Brad Modesitt

 

For Mom and Dad,

Thank you for everything –

Encouragement, trust, values, love, kindness, understanding,

opportunities, punishment, laughter, compassion, adventure.

You have made my world a wonderful place to be.

 

1

Journey Around the World – Day 1

This planet has – or rather had – a problem, which was this: most of the people living on it were unhappy for pretty much of the time. Many solutions were suggested for this problem, but most of these were largely concerned with the movements of small green pieces of paper, which is odd because on the whole it wasn’t the small green pieces of paper that were unhappy.

• Douglas Adams in Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy

 

 

Lesson Learned: A two-foot drop is big enough.

 

May 22, 1993 – Day 1

Kent and I are now fifty yards downstream on the Cache La Poudre River in Fort Collins, Colorado, and we come to our first obstacle: a dam. At this point, I have about ten miles of canoeing experience in my adult life (actually twelve because of a horrible experience on Horseshoe Lake after I bought my canoe, Kerala). As a kid I canoed with my parents often in Michigan, so I know that this is an obstacle to be reckoned with. Beaching the canoe, we walk ahead to survey the situation. Fifty percent of the water is flowing through a spillway that has a ten-foot slide ending with a two-foot drop at the bottom. Taking the only prudent way to go we decide to run it, only a fool would portage after fifty yards of paddling, plus it’s only two feet, right? We put on our lifejackets and kneepads; it’s time to get serious. Kent’s in the bow, I have control steering in the stern.

As we near the spillway, I notice a sign on the right that reads: Danger No Swimming, No canoes, No Tubes or Rafts. A few minutes ago this knowledge may have been helpful. Now, there is no turning back. We slide over like real pros, but as we hit the bottom, the front end of the canoe submerges like a giant red torpedo. Kent’s riding the missile like he’s a true bull rider, and soon both canoe and Kent are heading for deeper depths. They disappear. His cowboy hat floats alongside in a placid pool where he once was, then he bounces up with the canoe still underneath, grabs his hat, slaps it back into place while water drips down his face and gives me a huge grin. As we paddle to shore we fill the river basin with roaring laughter. We had swamped the canoe in the first 50 yards. I wonder, 'do all long journeys begin with such disastrous starts?' Hell, the spillway was fun, let’s do that again?

We unpack the canoe and check our bags. The waterproof bags worked. We don’t, however, have enough bags to keep everything we need to dry. In fact, we only brought a couple dry bags because we figured ‘how wet could our stuff get since we are only canoeing?’ The answer comes sooner than expected. The tent is soaked along with all Kent’s clothes, the food and the stove. But it only takes us about fifteen minutes to get back to paddling. ‘Hey Kent where is that celebratory bottle of champagne?’

Coming around another bend, we find another fallen tree. We speed up our pace in a dash to make it around the tree. We can’t. We try to go under; we can’t. The canoe broadsides the tree, pins against it momentarily and then flips over and throws us into the Poudre which lets the canoe slide easily under. Grabbing onto the overturned canoe we float to shore to start the unpacking then packing process. We take another swig of our celebratory champagne. This is not going as planned.

We have a calm stretch. Birds are chirping, the water is placid and reflecting billowing clouds and everything has mellowed. Kent opens what he calls his ‘important bag’ containing the things he must have, to get his knife. It’s time for cheese and crackers. Kent passes me the appetizers with his extended paddle blade. We relax and float, enjoying the Cache La Poudre River. I see a couple friends along a trail on the banks of the river that I haven’t seen since high school four years earlier. We wave to each other and she asks where we are going. ‘New Orleans’ I say with pride. She wishes us well and luckily doesn’t seem to notice that we are both soaking wet.

The ‘Poudre,’ as its known here, is running fast because of the rain and hail earlier today and because the Cache La Poudre River is nearing the peak of the high water runoff. We paddle with ease as our canoe shoots through the water. Kent hands me another sliver of cheese. This is more like I imagined us canoeing through Colorado. We round a bend, and there is another dead tree lying across three-quarters of the river. The current pulls us towards the shore where the tree is anchored. We can’t go under it; the tree is only six inches above the water. Our paddles pull furiously at the water. I plead to myself not to dump again. We pull with long hard strokes, but the current is too fast. The canoe broadsides the tree and immediately capsizes us, and in we go. I am being sucked under the canoe, but manage to pull my head above water. My attention immediately turns to Kent whom I can’t see. Terrified that he may be hurt, I pull myself higher out of the water. Panic starts to set in. At the same instant I see Kent pop up with the same look of terror in his bulging eyes. We quickly move the canoe to a place with less current. After we turn the canoe over I realize that I dropped my paddle.

I run up the bank and see a bike path. Three bicyclists pass me and look back at this frantic guy running soaking wet down their path. Well I’m sure they really started wondering when I saw my paddle in the river fifty yards downstream, made a beeline for the paddle, jumped off the bank into the river, and did a 50 meter sprint downstream. I caught the paddle and then waited to see if any other belongings would float towards me. I didn’t see anything so I found my way back to the bike path and slowly and happily walked back to the canoe. Three flips the first day – Shit! How many more?

