Hidden Water

NYC Kayak Circumnavigation: Paddle a Lap around Manhattan

Water surrounds Manhattan, and it is in constant motion. New York City's most famous island is set in one of the most complex harbor and waterways systems of any great city. The Atlantic Ocean meets the Hudson River on the west side of Manhattan, and  the Atlantic also flows up and back down the East River, thru the Hells Gate narrows, and out to the Long Island Sound on the other side. North of Hells Gate on the East Side, the skinny Harlem River completes the water route, connecting the tides of the  East River to the tides of the Hudson, all of them pulsing back and forth, and changing direction four times a day.

    

But Then Which Way Do You Call Downstream?

By timing this tidal dance, it is possible to paddle completely around Manhattan, a grand day trip of 31 miles, with the current flowing with you the whole time.  And so we did, launching 6 kayaks at dawn from Pier 40 near the southern tip of Manhattan, on the last of the Hudson's morning ebb tide. We went south-around, 6 paddlers, for three rivers, one day, 31 miles, one lap.  We circumnavigated the island like a pod of cautious orcas, at home in the watery environment along the perimeter, but never penetrating the teeming land surface.  When people asked where we were from, we said we had paddled over from Ireland.  

Start with a Paddling Plan

I had read the paddling web pages and tide charts to plan the route.  The NOAA page was best:

http://tidesandcurrents.noaa.gov/tides07/tpred2.html

We had snacks, water bottles, Google Earth air photos, radios, and a series of milestones to hit to stay with the tides: around the Battery by 9:30AM, under the Brooklyn Bridge and up past the UN building to Hells Gate by noon, through the Gate with the tidal flood (6 knots max!) by 1 pm, then on up the East River, now ebbing north out to the Hudson, toemerge at the northern tip of Manhattan, Sputen Dyvil, by 4:PM, and ride the Hudson's grander, more mature and elegant tidal ebb (2 knots), south along the long 10 miles back to our origin.

And it all worked. We moved through the early river traffic of the Battery cautiously, podding up our kayaks to allow the Staten Island Ferry to bellow past, and then meeting with the Coast Guard runabout boat. Twin machine guns reminded us that the Coast Guard had some rules down here, and would like to have them obeyed. (Imagine if Grand Canyon rangers had machinee guns). We tried to look like innocent tourists, and promised to keep 150 yards away from the UN Building, power plants and bridge abutments.  City views going up the East River were terrific, with the sun coming up clear and strong, Brooklyn Bridge iconic and ancient, the Chrysler Building and Midtown sparkling with promise, and joggers everywhere along the shores sending us waves.  Expensive toys like cigarette boats and helicopters were clustered around Wall Street riverfront, with no visible sign of the billion dollar financial meltdown of the previous week. The City looked like Hedge Fund trader's dream, but who owned those yachts now, after their brokerage went bankrupt?  

Our group of paddlers was strong, untroubled by the harbor chop or the eddies of Hells Gate. We were making great time,  at ease in our boats, almost outpacing the tide. We pulled out on the rocks at the top of Roosevelt Island and climbed the seawall to relax at the park, lunch and watch the max flood through the Gate.   We stopped later along the Hudson-Harlem line railroad tracks that line the Harlem River, and again at a waste patch of land we dubbed The Murder Scene, near an overpass north of Yankees Stadium. There was a steady and mysterious flow of car traffic to an apparently abandoned group of shanties on the Bronx riverfront, and we got back in our boats and launched quickly.  

As with any day in the city, we had casual interactions with all manners and classes of NYC officials and citizens.  A NYC Police helicopter buzzed us twice, and then returned to its hovering station over Yankee Stadium (watching the game?). We saw fiberglass ski boats and and classic wooden motor boats, NYC and Yonkers police launches, a pack of 15 racing jet-skis with We're-From-New-Jersey written all over them, the Circle Line, and a few other kayaks, including another circumnavigationn group, with a hired guide. I caged a cold beer from a friendly motor boat gal, paddling hard to catch her stern (ahem) under a bridge for the handoff, and then to stay ahead of my buddies till I drank it. From the river, we glided past family picnics, South Street Seaport, subway car storage yards, exercise classes, football practice, and all manner of abandoned industrial waste yards. A tug pulled an enormous empty barge, floating high and boxy witha sheer bow wave, by a cable as thick as my leg. There is a separate city life on the rivers around Manhattan, and we were visitors to this society.

