonment, just “technical
difficulties”. And he wouldn’t be coming without us touching
base first, so it’s not like we’d be abandoning him in Maine
anyway, just in Newton.
But the pair would not be deterred, and muttering something about serving
as witness to record their epitaphs, I clambered into the stern. And
with the setting sun behind us, we paddled back for the put-in, racy extemporaneous
limericks floating away on the wind as we entertained ourselves in a fashion
plenty stupid enough for such a stupid endeavor.
Truth be told it was no sweat. We had dusk on the way out and moon
on the way back. Yes, the channels were hard to discern, but with a
nearly full moon for general light and a bazillion-candlepower flashlight
to pick out hazards that could otherwise tip us in the darkness, we found
our way. With no gear, we floated higher, making the shallows easier,
and there was something quite invigorating about the night paddling, especially
the open crossing moon and hazy stars on our return.
Like many such willful adventures, though, whose risk is arguably more perceived
than actual, it was also in vain – we failed to reach Schreib. Just
his wife, Ginger, who didn’t seem to be as surprised to hear from us
as she perhaps should have been. She noted that Mark had made no mention
of any such attempt as he’d headed off for wherever he was at the moment,
so we left word that we’d called and assumed the status quo. And
leaving the itty bitty link to brick and mortar resting on the truck seat
charging, we headed back out onto the by then night waters.
Dark waters stretch farther when the shores at which they end themselves
disappear into darker darkness. Stars reflecting in the rippling waters
float in another universe below you, and whatever else might by day be known
to lurk below the surface seems to recede to yield to this new presence. Our
paddles dipped into that substance, both real and illusion, as we propelled
ourselves campward, marveling at the familiar made new by this change in
lighting and attitude. It was a memorable paddle, no oxymoron in it
being both serene and exciting, and the nearer we got to “home”,
the more thrilled we felt with our “lark”. As we pulled
our canoe ashore at our sandy beach, we felt at one with the night, and slightly
more at one with our distant comrades for having at least reached out to
them. We resuscitated our fire, pulled our chairs close around it and
toasted our absent comrades.
Perhaps most memorable was that we made the attempt at all, which, while
barely registering on the scale of risky things men do had at least a
notable quotient of stupid to it, and did it not so much for self-serving
adventure as to honor our friends. Also notable was that there’d
been so little discord in the discussion over whether to go or not, given
that there were strong opinions both for and against. All of these
feelings wrapped around us like blankets as we sat before our fire. It
had been many years since but three had gone on one of these trips, and
then it was in contrast to two and felt bounteous. Accustomed to
at least four—and
occasionally more—for the last 15 years or so, three men seemed
to barely muster critical mass as we gathered at Michael’s before
leaving. But
that evening I’d say we felt larger than three, our crescent of
physical presence seeming to wrap the fire’s circle of stones more
completely, waxed into full by our adventure.