Thirty yards from the canoe I hear Kent calling me to hurry. The canoe is being pulled by the current back towards the hellish tree and trying to wrap around it. We pull the canoe back and proceed again to put our bags up on shore. As we throw the bags, water pours out. This time the waterproof bags are soaked inside too. This means that all my clothes, sleeping bags, Thermarests, journals, books, 105mm zoom camera, phone, cassette tapes, maps and everything else is completely soaked. Kent’s ‘important bag’ was first to disappear into the Cache La Poudre River. Dad had given us the cell phone in case we had trouble. Well, we have had trouble, but too much, and the wrong kind. And a dripping wet phone won’t be able to help us now. We drain the water as best we can and start to portage around the fallen tree. The tent bag, my waterproof camera bag, and a waterproof bag have all ripped. The camera bag is what worries me. I had just bought an expensive camera with a 75mm – 300mm lens. Some water spills out of the ripped seam. I open that up and pull out the camera. It is dry. The Cache La Poudre River hasn’t taken all my possessions from me - yet.

We drain the canoe; carry it around the tree, and then fill the canoe with our bags. Just before we set off Kent catches his leg on a coil of barbed wire sticking out of the riverbank. The cuts are minor, but another hassle. Taking another swig of our celebratory champagne and we are off. We realize that the stove handle has broken off and the stove is missing. The canoe is 25 yards downstream from the tree. The stove must be in that area somewhere. We dredge the Cache La Poudre River. Walking in the chest deep cold spring snowmelt we make our way up and down the channel. We tried but can’t find it, and seriously, how hard can a person look in forty degree water? As we walk back downstream for one last look, I hit something with my left foot. I plunge down and grab it. The Coleman stove. Hallelujah! We don’t have to walk into Fort Collins and buy another stove.

After we get out of Fort Collins city limits we make camp for the night. As we start to lay everything out to dry we notice that the damage is severe. Everything is wet and many things are lost. Lost: fishing pole, tackle box, flag, camel skin hat, medicine bag with good luck charms, half of the cooler food that wasn’t sealed well, two 5 gallon jugs of water, bag of tie down straps (ironic, huh?), Thermarest chairs, cheddar cheese, Swiss army knife, money, Bolle sunglasses, rechargeable razor, spoon, watch and spices. Broken or unusable: phone, camera, journals and waterproof matches.

Only the contents of Kent’s camera bags’ are left dry. Everything else is wet and must be laid out to dry. A large woodpile from the rivers floods and eddies lays close to fuel our raging fire. At least something is going well. Our campsite is a mess. Clothes are hanging from trees, maps are laid out on the grass, the medical kit is on a Thermarest, books are spread out, and sleeping bags ring the fire. I shake my cassette tapes to remove the water. A deck of cards is propped in the crack of a tree.

The food is nothing short of a disaster. First, the water soaked all the labels off the cans of food. The cans contents have all become a mystery, no big deal. The second problem is a big deal. The macaroni and cheese is wet. Five boxes of Mac and Cheese hydrated and exploded all over the rest of the food. The noodles made the gooey mess stick very well to everything. The five pound bag of spaghetti is already half soaked, but part is salvageable and therefore becomes our first meal.

Kent walks into town to call our parents. I can’t face the failure of going back. We figure a couple more dry bags would be a beneficial idea. Our depression is overwhelming my mind. I recollect how things have gone so far. A third of a day canoeing, and we flip three times. That would be an average of nine times a day. We paddled about five miles. That would be fifteen miles a day. I had figured on about 50 miles a day. We lost a lot of stuff. A few more days and we won’t have a thing. The depression grows as we realize how everything has gone wrong. The champagne disappears.

While Kent goes into town, I fuel the fire. The sleeping bags are slowly drying. The grass catches fire and burns a pair of boxers. The fire then burns some socks and the middle section of a long sleeved shirt.

I found a pile of gray, withered logs pushed up against a tree from the spring runoff. As I try to dry out our dripping clothes, soaking sleeping bags, and tent, the pile slowly dwindles away as I add log after log. Later that night, a beaver slaps its tail against the water creating a sound like a pistol shot. Instead of diving for safety, this beaver sticks around and keeps slapping. Sometimes near and sometimes far, but constantly that beaver slaps. It sounds mad, but do animals get mad? Besides, what have we done? The next morning after a noisy, restless night, I wander over to the woodpile. Groggily, I rub my eyes, trying to focus on... a ... a Beaver. A foot diameter hole sheds light in on an adult beaver, a golden unblinking eye piercing through me. Suddenly, I realize what I have done. That beaver had found the same windfall I had and converted it into a home. Beavers do get mad. Luckily, he seems to only keep me awake and I don’t have some weird beaver attack to report.