As the day wore on, and our backs and legs got stiff, our breaks got more frequent. We decided this river needs a surfing wave somewhere around Brooklyn to up the fun level,  and a good rope swing  would be nice at one of those Harlem River railroad bridges.  Good scenery, but still, 31 miles of flat-water will do that to you.

 

Finally, we left the narrow Harlem River and emerged back onto the main Hudson. It seemed enormous after the intimate gorge section  of the Harlem River. Our paddling group moved out into the river to catch the main Hudson flow south, and all of Manhattan seemed to stretch out  before us. That is one glamorous island, but when you have been paddling for eight hours already and have to go the length of it, it is the size that is most impressive. The sun was heading down as we floated past the George Washington Bridge and the Little Red Lighthouse, and we still had 180 blocks to go.  But the horses smelled the barn, and we paddled on. The ebb tide south increased and carried us, as Manhattan and Newark towers caught and reflected the  sunset, and our day on the water came full circle. We reached our dock below Houston Street as the sky became purple, and made our take out and load up before the first star appeared.

Tired and proud, we drove north out of the city, land creatures once again, but able to claim ownership of a full view of one of the most complicated, interesting and storied waterfronts on the planet.

  Next: Circumnavigate Ireland?

Green River Rafting : It Takes a ViIlage

It takes, well, at least a small village. A Park Service lottery led to a July 1 launch permit, to float the excellent Gates of Lodore section of the Green River, through Dinosaur National Monument in NE Utah and Colorado.

  

And to do it right, you have to bring a mountain of gear, some old and some new friends, a pack of kids, some river veterans, some rookies, some fun Moms, a couple of boatmen, and a trip elder: Grandma Elaine, in our case. The Queen of the Green. So we did. Nineteen people, 5 rafts, 3 kayaks, one canoe. Four days on the river, and a fleeting chance to glimpse a bit of North America as it was 500 years ago.

Step By Step to the Promised Land

All the stages of the private river trip repeat themselves anew each voyage: the Joy of the Permit notice, early recruiting, building excitement and a crew list, logistics glitches and trip planning, an email frenzy the week before, and finally, break from your house and get out of town. The Pre-Trip, a journey of its own and scene of some hilarious road trip encounters and memorable excesses in former years, calmer now but still full of the limitless potentiality and sense of coming fun. Rushed final shopping ensues. I like to put on a cowboy shirt at this stage, and make my spirit big.

The Put-in Scene: a most trying and tricky stage, take a calming breath, don't rush it, as the Tribe pours in road weary and partially insane from the accumulated stress of getting away for this trip. Confusion and anxiety peak at this stage. Everyone tries to help, cross-purposes occur, Park Rangers are lurking on the ramp, piles of gear everywhere, shaking hands with new folks pulling up, sometimes it is difficult. Try to remember ten thousand things as you rig your gear and boat, ask who moved your cheese, and don't step too hard on anyones mojo. Here is where I felt my back go out, a stab of pain at the belt-line, as I lifted 2 cases of soda out of the mini-van while rushing to load a raft. Always relearning the same lessons, we are. Breathe, stretch, have  beer at hand but not too much too soon. Gradually, the mountain of gear becomes a fleet of boats. The river whispers, boat squeak in the eddy, the canyon is almost within reach.

Finally, The Launch.

Moral of The Story: Never Underestimate the Grand Canyon

Just when I thought I was done with another Grand Canyon river trip adventure, I relaxed, patted my self on the back, sighed, and then got my butt kicked by the Grand Canyon. Let me explain.

River to Rim is a Mighty Long Walk

Last June, our small group of river buddies hiked out from the Colorado River on the Bright Angel Trail, sadly departing on day 8 from a private river trip to return to our families and lives. The rest of our river tribe was still down there, preparing to run the big water of Granite Creek, Horn Creek and the giant waves of Hermit to continue down the river. We were the departing half-trippers, done for this cycle. As savvy veterans of previous trips, our hike-out group had Gone Big in the early whitewater, charged the river play holes, enjoyed the layover day at Nankoweap Canyon, surfed our kayaks to private glory at every glassy wave, protected our feet, knuckles, brain and skin cells from the brutal punishment the Canyon and river trip fun habits can dish out. We saved just enough stamina for, and worried just a bit about, the famously steep and hot Bright Angel Trail (4400 feet of elevation gain, 9 hot miles, with routine June temps in the 100+ by 3 pm). At Cremation Creek camp on our last night, the traditional changeover night party was ended by a sky-breaking lightning storm and glorious downpour that sent people giggling into the tents. Summer monsoon season had begun in Grand Canyon.  

