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We're lost. After breakfast at
Kelly's Landing in Greenville we drive hours north towards Lobster Lake
and as often happens when we get to logging roads, our brains seize. We've
passed our turnoff, and gone far enough out of our way that my "Can't
go back" syndrome has kicked in.
Mark Q shares the same personality flaw. Years before, he and I arrived
at Chamberlain lake ahead of everyone else. After driving five hours to
Millinocket, stopping briefly at Casa De La Fiesta and then driving another
three hours to the lake, we needed to find a place to camp. It's the camp
part that was the problem. Since we had a placid, moonlit lake in front
of us, we both agreed that we had to pitch our tents in a secluded area
on its shore. We couldn't be too conspicuous about camping in an un-maintained
site, so we chose rutted paths to drive down that looked like they ended
at water's edge. These paths always narrowed to paint scraping width and
far short of the water. We always got out and walked further just to make
sure. We would then back out, choose another rutted path and repeat the
futile shore search. We could have gone back to our starting point at
the southern end of the lake ,to the group campsite but that was,"Going
back." And therefore out of the question.
Which is why when I suggest that we forget Lobster and find
somewhere closer to spend our five days, I was surprised that Mark Q answered,
"Even though I've never been to Lobster, that's where we intended to go and,
I'd rather die than change our plans." "Planning on" just overruled "Can't
go back."
Dan also wanted to go to Lobster and Adam may have initially,
until he spotted Rainbow Lake. We all know that lake names are arbitrary and
this one could have been a mosquito infested puddle but -Rainbow? How could
he resist. Even I, who live in a perpetual state of ambivalence, thought,
hmmm, what a great name for this year's website.
Rainbow, at least on our map, was at the end of one our now
familiar single lane rutted paths. That was clear, which path, was not. No
road signs. We started down a promising one, with Dan repeatedly telling us
via our talkabouts that he wasn't going to follow. But every time we turned
around there he was, until we ran out of road. Looking through our windshield
was like staring at the Amazon minus man eating snakes. There was no way to
carry our canoes and gear through this jungle even if the lake were just over
the next hill. But oh, that magical phrase, just over the next hill. We jumped
out : dead trees, bushes, branches, quicksand, it was all in our way. We kept
walking hoping the lake was just ahead.
At Chamberlain Lake Mark and I had finally pitched our tent.
In the dark, in the rain, and in the mud, far, I assume, from the shore. We
were dead tired but happy that we hadn't gone back. Near Rainbow Lake, it
was still early so we backed out, gave up and headed back to Lobster.
By the time we get to the put-in, the weather that has been
toying with us turns ugly. The wind is now bending trees, the drizzle now
rain and all of it, in our face. I know, we all know, that if we get to the
lake and the weather hasn't stopped we will never reach our campsite. Canoes
and waves are compatible like planes and mountainsides, still, like a child
to his school lunch we are morbidly drawn.
Mark Q and Mark S are the first onto the water. They push
off, paddle furiously and go nowhere. A funny, improbable sight, arms moving,
orange hats bobbing, paddles splashing, canoe just sitting. Minutes passed
and just before I applaud their lack of movement backward, they begin to move
forward. Like Lemmings but with smaller brains we follow but for less than
a mile, when we all give up. We turn around and let the wind push us to a
campsite about two miles downstream.
This one is on an island in the middle of the river and named
Thoreau's; here, we off load and set up camp in the wind and rain and with
Mark Q's newly hurt back. No back problems before, but after unloading a heavy
bag from his jeep, he joins the world of the lame and the halt.
From a never complaining hauler of anything heavy, to asking
me to lift his paddle. But Mark, new to the world of bad backs, simply will
not give in as others would. He'd move to help out and suddenly fall to the
ground to a crouching position. He would remain in that all fours position
until the pain subsided and then make his move to stand upright, only to fall
almost face first into the dirt. It is as if his back, acting as drill sergeant
said, "Did I give you permission to stand?" Watching, I can't stop laughing.
As cruel as it sounds, from my vantage point, here is a newbie to the back
world thinking that life hasn't really changed. But it has. In spite of the
pain he helps cut wood, build the fire and most of what he always does, except
for lifting heavy things, like his boots.
With our tarps up, our fire finally giving off heat, dinner
planned, and the puddles disappearing, gray clouds break into pink streaks.
The sun appears low in the West, and on the opposite bank a rainbow. |
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