A year ago I was happily pursuing a Wildlife Biology degree at Colorado State University being the typical college student. Now, I’m cruising around the world via canoe, bike and sailboat. As I drift of to an unfittful sleep I think about how I got here.

 

2

Preparation

Make the best decision you can and never look back,

knowing that at the time you made the decision

it was the best possible way to go

• Mike Sanchez

Lesson Learned: Enjoy life.

Three years ago I traveled to India for a two-month journey with an old roommate who lives in Bombay. Immediately, I was bitten by the ‘traveling bug.’ Dreams of faraway lands and new experiences occupied my thoughts. Two years ago the bug bit me back. At first, I’d lost some weight which I considered a good thing. But, as the weeks passed on I kept losing weight. I had a voracious appetite, often eating four complete helpings at each meal. The cafeteria cooks at the dorm thought I was great because I loved their food so much. Nobody likes their food. Hunger, though, has little to do with taste so I ate heartily. Still the pounds dropped away. I went to a hospital for some tests but nothing was discovered about the cause. I ate more. I slept more. Each day I weighed myself. One day I lost five pounds. I ate. The numbers seemed too ridiculous to think about. How could I be eating so much and losing weight so fast?

Friends related stories to make me feel better. “I once had a cousin who had an unknown illness for three months. It turned out she had the flu, but before they discovered it she almost died.” That is one of the happier stories I heard. She lived. The doctors and nurses at the hospital did not help much either. “Wow! You’ve lost that much weight (25 pounds) in three weeks? I wish I could catch that disease,” a petite blonde nurse enviously said. Not me. I was scared to death. I avoided talking about it because all the cheering up made me chronically depressed. I ate.

A new doctor told me flatly that most likely I had contracted the AIDS virus. My trip to India combined with an unexplained rapid weight loss sounded a lot like what he called the wasting away disease. I took the blood test and waited the necessary two weeks for the results. Through two weeks of sheer panic and countless pizzas, I ate.

I rarely attended classes anymore. Food, sleep, and television were priorities. I ate and ate and ate and still lost weight. Class would keep me away from food and although I was eating enough to fuel an army, I had no energy. I was a true couch potato, conserving all my energies to flip the remote and eating everything in sight. By all accounts I should be gaining pounds each day with the complete lack of exercise and huge quantities of food. My energy and my weight were still dwindling. The stories of illnesses and death continued to pour in from well-meaning people who heard about my condition. I started seeing a psychologist to save me from well-wishers. I ate.

I was in the doctors’ office talking about something when he mentioned that the AIDS test had come back.

“It did.”

“Yeah, it came in a few days ago. Let’s have a look.”

He slowly opened the sealed envelope.

“Negative, good news”

I practically kissed the doctor in euphoria.

It pissed me off that he didn’t let me know immediately when the test came in. I was just another number, another nuisance. Still, the test was negative. But, my happiness was short lived. “Then what do I have?” I asked feebly.

Twice a week I went in to see my unemotional doctor. More tests and more tests. The possible diseases seemed endless. Bone cancer and diabetes are two that I remember well. Everything kept coming back negative which was the news I wanted, but I was still depressed by it all. Meanwhile, I saw the psychologist twice a week to clear up my head. Another psychologist administered a stress test. She had to fumble with the manual so that the numbers would register. She had never seen the gizmo go over the single digits. I was in the nineties. School seemed to be a thing of the past. Pass the potato chips.

I learned who my real friends were. There weren’t as many as I thought I had. Some people have become lifelong friends and the others disappeared. People I used to regularly hang out with vanished. A couple heard I might have AIDS and said that they couldn’t take the chance being around me. “You understand the situation I’m in, don’t you?” one said. He backed into his truck like a rabid dog was growling at his ankles, started it up and fled. He couldn’t be on the same street as me. Now it saddens me to think of how people are treated who do have the disease.

For a brief moment in time I know the horror of life with AIDS. Losing friends. Stares. Answering questions… “No, I’m not gay. No, I don’t use needles.” Defending myself. When people have terminal cancer, friends circle around, trying to comfort them. With AIDS, people disappear.

I can’t imagine what life would be like if those two weeks had never ended. What if that test had come back positive? ‘What if,’ still haunts me. ‘What if,’ makes me think. ‘What if,’ makes me a better person.

During this time I often went to Lee Martinez Park near my house to the Cache la Poudre River to listen to birds singing and watch all the people having fun playing their sports. One day as the Poudre rolled quietly past and eating a foot long sub, I decided to change my priorities. I scribbled down a list of things I wanted from life.

• Ski for a season in the mountains
• Travel
• Do more photography and take photography classes
• Live in my grandfather’s mountain ski cabin
• Be a whitewater rafting guide
• Skydive
• Finish college
• Marry and have kids

College had obviously lost its priority. Who wants to read some damn poem by Sylvia Plath bitching about her life? .

I wonder what could be so horrible that someone would see death as the best option like Sylvia Plath. The amount of despair must be more painful than I can imagine. While I have felt despair, I am still here, struggling to understand their pain. For death to be the best possible option, life must have no hope left. Without hope, what is there? I hope those that have committed this crime against themselves get the relief they need and where they want to be going. I am fighting to live. Others want to die. Life is crazy that way.

