Seven idiots piled into three canoes and a kayak. Three days lay before them, unmapped by design, planned specifically to be unplanned. They brought three coolers of beer, two bottles of Jack Daniels and one flashlight.
They were drunk already, having driven all night from Austin to Arkansas, but they were determined to press on and ignore the call of sleep. So when the final beer of the night was drained at 7am, the first beer of the next day cracked open at 7:10am. It was a sprint, not a marathon. And it wasn’t much of a sprint.
***
The outfitter gave them a two-sided laminated sheet of paper that was generously labeled “Map.” It had some of the markings of a map – land was beautifully decorated by a generic flat green and water was, predictably, blue – but that’s where the information portion of the “map” ceased. The Buffalo River elegantly weaved its way from the bottom left corner to the top right, and if you flipped it over and rotated it 90 degrees, the River continued in the same direction. There was no legend, no North bearing and no other markings but for two small circles on the back page. The first, he told them, was the town of Gilbert. If they busted ass that first day they’d be there by nightfall. But if they wanted to take it easy, as he expected, he would happily pick them up there on the third day. The second spot was a simple Access Point, where they’d parked their cars an hour before they left. The Access Point was where most river-goers made their final land-fall, and where these seven idiots set their sights.
After a chugging contest in which the loser took the helm of the kayak, they were off. The map found its way into a dry bag and Mr. Daniels came out, ready to party.
***
Astros @ Rangers
Monday, 8/19/13 7:05pm
Harrell (6-13) vs Garza (8-2)
Tuesday, 8/20/13 7:05pm
Cosart (1-0) vs TBD
Wednesday, 8/21/13 7:05pm
Bedard (3-9) vs Holland (9-6)
***
I woke to gurgling and thrashing as my unmanned canoe drifted gently atop the kayak, its captain now swearing loudly and clawing at the water. My shipmate hadn’t stirred in the commotion, but he woke up in the water a moment later after the second canoe t-boned us.
We oared over to a tiny island, poured a swig of Jack on its surface and declared it – and every island thereafter – as Shot Island. We passed the bottle in a circle and jumped back in the boats.
And then everything was named. Shot Islands. Smoke Caves. Shotgun Shores. And dreams of reaching Gilbert by dark vanished.
***
Injuries
Rangers
Berkman – Twinkie poisoning
Feliz – sprouted another toe
Harrison – inverted penis
Kirkman – bad hair day
Lewis – cavities
Ogando – prison
Tepesch – bukkake appointment
Astros
Gonzalez – right shoulder
Martinez – left wrist
Villar – left thumb (day-to-day)
White – blah
***
Nightfall approached, so six of my closest idiots and I began searching for a place to camp. One spot was too rocky, one spot was too close to the water, one spot was too muddy. Some of these idiots were from Dallas, for God’s sake, and they wouldn’t camp just anywhere.
At the back-end of a hairpin turn we found The Spot. There was just enough beach to lodge the rafts on shore, and a wooden trail off to the right led up to a grassy meadow straight out of Tolkein’s writings. Acres of lush green spread in all directions, and as the sun set below a thick overhang of clouds we stood and watched, mouths agape at the vast expanse of Arkansas and the beauty of it all.
In the distance we saw lights of a small town and we decided we hadn’t done so bad after all, as Gilbert was but a stone’s throw away.
We broke camp in the eaves of a nearby forest and left the coolers and bottles sealed. A fire cackled to life as the canoes were unburdened of their treasures. We sat around it, gazing at the cloudbank overhead. Nobody said a word. The greys of the clouds and smoke desaturated the greens of the grass and forest, and soon it was misting. Seven idiots sat in utter greyness looking upward.
The fire grew taller and fought away the mist. Translucent ash spread outward as smokes of various potencies and qualities melded to create a purple plume that stretched to the heavens, threatening the clouds in an act of earthly dominance. Rain followed, but the fire grew stronger, burning hotter, raging louder.
And then it died. The rain stopped. The sky divided. Greys receded to blacks and light came down from above, as millions of stars looked down upon us.
***
Promotions
Tuesday – First 30,000 Smile Generation Texas Camo Cap, so all those people who pretend to be Rangers fans can simultaneously pretend to be hunters
Wednesday –Nolan’s Beef Sausage will only cost $1, so Bud need only bring a fiver.
***
I awoke in the same spot, one of seven idiots sitting in a circle. The clouds were back, but the meadow was gone, the forest was gone. There was no trace of a fire. Just a rocky beach at the back-end of a hairpin turn. We stared at each other aghast until somebody realized it – we’d been there two nights.
We quickly loaded up the boats and oared as fast as we could to the town we once saw in the distance. We could make it to Gilbert, get in the cars and figure the rest out later. But as we rowed we saw nothing. No town, no distinguishable marks on the map. I fished my cell phone out of my dry bag and called the outfitter. I didn’t know where we were, but we needed help. Two hours later he came upon us in a canoe with an outboard motor and towed us back to shore.
We’d gone 200 yards.