Slightly hungover and slightly depressed the next morn, our group of 4 hikers meet at one raft in the predawn eddy and loaded up. AJ, one of the boatman, was ferrying us down past Phantom Ranch  to Pipe Creek to start our hike, shaving a couple of miles off the hike. AJ would drop us and wait there in the eddy for the other boats. We floated quietly down past the Bright Angel Creek riffles and silently shared a last few miles on the great river together. It had been a beauty of a trip, and now we had a sense of mission for the hike.

Experience Allows One to Avoid Mistakes

The departure hike to the rim went as planned: we said our goodbyes and were started before the sun was over the rim, we hydrated well, dressed in hats and lightweight sunscreening outfits, ate light, and carried plenty water, we were past Indian Gardens rest spot before noon, and rimmed out, a bit light-headed and winded, but still feeling prime, into the hub-bub of South Rim by 2 pm. Dayhikers of all ages, tourists in sneakers with video cameras running, and National Park concession workers surrounded us in a summer-at-the-National-Park swirl that made my head spin. My Country Tis' of Thee. ..we were back in America.

As always after a long GC river trip, the onslaught of cars and buses, dozens of new faces, and general return to the world was jarring. We were cheerful, still a tight river group, and we hid offtrail in the shade, eating our last energy bars. Mentally, we each considered our private mix of thoughts of our coming re-entry work, tomorrow's Flagstaff flight times, mixed with the fading euphoria from the powerful glories of recent days in the river canyon. We had once again navigated the perils of the Colorado River (upper 80 miles this time, anyway), playing hard and strong, with no paid guides, and relying on our experience and our tight-knit group of friends, the river tribe, to keep us safe. We were mighty. OK, high fives, and lets go into Flagstaff and get some beer and a hot shower. Oh, yes, pride cometh before the fall.

Wait, the shuttle car was nowhere to be found.

We had paid a shuttle guy to leave it here, but, hey, glitches with shuttles are part of a million river trip stories. No big deal for Grand Canyon vets like us. Lets spread out and check the parking lots. Probably out in that vast Remote parking lot. Agreed to meet at the South Rim Bus Shuttle stop.

And so, five minutes later, after reaching the far end of the vast Remote  lot, I looked up from searching license plates and noticed the temperature had dropped 20 degrees, and a black wall of cloud with lightning flickering from the bottom was sweeping in. Ah, cool, I thought; an afternoon canyon storm to send us off. I am one with the canyon, and will enjoy the Thunder Gods. But, perhaps I will leave this open, metal-filled, parking lot before the lightning reaches it. 

The hard rain started suddenly, with crashing thunder, as I walked back towards the bus stop.   In my cotton pajama pants and T-shirt, I was soaked instantly. I had hiked out with only a light daypack, with water and sunscreen, no change of clothes or shell because I had some in the (still missing) shuttle car. Then rain changed to hail, big, honking, serious, hail, and more lightning, very close now,setting off car alarms and the hail dinging car paint on all sides, ricocheting hard off car roofs, and hurting my head. I speed up towards the distant shelter, my tired legs cramping slightly with lactic acid. I was no longer too cool to run out of the rain. Monsoon was on!

Oh, The Humanity

By the time I reached the open-sided shuttle bus shelter, it was like a refugee scene. Sixty people crowded in there, all getting completely soaked in a howling rainstorm. It was huddled masses, ponchos flapping, families yelling at each other, babies and children wailing, rain and hail downpour forming sheet flow off the roof, which was then blowing in waves over the wretched crowd. Instant streams had formed in the street, and waves of hail would occur, drumming onto every exposed surface. Too loud to talk. Mothers cradled their children like biblical exiles, and a young woman near me was sobbing openly as her husband cradled her and both cameras. It was a full-on Grand Canyon summer downpour, ready to blow the tattoo off your arm. And I was caught out: almost naked in my cotton, chilling fast, exhausted, soaked, with no warm gear, no shelter, no car, crouched in the wind shadow of a concrete roof support. And on cue, the wind, thunder and rain doubled in intensity, and I realized the hail was now accumulating to several inches deep. Instant icy snow drifts were forming along the Bus Shelter, in June. Grand Canyon weather is strong.