I dropped all my classes. Friends told me I was crazy. Elders gave me statistics on the low percentage of college dropouts that return. My psychologist asked me if I was happy with my decision. "Happier than I have been in awhile," I told him. “Then let that be your only guide,” he advised me. That advice still guides my life. As soon as I dropped the classes one of the pressures of life was peeled off my back. I could focus on eating.

I continued on with the multitude of tests for several more weeks. I gave up hope of finding the cause. It only made me depressed trying so I stopped seeing the doctors. I called my Grandparents asking if I could spend the winter at their mountain ski cabin. I moved in as soon as possible. The ski season started a month later. Immediately, I started feeling better, psychologically at least. I start to exercise again even though I would rather sleep. Later, I would fix my fifth meal of the day. Or, is it the seventh?

At my grandfathers ski cabin I felt like I could do anything. John started skiing in the late thirties. He piloted a small airplane and flew over Loveland Basin a year after its opening, and he saw all these people skiing down the slopes amidst beautiful feathery powder. He wondered what he was doing just sitting there in the plane, inactive. The action was down below. His flying career ended immediately, so that his new passion of skiing could take form. Life revolved around skiing. Nothing mattered more to my grandfather, John Ambler, than skiing. He skied the backcountry before they called it the backcountry.

He joined the army during WWII so that he could ski and serve his country. He wanted to become an elite member of the 10 th Mountain Division, part of the ski infantry. Seeing a forty-year-old physician, the Army had different ideas. He became a lieutenant colonel, the head of dermatology in the South Pacific. Skis never became part of his uniform, but he was able to squeeze in some runs in New Zealand and Australia during his enlistment. When he returned home from the war to continue his dermatology practice in Denver, Colorado skiing took center stage again. In 1942, he was the 565 th National Ski Patroller in the U.S. He was there in the beginning. He sat on the Board of Trustees for Winter Park Ski Area when it first opened, and, more importantly to him, he would ski down through the trees in search of locations of new runs.

John started mountain climbing in the summers to keep in shape for the coming ski season and possibly get in a run or two. He was the 14 th person to climb all of Colorado’s 14,000-foot peaks. He climbed all the peaks twice and skied down thirty-six of them. In 1993, my father became the 643 rd to climb them all. It’s still an elite group that maybe I can join one day.

In 1951, Bradford Washburn, John, and six others pioneered the West Buttress route up Mount McKinley. This soon became the preferred route of mountaineers and remains so today. At 50, John was the oldest of the team, and I would imagine, one of the strongest. Their historic climb utilized heavy canvas backpacks, thick hemp ropes, hobnailed hiking boots and hundreds of pounds of food. My favorite is the 33 pounds of fresh strawberries they hauled up the glaciers of McKinley. Expeditions today have it much easier with fancy breathing fabrics, dehydrated food and tiny nylon ropes. In 1996, 1148 adventurers tried to scale McKinley. Only half made it.

For my grandfather, mountaineering was there as an exercise for the true sport of skiing.

The early days of skiing were difficult. Skis were long sticks of wood, poles were practically trees themselves and the boots were leather. John’s toes never fit into the boots well. The pinky toe always hurt at the end of the day. Most of us would have stopped skiing or maybe not skied up to 120 days a year. That wasn’t John. He had those little toes chopped off. Once when my grandmother broke and dislocated a toe, he thought she should get the foot in a ski boot so the toe could heal properly and of course so they could still ski together. She declined.

John made many friends like the famous ski photographer Warren Miller and ski instructor Emiel Allai with whom he skied in Chile, Sun Valley and his favorite, Colorado. He wanted to introduce anybody he could to his life’s passion and he did so while traveling to five continents to ski.

Many a morning around John would be filled with ‘Let’s Go! You’re burning daylight.” We would be first in the parking lot, first to climb the run and ski down before the lifts opened and first on the lift. The only first he didn’t take was the first to leave. Only twice did John leave a ski area saying the skiing wasn’t good. Every other time he would greet anyone who wasn’t skiing that day with a vociferous “You missed it!”

If you were talking to my grandfather, you were talking about skiing. His stories amazed me. Besides the skiing, the only thing he mentioned to me about the war was that “Those boys sure did get a lot of syphilis and gonorrhea.”

When my dad and aunt were skiing as kids they spotted a friend, Willy Schaeffler, the former Denver University and U.S. Olympic Ski Team Coach, but decided not to join him for lunch. Soon, Bobby and Ethel Kennedy arrived to have lunch with Willy. At that point, my aunt was disgusted they hadn’t joined Willy. She was very interested in the Kennedys and especially Ethel. Soon, John came along and sat down with Willy. When Willy and the Kennedys left, my aunt and dad rushed up to John.

“What were they like?” my aunt asks with eager anticipation.

“Who? Willy?’ he replied. “You know Willy.”

