Back in July I started paddling rivers again. When I was a kid, I made a few trips down the Broad River and a couple of slow floats through the Okefenokee Swamp, and I paddled over any number of lakes in the area.
I always thought that paddling down rivers would be the sort of activity I would continue throughout my life, but then life started happening all around me, and my adult priorities seemed to take precedence over my kid priorities.
When my oldest son was about five years old, I got a Wenonah Canoe catalog, thinking Harrison was just the right age to start riding down rivers. But one thing or another got in the way, and I eventually tossed out that catalog having never bought myself a canoe.
Fifteen years later, one trip down the North Oconee River in a borrowed kayak was all it took for my kid priorities to claw their way back on top. In July, my pal Rodney convinced me to go down the North Oconee with him, and he loaned me a kayak for the trip. The next day, I bought an Old Town canoe (though I still dream of a Wenonah), and over the past several months I have rekindled my old love affair with rivers.
I’ve made all of my sons ride down the river with me a couple of times. I’ve driven Rodney’s poor wife Elizabeth crazy with all the trips I’ve made him take with me. I even forced my wife to ride with me when no one else would. I’ve made a few of solo journeys, and I’ve been among crowds of friends paddling down the river.
In late October, after I made what I expected would be the last trip for the year (it was starting to get cold out), I decided to add up all the miles I’d paddled and see how far I’d gone down rivers since July. The number was an enticing 96.7 miles.
It didn’t hardly seem right that I would close out the year with such an ugly number as 96.7. I was so close to topping 100 miles on rivers that I felt compelled – regardless of the temperature – to get in one more trip down the river. One trip, on any of the legs of the river I typically paddle, would push me over 100 miles.
I told Rodney about my goal, and we vowed together to make it happen. We planned to make it last Friday, but we got something close to a thousand inches of rain in an hour on Thursday, and the river was too high to make it a safe journey. So we set Sunday as the day. Rodney got his friends Andy and Julie to go with us, and early Sunday afternoon – with the water still high and moving at a pretty quick pace, we pushed our boats into the water.
The short story is that I got in my 100 miles. Assuming I don’t make another trip down a river in 2015 (and, who knows, I might) I will have closed out the last six months of the year with 101.9 miles paddling down rivers. It’s a good way to spend time, and maybe I’ll go for 200 miles in 2016.
The long story is, I’m suffering for my achievement.
Toting the boat down to the river, we had to cross a mine field of splintered limbs where Georgia DOT or somebody cut a bunch of trees on the right-of-way earlier in the year. I hate walking through these splintered branches in open-toed sandals. The truth is, I hate open-toed sandals. When it comes to footwear, my preference is something akin to encasing my feet in concrete. I wear heavy hiking boots most all of the time. I’ve always liked heavy-duty shoes. But heavy-duty shoes aren’t ideal for rivers, so for paddling I wear my sandals.
As we were walking the canoe down to the river, one of these splintered branches popped up, I kicked it taking a step, and I drove a massive splinter into the middle toe on my left foot.
I stumbled and looked down, and my toe was already bloody like the battlefield at Gettysburg back in 1863, but I paid it no mind because I had a goal of 100 miles to achieve. I gritted my teeth in manful fashion, said nothing to my traveling companions as we pushed our boats into the river, and I thoroughly enjoyed miles 98, 99, 100 and 101.
When we got off the river I was limping around. The pain was pretty intense, but I didn’t start crying until I was in the car and driving away from Rodney, Andy and Julie. You don’t let your river buddies see you cry.
Jean, who came to pick me up at the take-out, got the tweezers when we got home. The branch that had embedded itself into my toe was sticking out quite a bit.
“It looks like you’ve got a Louisville Slugger in your foot,” Jean commented. At least, I think that’s what she said. She might have told me to quit blubbering and man up, but I think she then said, “This splinter in your toe is so big, we could take it to someone to make into a dining room table once we pull it out.”
Jean pulled with the tweezers. I howled in horror. My youngest son, Robert, thought it was fine entertainment and laughed in glee to see his father cry.
“I think that got it,” I said to Jean. I didn’t think it got it, but I was in so much pain I couldn’t stand to have her yanking on that 2×4 embedded in my toe.
I took a shower so I wouldn’t continue to smell like a river, and after the blood was cleaned up from my toe, Jean looked at it again.
“Oh, wow,” she said. “That’s still in there. It’s pretty deep.”
So after a couple of hours, we decided to give it another try. Robert came downstairs to hold the flashlight. Our middle son, Nathan, came downstairs to hold my leg. Jean prepared the tweezers for the surgery.
I chickened out. I couldn’t go through with it.
So here I am, an hour away from a doctor’s appointment, with a small tree jammed into my toe.
I have suffered for my 100 miles down the river. But I intend to turn my suffering into a new victory. When the doctor removes this massive piece of wood from my body, I am going to fashion it into a new paddle for the next 100 miles.
Rob Peecher is an avid river paddler and a great big baby when he gets a splinter. His book, Four Things My Wife Hates About Mornings, is available at Amazon.com.