The Bus Stop storm view over the rim was utterly spectacular, with steady lightning strikes in the near and distant vista, purple light coming thru the black raincloud, and sun still shining 3 miles away on the North Rim.  The temperature had dropped probably 50 degrees colder than it had been hiking, and within 10 minutes, I had uncontrollable body and jaw shivering, and the detached perspective of early stage hypothermia. My partial exhaustion from the long hike (and my all cotton outfit) made me extra vulnerable to the heat loss. My friends had been caught near various South Rim buildings, and were not to be seen. A long train of shuttle buses came, and the soaked crowd loaded up and left, until I was all alone in the blowing rain, hunched over, semi-fetal on the ground and shivering. The light bulb in my head was dim and flickering.  I almost dozed off.

A piece of my brain said, get up, get warm, start walking. I walked in the now steady rain for several hundred yards along the South Rim road, a drowned shivering rat, and into the lobby of the Bright Angel Lodge. It was jam-packed with tourists in any rain gear they had, a flock of fleece and Gore-tex birds, waiting out the storm. With no money, no ID, empty pockets, my body core temperature dropping perilously, dripping wet, I found it quite strange, almost hallucinatory,  to be suddenly among so many dry,  well dressed strangers. The crowds parted to avoid touching  my wetness, and I slid into the hotel lobby Men's Room. There, I took off and wrung out my  T-shirt, my pajama bottoms, and then still shivering uncontrollably, lay down on the tile floor in my underwear and river sandals under two hand dryers, and began to hit the silver On buttons repeatedly, bathed in the electrically heated air. I remember thinking, "Thank God for the Handicapped Access Code, it made them put the hand dryers closer to the floor". Even when you are freezing, it takes a lot to overcome the unwritten social taboo against laying in your underwear on a public bathrooom floor under the hand dryers. I know, because I've been there. I knew it was wierd, but I did not care.

The next couple of tourists who came in the Men's Room looked at me with great fear or suspicion, and did not dare approach my dryers after rinsing their hands. Then two guys with backcountry experience arrived, realized I was hypothermic, rushed over, asked me simple questions, looked in my eyes, and offered some of their clothes to put on. Very interesting human experience, there in the Bright Angel Men's Room. After 20- 30 cycles of hot air from my twin dryers, I was recovered enough to dress and leave.

I stole a yellow rain slicker from the bathroom maintenance closet to put over my damp outfit, and walked back to the bus stop in the rain. Hallelujah! My friends had the car, they had dry clothes, food, they were searching for me, they embraced me, all was not lost. The rain was stopping. We loaded up, we returned my lifted rain slicker to where I found it, and we left the South Rim for Flagstaff. Ambulances came blazing into the park with sirens on as we left. Hikers had been hit by lightning, waterfalls had formed and closed the trail we walked up, workers on the roof of the Lodge were looking at wind damage.  Wasn't that a mighty storm. Good thing we were done the hike early, we mused ...wonder where on the river our group was when it hit? Later, we would learn the main Colorado turned red from flash floods entering from side canyons that afternon.

But Remember, Experience is Gained by Making Mistakes

The funny thing about hypothermia, is how quickly you can recover from being a shivering zombie, almost catatonic, back to being a dry, warm, functioning person. Then the recent memory of your condition seems like a dream state. Just before I fell deeply asleep in the back of that warm car headed to Flag, I thought,  how ironic;

Me, with my years of Grand Canyon trips, after weeks of my river time and exposure,  taking chances and living large on whitewater adventures, using my skill, my specialty river gear and my preparation, carefully gauging risk-versus-reward behavior to best enjoy the mother of all great rivers. Then, I relaxed at the end and got my ass kicked when I least expected it, in a South Rim tourist bus shelter. What a lesson; After you scout the run, make your entry, and make the key moves,  Finish Strong, bucko, and do not drop your guard until the rapid is done.

Never underestimate the ability of the Grand Canyon to hand you a powerful life lesson, a dangerous thrilling experience, and a glorious view all at the same time.