“No! Bobby and Ethel Kennedy – What were they like?”

“Oh, them. They don’t know anything about skiing!”

And so it was with my grandfather, you were either a skier or you weren’t.

As a young skier myself, my grandfather taught me to strengthen my legs. At home this meant running. On the slope it meant top to bottom runs. On the lift up, I had to keep my knees straight out holding those heavy boots and skis high in the air. Skiing with John was exhausting. Age might have slowed him down a bit and might even have brought his average ski days per year down as well. When he turned 70 most areas let him ski for free. The year he turned 88, he only skied 105 days. We could all see him deteriorating and it was tough to watch someone so athletic and agile become old. Still, I have never met anyone his age with the spunk he had.

At 90 an out of control snowboarder smashed into him and sent him careening into a tree, breaking a rib. The doctor wanted to know what the hell he was doing on a ski slope. Finding out that he also had a heart murmur, which he had had for years, the doctor told him, ‘Continue that and you’ll die being as old as you are.’ When he saw his regular doctor, who knew what skiing meant to John, his friend tried to reverse what was said. Worry set in and he never skied again. A year later, I watched as John did six pull ups but can’t get down the stairs. A week later he died as my parents and I are skiing his beloved Winter Park. It was the best snow we’d had in ten years; he wouldn’t want it any other way.

Through almost 60 years of being a skiing and mountaineering pioneer, a man accumulates many tools and mementos. His ski cabin has become a tribute to the glories of skiing, a museum of sorts. As you drive up, tucked behind massive evergreens you notice the bright aquamarine trim on an otherwise plain gray house. In the vestibule is a stack of twenty pairs of skis piled to the right. On the left are shelves for waxes, leashes, baskets, and tools to fix the skis. A picnic basket rests, waiting to be filled with sandwiches, watermelon, cheese and crackers and maybe some Scotch. A string of used lift tickets reach from ceiling to floor billowing out like a demented snowdrift. Ten years worth of season passes take up a fraction of the thousands of days spent on the slopes. Almost out of place, a doghouse has been constructed for the five beagles they had running around. The doghouse is the only thing that has nothing to do with skiing, except that in the old days his dogs could follow behind the pomalift or under the tow.

The family room is bright even though the walls are furnished with old planks from a nearby abandoned silver mine. Pine needles and thousands of fires have left a calming scent. The floor screams out of the 1970’s with two-inch long multihued blue shag carpet. If you lose something in this carpet, it’s gone. A twisting blue jungle has swallowed it. An old COLE’S Hot Blast barrel stove heats the room and dries ski boots at night. On three long nails rests equipment from his McKinley expedition: his canvas pack, hobnailed boots and a Kodak camera.

Relief maps of McKinley and Asheville North Carolina adorn one wall. Asheville is where John grew up. In the nearby hills his family owned Rattlesnake Lodge in a wilderness that taught him to explore. Carved wooden mementos adorn the two windows from past skiing travels.

A plaque to my great grandfather, John’s Dad, adorns the wall above a couch. It’s a picture of a U.S. Forest Service memorial. It reads: You are now entering the first tract of national forest land purchased under the Weeks Law, March 1, 1911. This 8100 acre tract is dedicated to the memory of Dr. Chase P. Ambler of Asheville N.C. and his associates in appreciation of their timely efforts to establish additional national forests and their pioneering in forest conservation. I’m impressed.

Shelves hold books about skiing, mountains, ski journals and manuals, faraway lands, mountaineering, and ski trophies. He even has Men’s Class ‘A’ badminton medals and a trophy. Who knew? A wooden liquor bar sticks out with different labels plastered to its sides, advertising what might be found behind.

The original type of snowshoes made from animal intestines hang on a door leading to a small bedroom with burlap bags decorating its sides. A large horn rests on the inside of the door to awake sleeping guests who may be more concerned with sleep than skiing. Its bellowing noise could wake the dead and make them ski in an effort to quiet the noise. A small bureau is filled with all the necessary clothes for skiing.

The adjoining bathroom is wallpapered in old ski posters. A poster of a Swiss hamlet partially covers a Squaw Valley 1958 Winter Olympics poster, which covers a beautiful Norwegian woman with pigtails and skis over her shoulder and on and on. A small cartoon, modeled after John, from the Wall Street Journal shows a group of friends driving home from skiing. Atop the ski rack is a man still strapped into his skis. The caption reads “He’d ski all night, if he could!” Stacks of ski magazines sit next to the commode. A series of shelves have small pictures of past Fourth of July parties and invitations with John immortalized saying ‘I Want You to Ski Jones Pass.” The annual party for the social elite and written about in the Denver Post, hundreds would gather for some spiked watermelon and slalom events. In the normally hot July 4 weather, it was like skiing in wet cement. If you fell, you could drown. But, it extended the ski season.

