Paddle Tales Microscopic Canoeing After five days paddling a 200-lb., 20-foot dugout canoe with our guide, Ernesto, out of a base camp on Ecuador's Rio Napo, we decided to give it a try on the last day by ourselves. My wife, Jean, was convinced we could get along fine without a guide, and before we knew it we found ourselves winding through a narrow slough worming its way into the thick jungle. Our destination for the day was a place called the Tower, a rough spiral stairway built around a 150-foot-high Kapok tree. After arriving, we climbed up the stairway's 13 stories and were rewarded with a unique perspective of Amazon tree-top life: different plants, animals and even climates. Below us was a jaw-dropping view of the jungle spread out in all directions. We also saw an eagle eating a monkey and a sloth sitting in a Zen-like trance. Mesmerized, we stayed to see the birds roost for sunset and then hurried down to find the canoe before the trail back to the waterway was cloaked by the rapidly falling equatorial night. We just made it. "You're gonna be mad at me," I said, fumbling around in my bag. "I forgot the backup flashlight." "That's okay," my wife replied. "I have mine right here...uh...you sure you don't have yours?" We would have to paddle back to camp without our headlamps. At first, it didn't seem too big of a deal...we had been in dark places before, even in jungles. But between the black water and the enveloping dark green foliage, we quickly passed any point in the "dark" scale we had previously experienced. After paddling about a mile, Jean's white shirt was not even remotely visible at the other end of the canoe. The test of the hand in front of your face—nothing. The good news was that the watery burrow through the undergrowth was narrow enough so we couldn't mistakenly turn around and go back the way we had come. The bad news was that it was too winding to follow in the dark. The thump of vines would be followed by "STOP..YUCK...BACKUP!" as the bow person, with visions of snakes and spiders, was thrust into a bush. Without light, going on was impossible. "Do think you could walk or wade and feel our way?" asked Jean. "No way!" I replied, remembering the piranha we fished for earlier and the gators we saw the night before. "I think we'll just have to lay down in the bottom of the canoe and feed the bugs until morning. There's nothing else we can do." As Jean reluctantly bailed out the canoe for our bed and fluffed her daypack to use as a make-shift pillow, a hand connected a lump in the pack to the brain... "THE SCOPE!" A pull at the zipper brought forth salvation—a small field microscope used to make army ants into Godzillas through a 30 power lens with its very own ...LIGHT! When the tiny little bulb flickered on, the absolute blackness was nicked with 2 volts of light. But it was enough to paddle out into the lake and back to the lights of camp. "You did that paddle in the dark?" asked Mike when we finally returned. "Yeah, no problem," we lied. "Hombre ferreo (hard guy)," said Ernesto. "More like cabeza ferreo (hard head)," muttered Jean. A Day of Flatwater Hell "Exactly how far do we have to actually paddle?" Anita asked skeptically. Anita was a talented playboater, not particularly fond of flat water. "Only eight miles," I explained, recounting scenes of bighorn sheep, hot springs and even a sauna cave at our destination. What I didn't tell her was that we were going to paddle the eight miles upstream. But the thought of soaking with her in an isolated hotspring was enough for me to embellish a bit. Finally, after a good bit of coaxing, Anita agreed to do a flatwater paddle through the Black Canyon, a scenic stretch on the Colorado River just below Lake Mead. True, most folks did Black Canyon the easy way, by floating a couple of miles downstream from the base of Hoover Dam. But paddling the run upstream in sea kayaks afforded a much better chance of seeing sheep, or at least catching some solitude in the stark desert canyon. The trick was, you had to get an early start because the power authority usually cranked up the flow by early afternoon. And more water meant stronger current, which meant the paddle from hell if you happened to be paddling the wrong direction. For starters, Anita's flight into Las Vegas was late. Then we missed each other in the airport. Then we got lost on the way to the put-in. Finally, we rolled into camp at about 3 a.m. Luckily, we were up and on the water by the crack of noon. Unfortunately, several dozen jet skiers and powerboaters immediately dashed any hopes of desert solitude. No bighorns within 10 miles of the river that day. To top things off, the power authority turned up the flow when we were only halfway up the canyon. The only way to make it upstream was to desperately eddy-hop back and forth across the quarter-mile wide channel. With all our meandering, eight miles became about 14. After what seemed like an endless struggle against a formidable current, we made it to camp about dusk, exhausted and glad to be off the water. Anita was mostly her old self again after a couple days of hotsprings, day hikes and cheap wine. I kept reminding her that the paddle downstream would be a leisurely float (never mind that last-minute weather report). Unfortunately, an early winter storm blew in on the way back, forcing us to paddle against a stiff headwind. If we stopped paddling even for a second, we were blown back upstream. Choppy water, wind and cold weather made the trip back miserable. Anita muttered something about feeling trapped inside an M.C. Escher drawing where every direction was upstream. She was gracious, though, despite our weekend of flat-water hell. She also got even: three weeks later we did what Anita described as an "easy little creek run" in Northern California. A scenic run, I'll give her that, although for me it proved to be more of a swim fest than a paddling trip. Truth may indeed be stranger than fiction; it's definitely better paddling policy. An Unchivalrous Shuttle After a group river trip some mysterious force arranged for the shuttle drivers to be comprised of all of the "gentlemen" in the group, with the wives, girlfriends and children all left waiting at the take-out. The "gentlemen" had driven a hundred yards or so when one of our number declared that he needed to use a restroom. "Oh, look, there's a tavern!" A warm, cozy tavern ("Let's just stay for a beer and warm up"). With cheap pitchers ("Well, maybe one more"). And free shuffleboard ("I'll play the winner"). Great juke box ("We can't leave yet, I've still got three songs left"). When we finally departed we were shocked to discover that it had gotten quite dark (we have since calculated that this is to be expected when you go into a bar at dusk and come out two hours later). We might have gotten away with this if we had coordinated our stories. Unfortunately, when we finally arrived back at the take-out (to a very cold reception, not meaning the weather) we all blurted out a differing variety of excuses ("We had a flat"; "We had to wait for a really looong train to pass"; "We were abducted by aliens"; "It wasn't my fault, they made me do it"). Since that episode there is an unwritten understanding that the "gentlemen" are not permitted to run shuttle without a lady present. And the "gentlemen" get somewhat anxious when the ladies occasionally declare: "Oh, we'll run the shuttle...you boys just wait right here".
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