Paddling Song: One Great Thing

ONE GREAT THING

And I think over and over again,

of when, with a North wind

I drifted in my kayak along the Great River

and thought I was in danger.

My fears,

those small ones

that I though so big

for all the vital things

I had to get and to reach.

And yet, there is only

One Great Thing

the only thing:

to live and to see,

on journeys, in camps, and at home

the great day that dawns

and the light that fills the world.

                                                         - Copper Tribe Inuit Song.

Phantom Ranch Guitar

Phantom Ranch Guitar

The guitar at the Phantom Ranch cookhouse hangs on a wooden peg in the old mess hall, in reach of any hiker, river runner, or Grand Canyon wanderer who comes in and wants to play. It’s an old nylon string cowboy guitar, sturdy and a little battered, with the loving words, "Be Gentle Please" clearly lettered on the side. It has no visible brand, no fancy logo on the headstock, but it has the unmistakable patina of age and seasons, and the touch of countless caring hands.

We had walked up the trail into Phantom Ranch from our boats, early on day 8 of our Colorado river trip, sunburned, scruffy and happy, to get ice cream and send out letters. I took the guitar down off the wall while my raft trip buddies were buying stamps, and strummed a chord. It rang out loud, in tune and clear. It was morning at Phantom, and the place was quiet. Breakfast had been cleared away, sun was streaming in onto the wooden floor, and outside were scattered campers and chattering groups of tourists, starting their day in the bottom of the Grand Canyon.

And just for a few minutes, I sat at the cookhouse table in a straight backed wooden chair and I played that old guitar. I played the intro part to Ghost Riders in the Sky to get the cowboy feel, I strummed my favorite dramatic Spanish falsetas. Then I settled down and played Don’t Fence Me In, for the part about the horses, and so I could sing the line about " I wanna gaze at the moon until I lose my senses".

The guitar had an easy action and sounded surprisingly good. Some folks came in and some left, my river trip buddies went back to the boats, and I was left to play for myself in a sunny corner of the empty dining hall. The music rang out and no one watched or cared, and to me, my playing never sounder better.

After a few more songs, I knew I had to get back to my boat. I hung that guitar back on its peg, to wait for the next wanderer to find it, and I walked out the door down to the trail along Bright Angel Creek to the river. My trip was almost ready, with the other boatmen rigging their rafts and filling water jugs. The Colorado River was shining in the sun. I checked my rig, sat in my seat and took the oars. Time to focus. Big water lay waiting downstream, a string of serious and reverent names like Horn Creek, Granite, Hermit and Crystal. As our group pushed off and my boat swung out into the Bright Angel riffles, I started to sing Don’t Fence Me In, and, you know, I think I never sounder better.

I can’t wait to play that guitar again.

Rio Coco River Trip, Nicaragua/Honduras Border life

Rio Coco, on the Nicaragua/Honduras Border: January 2008

My second river trip day starts after a long restless night on the floor of an empty church, sleeping (mostly not sleeping) under my mosquito net on the hard wood boards, waiting for dawn.  Finally, roosters, dim grey light and I can see the outline of my still-snoring companions in their hammocks and the interior of the  simple church we are bunked in, in a Meskito indian village along Rio Coco, Nicaragua. Uncomfortable dark hours seeking a less painful sleeping position on my back and side gave me time for those spooky, lonely, deep-of-night thoughts. Like, birth, death, and next time, bring a hammock, Joe. My ant bites itch, but no new mosquito bites. Stretch and greet the sun, chase away the night willys.

My Water For People mapping assignment has gotten me on this river trip, traveling with a bunch of friendly young Nica government and NGO workers, miles beyond the end of the road,  deep in cultural and geographic distance, an alien visitor with a GPS mapping device, digital camera and sheaf of water system questionnaires.  Yesterday we motored in our dugout canoe  for 8 hours downstream, past primary rain forest, an army border checkpoint along the river, a busy trading/ shipping/contraband loading station on the Honduras river side, some rocky Class II+ rapids , clusters of small houses in clearings on river terraces, and a sign announcing we were in the "Zone Indigena", a semi-autonomous stretch of neglected Meskito communities. We are deep in. 