Walking into the kitchen, you realize how many people have passed through these doors on an Ambler invitation to powder skiing and spirits afterwards. Hundreds of liquor labels cover every kitchen cabinet, inside and out. All but eight of the 800 labels are unique. A row of nine bottles rests on a shelf near the refrigerator. Trader Vic’s Pomegranate Grenadine Syrup is my favorite. A beautiful bare breasted woman arches her back with flowing black hair in front of a thatched hut, palm trees in the distance. When I was a young boy, she was the first picture of a topless woman that my bulging eyes saw. My second favorite is a jug of Home Grown Mountain Dew – aged six days. A brick fireplace warms the room so that dinners can be prepared on the bronco orange countertops. Two pairs of handmade 130-year-old wooden skis sit next to a bota bag given by Warren Miller. Skins are also there, skinny animal pelts that could be fastened to the bottom of skis to allow uphill climbing. Outside, a 1948 Willys Jeep rests in the garage waiting for a ride to Jones Pass and more skiing. American flags, old skis and poles rest against the sides. More ski tools sit idle, ready to fix anything. The small backyard has enough room to have a great Fourth of July skiing party. One of the chairs from Aspen’s Lift No. 1 rests against the house.

He was a great doctor, too. His patients wouldn’t let him retire, so he continued at least until he was 75, when the high cost of malpractice insurance caused him to hang it up. When he went to a medical convention, he attended (and presented) the lectures. He had great dedication to his patients also, if you can imagine his going to the office when we all had food poisoning. The rest of the family could only go to and from the can. I don’t believe he ever “called in sick” no matter how good the skiing

When I decided to attend Colorado State University, my grandfather congratulated me. He had gone to the University of Colorado so I thought he’d bring up the rivalry but it was never mentioned. My sister and brother were foolish he stated. A little confused, I agreed. “Those two are going to college out east; the skiing is so icy there. What are they thinking? Brad, you’re the only smart one.” I agreed with his slightly skewed logic. When I asked my grandparents if I could stay at their winter retreat for a winter and ski my grandfather cried he was so happy that I too loved skiing.

How could I possibly ever impress my grandfather? He had done and achieved so many great things? When I came out with my plan to canoe, bike and sail around the world for three years, I thought I might possibly impress the man. He thought the whole thing was foolish. Stupid, really. He scoffed at my plans. I had made a fatal mistake – I didn’t include skiing as a mode of transportation. Even worse, for three long years I wouldn’t click into a pair of skis and float down a powder run.

Even without his support I felt his presence all around me, telling me to reach for goals and pursue passions and enjoy life. For years, he helped cultivate this trip with stories of his adventurous travels. My adventures won’t be firsts or too unique or involve skiing for a few years, but someday I hope my Grandchildren can look at me in awe and wonder as I relive my life telling crazy stories. Maybe, I can instill some dreams in them as my grandfather did for me

At his Empire cabin I read books on adventure travel with people biking, walking, canoeing, and traveling with camels and elephants to all places on the earth. I saw no reason why I couldn’t do any of those things. Hell, if I was going to die, I might as well keel over atop a camel walking across a sand dune with colorful lizards scurrying about. I was going to enjoy life if it only lasted a few more months, a couple years, or if I lived to 100.

The irony of it all is that I am no longer scared of death. I would rather die young and happy than live to a hundred scared of the world and safely tucked in my home. When I die I want people to talk about how I lived life, enjoying it like I do. I’m not looking for death. I take precautions and then live life to its fullest. Like a child I live each day like tomorrow may never come, because maybe it won’t. Like an adult, I plan for tomorrow but with a stress-free smile. I will try do that all my life, it’s a difficult line and hard for people to understand. I am scared of not living rather than scared of dying.

I skied the whole winter about three times a week, planned this trip, and worked sixteen hour days at a restaurant the next town over. I learned to follow my instincts. All people need to take different paths in their lives. People are full of advice as to the correct path to follow, usually one similar to their own.

My advice is to listen to these advisors as many have great insights. Ultimately, though, the only person that knows what is best for you is you. Once that decision is made then feel good knowing that you made the best possible decision at the time it was made.

I had four things to do before I left: get in better shape, get the gear, plan the route and get some money to pay for it all.

Riding a bike in the mountains of Colorado at 8000 feet and up is wonderful exercise. At first, I couldn’t ride too far, maybe only ten miles per ride. The cold, the thin air, the massive inclines and my deteriating body made it all difficult. I would climb up the mountainside for two hours then turn around and spend ten minutes flying back down. Once I got in better shape I could go farther and faster. On the downhill’s I was passing cars at 65 miles an hour.

I either biked or ran the four miles to and from work. The trail rose 1000 feet and at spots was only a bike wide with a 1000-foot cliff off the side. One small mistake and I’d be flying. It wasn’t the flight that worried me – it was the landing. After working a 16 hour day on my feet waiting tables, running home at midnight in the snow was sometimes difficult. Mostly though it was relaxing to see the stars reflect off the snow and feel the crispness in the air.

Once a month I would strap my skis to my bike, put the boots in a pannier and head to Winter Park Ski Area. With a 3500 foot elevation gain and twenty-four miles the trip was excruciating. Once there I could click in and glide down the groomers or pump through the bumps. This is how I like exercising – being outdoors and having fun. Running on a treadmill just wouldn’t work for me. The trip home was always the most difficult, but atop Berthoud Pass at11,500 feet, I could coast for twelve miles all the way home to Empire at 8500 feet. During a long straightaway I would routinely pass cars doing 65 miles an hour. I never could see the drivers faces, but I must have shocked a few.

I worked on my gear list with scrutiny. I could only travel with so much gear moving it myself so I had to be careful with weight. I wouldn’t be able to buy most of the technical gear once I left so everything had to be top quality. I could leave stuff with Mom and Dad to send a package. But, I knew the time lapse between me letting them know I needed something and actually getting it could be months. I needed the best equipment and searched until I found it. (For a list of the gear check the appendix.) Studying water filters, stoves and headlamps was sometimes easy. Which stove could I find gas for in Bolivia when I asked and the only answer came back as one model, the decision was easy. When looking for water filters and each has pluses and minuses, the decision became murky. I settled on a Katydyn Pocketfilter that would do a great job with filtering and clean easily. The down side was that if I broke the fragile ceramic innards while cleaning it would become useless.

Gear had to be durable and light. Things that were too heavy I made lighter. My toothbrush was cut in half and then I discarded the box around the tooth floss – those were the easy things to do. The main weight reduction came when deciding not to bring items. Figuring that clothes were easy to replace and that realistically I couldn’t bring much of a wardrobe, the less I brought the easier moving all the weight would become. So I packed enough clothes for a weekend getaway – or in this case a trip around the world.

Planning a trip like this is difficult. It’s impossible to know when you will be in each country. Undoubtedly, some things will be more difficult than imagined, and some easier. I can’t count on making a certain number of miles each day. That will vary. Things change. I want to be flexible so that if I discover a wonderful spot I can stay. Or hurry on. I decided to find some major highlights that I wanted to see. Generally, I picked only three or four landmarks on each continent that I figured I couldn’t miss. The places in between would fill themselves in later. I bought maps of each continent or country to figure out roads for biking. I bought so many Lonely Planet travel guides for each country that the information was overwhelming. I would pour over them at night and analyze them during the day. There were millions of possible choices. There were so many variables that I could only use seasons or months for timelines. Anything else would be too constrictive. Following the summer seemed obvious because I didn’t think I needed the added adventure of doing this trip during a snowstorm.

I had been thinking about the trip for months before I told anybody. Taking my parents to a restaurant, I told them my plans. They were shocked but supported me immediately. I explained why I had to go, where I wanted to go and why I would learn more traveling than in college. They listened. They shared their concern, but also gave unwavering support. I told everyone I knew that I was leaving on a spectacular trip around the world. If they wanted to come, they could join me at any point. Kent wanted to join me canoeing to New Orleans. Molly, a friend, wanted to bike. I wasn’t sure about whether she could make it or not so we agreed to call the New Orleans to Key West leg a trial run. I would be alone often. Could I handle that?

I started to work on my mind as well as my body. Each morning and night I would meditate and think about my illness. I had read that visualizing the white blood cells as winning the battle going on inside me could be beneficial, and at this point I was ready to try anything. Picturing white balls with sledgehammers attacking my illness, slowly beating the invading army that was bringing me down, I visualized great battles going on inside my body. Sometimes, I would see a group of white balls surround the disease and slowly bring it down. Other times a single white fighter would bring down the entire invading battalion. I could visualize each death for minutes as my fighters began to regain control. I like the underdog battles most, perhaps because I saw the same parallel with my life.

I decided that if I only had a short time to live, then I would enjoy the world to its fullest. When it is time for me to die then I’ll die. Until that point, I will relish my life. Because of this, some started saying that I had a death wish. They would carefully explain how water moccasins would kill in seconds when I stepped on their den by the river, piranhas in the Amazon and headhunters too. ‘Central America is a boiling pot of wars and death; people just don’t bike down there, you’ll definitely catch something in Africa,’ the list goes on and on. Everyone had a story for me and said I shouldn’t go unless I had a death wish. It confused me because I viewed it as a living wish. I stopped telling people about the trip because if I listened to all of them I would live inside my house and never come out – living like a hermit was not going to happen.

To pay for the trip I decided to get help from sponsors. I thought about the typical corporate sponsors, but do real people ever really hear about what’s going on? I wanted to give back what I learned in these exotic places. I believed what we read in newspapers gives an inaccurate picture of our world. Newspapers generally talked about politicians, wars, and tragedies when referring to other countries. Look through today’s paper. Does it accurately portray your families’ lifestyle? I doubt it. How about a family in the Costa Rica, Brazil, Zimbabwe, Ghana, India, Nepal, and China? I wanted to experience first hand what families in these countries valued, how they raised children, and understand issues that affected them personally. Every month I could send updates on the world. With individual support I could share this with other people who would want to see the world differently. I sent out a letter with my bold plan.