Our first riverside community interview, at the concrete schoolhouse  of Chiminca (population 150?) was rough: hard faces and stony looks from suspicious Indio adults as we explained our purpose, an oily, ingratiating church deacon insisting he was the community leader (while being pointedly ignored by the community) and asking for promises of a water system, and  finally, our dawning understanding of the angry unwelcome when a mom blurted out, " My baby died in thirty minutes!"  This small community had lost 3 babies and one adult to fast moving deaths in the past month, believed to be meningitis, and attributed to dirty water, taken straight from the river. They were still grieving, the adults were ashamed by the lack of control they had over this,  and older Indian man with about 7 wispy grey hairs on his chin quietly explained, it was 8 hours by horseback to the nearest health station, and  this disease was simply to fast for them. Our interview goes fast; there is no water system, no toilets, no outhouses except one at the school. Other indian communities in the mountains pollute the side streams, we are told, so they cannot be trusted as water supply either.

A sudden afternoon cloudburst began, the rain pouring down with no preamble, and all the kids clustered under the school roof. Moms came running with plastic basins to catch the rain runoff from the school roof downspout. The school has the only tin roof in the village, and this roof water is widely believed to be ( and probably is)the cleanest water supply available. We watch the Moms carry heavy basins of fresh water home, and Arlen says, the dry season is beginning, and the next four months have almost no rain, but with global climate change now, who know? Quien sabe? It is a slim attempt at hope for these Moms and their kids.

This comunity left our cheerful river group shaken, brought down to earth by the reality of their need, and by our knowledge that our questionnaire and map were not going to bring them a better water supply anytime soon. But, this is why we are here; to get the actual conditions known, with details, photos, GPS locations and names of community leaders logged. We will not fix it all fast, but in developing community aid work, most quick fixes are quickly broken anyway. We take our information, load into our boat and begin to move back upstream against the current now, towards Wiwili, stopping at each community along the way.

Be like a samurai chopping firewood,I tell myself again: you hope the wood is used for fuel, but meanwhile, just enjoy the chopping. Whack.

Over the next three days, this scene is repeated at a dozen communities, as we arrive without warning at a remote clearing, find the leader's house, get our data and move on. We become more adept at doing our photos, datapoints and questionnaires, and hardened to impacts of the lack of sanitation and safe water.  To complete the feeling of being otherworldy invaders,  the first words we speak , usually to a curious child at the river bank as we pull in , are "Take us to your Leader". My handheld GPS and camera are like my Martian raygun equivalent, shiny and mysterious totems, linking our river trip miles to digital fractals and outer space orbits.

Arlen, the local government guy, is impatient at each stop, and playful and restless on the boat in between. He knows the communities names and leaders, and he is right that we have to move fast, speak primarily to the community leader, and make it clear that we are not promising any specific project, but the blunt, hurried indifferent tone he takes as he announces all this each time is clearly greeted with tired resignation. Low expectations and lack of joy between government and community are the norm in the Zona Indigena, I realize, probably with valid reasons on both sides. I am the token gringo expert, seemingly there mostly to show a seriousness of purpose, and hint at a mysterious technical competence that is beyond explanation. Actually, I have trained Wilbert to do all the GPS waypoints by day 3, Lesther carefully does all the interviews, and beyond keeping track of all the Community Codes, and storing all our completed forms in my guitar case ( the one piece of luggage everyone carefully protects from rain and river) I am just watching them work, taking photos and adding cool birds to my Life List. Just like when you are at work, huh, Joe? Experience counts. 

Harsh poverty becomes a given, and it does not dent our river trip vibe too badly, as we motor for sunny miles with our chairs clustered together on the boat to share iPod earbuds, sing along with Freddy Fender to the crying-in-my-beer classic, "Before the Next Tear Drop Falls" (by chance I have the English and Spanish version from a Texas concert). My Spanish gets stronger than it has been in years, amid dozens of errors, as I describe Bolivia travel, New York City, my groundwater consulting job, the various correct ways to conjugate and deploy the versatile English verb "To Fuck" ("Don't Fuck With Me" in hilarious tough-guy Spanish accents becomes a catch phrase up and down the boat), and I learn about their families,  girlfriends, work and recent motorcycle wrecks. We're just guys on a boat talking, here. We pull into a beach to stay overnight at a hut, give our beans and rice to the Lady of the Hut to cook, and relax down on the boat with the boatmen, drinking dark rum, swimming in our underwear, playing guitar and waiting for rice. The river flows by and the jungle flows around us, an emerald green kingfisher cries and drops from a fishing perch and a noisy flock of parakeets flies overhead as the day closes. It is the right thing we are doing. Chop that wood.

On the final river day, with all our mapping done and motoring back home, we approach the Boca de Espanol, the Honduras-side river outpost. Arlen asks me if I want to do an illegal border crossing to get cold beer. Hell, yes, I do. It turns out he is asking me to buy the beer, which is fine with me.

The Boca de Espanol river port is a scene from a cheesy adventure novel:, a hodge-podge of flimsy docks, dugouts, people loading mattresses, umbrellas, and angry live pigs into canoes. Trucks have been driven into the river flats to unload ... cheese.Yes, cheese is the big contraband item here today, in big 100-pound blocks, wrapped in cloth and sweating in the sun. There are wisecracking dockside layabouts, barefoot kids, men with machetes on their belts, and mud everywhere. Friendly working vibe on the docks, no mean faces, but I can't shake the "what planet is this?" feeling. We leave the panga and go up the muddy trail to cold beer.  The no-name open air tavern is more ranch house than whorehouse decor, with horses tied out front and a little money on the card table. Guys drinking coffe greet us politely. One horrible drunken lifer cries out from the mud nearby for us to buy him a shot, and is ignored by all. No visible guns in the bar, but knives are evidently OK, kerosene lanterns hang unlit on the walls (it is still mid-afternoon), who is that pretty girl in too much makeup joking with the card players, and then a classic gold-toothed madam with a clean apron appears and brings us frosty beers. One of the card players politely surrenders his pile of money forward on the card table, says his goodbyes, and climbs off the porch and unties a horse. It feels like Montana Territory, 1873. There still are such places.  

La Duena asks where I am from, nods like NY-ers are a commonplace here, listens to our story about water system mapping with good humor, and takes a group photo of us as Mojados, clinking bottles at the close of our mission. I have an urge to do a water sytem questionaire and GPS waypoint here, photograph the well and the toilet, but it passes, so to speak. The boatmen discuss different canoes and boat drivers, explain their hand signals a little, brag that they have the best canoe on the river. I think of my Mexican friends in Santa Cruz, the hardworking illegal restaurant guys on my old softball team. Here I am, an illegal alien in America Central. I order another round, despite the scandalous price (20 cordobas, or $1 a bottle). The moment slips out of its frame and the room revolves away from me spinning: I am a cowboy in a western movie, I will live here in the forest and build a jungle compound with monkeys and jaguars and cinnamon-skinned girls with silver teeth, and an immaculate water system, I will paint my face with azure and find the Quetzal bird. Whew. I take a deep breath and rejoin the conversation. The guys tease me as beer arrives, the gringo moneybags, and we toast our trip.   Count my blessings. River time has worked its magic once again: we started as an assigned group, and we return as a team..

We pile back into the boat, fire up the outboard, and as the boatmen drive us back upriver to Wiwili to enter our data in the Water For Pople database, we slouch in the sun and sing with old Freddy Fender and his accordion, " Y Estare! Contigo, quando triste esta...."

 

Nicaragua WFP: Rio Coco River Trip Time

Take Me to The River

The Rio Coco flows north through Wiwili, Nicaragua, brown and wide, and becomes the international border with Honduras at its confluence with Rio Segovia, some 60km downstream. This entire  community and river drainage were hammered by flooding and landslides when Hurricane Mitch parked here for a week, a dozen years ago, and everyone speaks of 'before Mitch", "after Mitch".The river is the only road to 2 dozen communities, including the "Zona Indigena", a string of  Meskito Indian towns that El Porvenir wants to include in our mapping project. SO, two boats will go on river trips, and I grab one spot assignment. A second boat, with Dave, WFP Volunteer and recently minted engineering grad from Florida, will get the other spots.

As our group mills about the tiny restaurant and debriefs from training day hike, a personnel issue arises. Although the other volunteers, (with no camping or river gear and wary of wooden canoes in whitewater and those overnight huts), are glad to stay on land, all the interpreters and guides want to go on the river. These guys know a river trip beats a car trip. Bickering in Spanish creeps along the table and cracks are appearing in the good vibe. I know the answer from my Little League coaching draft: Lotteria! I make a big show of writing each guide's name on slips of paper, crumple them in my ball cap, and corral the pretty passing waitress to draw four names: She reads them out to cheers and groans. This method is accepted by the group, (especially by the winners), and the new river crews toast each other while the others begin to speak of whitewater sections and rocks, dengue fever and malaria waiting downriver. I am with a crew of 20-something Nica guys, with the list tweaked so I am with Lesther, the friendly interpreter who does not actually speak (much) English, Wilbert, good-natured and competent El Porvenir staff, and with Arlen, the hot-shot local, a fast talking Alcalde's rep who has done this trip before as government guy. We will launch at dawn tomorrow, for an 8- hour motor downriver, then work back for 3 more days, stopping at communities with wild Indian names that are not on my map.

We have no food or beer (yet), no waterproof bags or ammo cans, no comfy sleeping pads, no kitchen rig. I laugh at my Grand Canyon river trip gear lists, dutch ovens, and weeks of prep, my rafting buddies and the piles of stuff we consider mandatory. But I have a mosquito net, my tropical bird book and binocs, and I feel my heart swell with gladness. A wild jungle river, Indigenous People, no bridges or paved roads for the Rio Coco's entire hundreds of miles length, flowing in primary rainforest to the Caribean blue tropical sea, along a international frontier and recent hot war zone, no guide book published, a mission to met people and map their water systems: I am a happy guy. Time to go Shopping!

The Rio Coco Boys Go Shopping

Over a rushed meal and beers, our river crew has compiled the archtypical "back of the napkin" shopping list for our river trip, Nicaragua style: rice and beans (of course), candles, TP, cigarettes, sardines, plastic bags, rainsuits (these will turn out to be invaluable), portable soup, cookies, salt, oil, more sardines. I point out beer and perhaps a modest bottle of rum should be included, to a round of appreciative nods. The guys are psyched that I am bringing a guitar.  We are like merry pirates now, our excitement building with our planning, feeling subtly promoted in rank, as we pile into a pickup and roar off into the night to get provisions. Dave and I end up standing in the bed of the pick- up hanging on the timber rack, as  warm rain comes in off the river and follows us up the riverbank into town. Dave was a little taken back to realize he was going "alone" (my boat will be on different river section), but he is game and is embracing the whirlwind now.

First, the hardware store, where we crowd in among horse tack and barbwire rolls. La Duena of Hardware  appears, and sends her son scurrying to find rainsuits, gum boots, batteries, a bit of rope, and some nice, large, heavy-duty plastic bags (one of them becomes my guitar dry bag). While she writes up our factura meticulously for El Porvenir tax deductions, I check out the complex array of machetes and wonder which one is for what purpose. Lots of different chopping styles here, I guess, like Eskimos and the mythical 100 words for snow...And we are off to the food merchant. It is a big warehouse, with all men behind the counter, and piles of goods that you must point at and ask for.

Guys shopping for a camping trip are the same everywhere. Like overeager hounds, we talk over one another, interrupt, agree, contradict, and lose our place. The napkin list comes out, we are building a pile on the counter, and Boom! lights go out. No lights all over town it turns out, and the rain is pounding on the tin roof now in the momentary quiet and dark. A pause, candles are found, other shoppers leave and we have the run of the place now: Don't forget matches, we need more coffee and sugar, how about some candy, not Vienna Sausages, those are gross baby pig dongs, get more sardines, how will we cook these beans? My camera flash illuminates the room for an instant. I realize I am slightly drunk, functioning in Spanish, fully engaged in the fun debate, back on River Time.  This moment and place spins and expands for me and I am in love with the candlelit warehouse.

How magic this moment, simultaneously already inside of and just before a wild trip, as all our individual desires, preconceptions and need for provisions mix with our wills to demonstrate our worthiness and style to new comrades, with the potential unknowable discoveries, fun and losses of the trip hovering tangible but still unseen. Get more coffee. It is the right thing we are doing. 

As we split the tab and leave with two big plastic sack of food, packed one per boat, I realize from the confidence in provisioning that Arlen has been down this river before, these guys are competent and ready for a good time, and we will do OK.  Town lights are still out, rain is easing, and we  stop for 24 cold cans of beer, 320 Cordobas, and head back to Hotel Central for a little pre-trip party. Who says you can't throw a jungle river trip together in a couple of hours in a small town at the end of the road?