On May 22, 1993 I will canoe and bike around the world.

This trip will span five continents, biking across five, canoeing across three, sailing through three oceans, covering about 33 countries, thousands of miles, and taking 2 -3 years (specific travel plans included).

This trip is the combination of my interest in travel, the outdoors, and wildlife biology. When I was young I dreamt of traveling to all of our 50 states. After traveling through most of them, that dream slowly expanded into traveling the world. On my journey to achieve Boy scouts highest honor of Eagle Scout I developed a love of the outdoors. I continued on in the field of wildlife biology at Colorado State University.

Suddenly, in August of 1992 I lost 30 pounds in three weeks. At first it was thought to be due to a parasite from a recent visit to India. My condition deteriorated over the next 3 months and was thought to be AIDS, diabetes, bone cancer, and an assortment of other diseases. All tests came back negative, but my life had been changed forever. My sickness still has not been diagnosed. I am now back to normal, although I’m 20 pounds lighter. I did, however, learn something very important from this experience. I learned that I must love life for the present because tomorrow may never come. That is when I decided I should travel today while I still could.

Travel Plans are as follows:

Canoe 2400 miles from Fort Collins, Colorado to New Orleans, Louisiana

Bike to Key West, Florida

Sail to Cuba

Bike though Haiti, Dominican Republic and Jamaica

Sail from Jamaica to Costa Rica

Bike through Costa Rica, Panama, Columbia, Ecuador and Peru to the Amazon River

Canoe 1500 miles down the Amazon to Manaus, Brazil

Bike thorough Brazil, Bolivia, Paraguay, Argentina, and Chile to Cape Horn, South America

Sail from Buenos Aires to New Zealand

Bike through New Zealand and Australia

Fly to Zimbabwe

Bike through Zimbabwe, Zambia, Zaire, Burundi, Rwanda and Uganda

Canoe the Nile River through Sudan and Egypt

Sail to India

Bike through India

Take a camel through the Great Indian Desert to Delhi

Bike to Nepal

Hitchhike across Tibet and China

Bike through China, Japan and the USSR

Hitchhike through the northern USSR to the Bering Straight

Ferry across to Alaska

Bike through Alaska and Canada and finally back home to Fort Collins, Colorado

This journey will cost about $15,000. Only with your help and support will my dream become reality. With any donation over $25 you will receive monthly letters from me along the way.

Thanks to my corporate sponsors product support: Indiana Camp Supply, Spenco, Kelty, and MirrCycle Corp.

The response was horrible. I sent out 3000 letters, I received enough money to cover the cost of the stamps. That alone would have been enough. I could let a few people know what I was going to see and do. Soon, however, I was receiving hate mail and obscene hate calls.

One man scribbled on a piece of paper:

AIDS my ass

I hope you die

You miserable bastard

Another wrote:

If you had anything to give

To the world then you would have

Corporate sponsors. Why don’t you

Pay for your own dreams like the rest

Of us – Nice try asshole!

The constant telephone calls weren’t much better.

“Get a life – asshole” Click

Nobody had the balls to actually talk to me or sign their name. This was not a scam. I honestly told people what I needed and what they could get in return. If they were so morally better than me, why couldn’t they talk to me like a human?

Picking up a phone, I hear a man screaming:

“You Brad Modesitt!”

“Yes?”

“You ASSHOLE!”

“Excuse me?”

“You think you have problems, Fuck you. As soon as you die, the world will smile!” Click, dial tone.

I wasn’t trying to hurt anyone. I thought this was a unique trip and armchair travelers could get a firsthand account of the entire thing. According to the responses I was getting, the world thought I was a selfish ass with nothing better to do.

The Rocky Mountain News, the largest newspaper in Denver, called one day. Bill Husted was interviewing me. I was ecstatic; this could be some great coverage. Halfway through the ‘interview’ I could tell the slant the reporter was taking. He worded his questions so that I would have to answer defensively to get answers that would make his story better. He didn’t let me finish comments. He wasn’t getting information; he was assaulting me with his pen. He probably had the story already written. Afterwards, I hung up in despair.

I run to get the paper each morning and finally his story appeared a few days later on the last page – it ripped me apart. The devastation grew.

AROUND THE WORLD ON A DONATED DIME

Here’s the deal. Englewood’s Bradley Modesitt wants to go around the world and he’s wondering if you would pick up the tab.

Modesitt, 22, purchased the mailing lists with more than 3,000 names of people living in Englewood and Fort Collins (he’s a graduate of Cherry Creek High School and attended Colorado State University). And he sent out his plea by bulk mail, asking for money so he could travel.

“On May 22, 1993, I will canoe and bike around the world,” the missive begins. “This trip will span 5 continents, biking through five, canoeing through three, sailing through three oceans, covering about 23 countries, thousands of miles, and taking two to three years.”

To add piquancy to the letter, Modesitt says he became ill last summer and lost 25 pounds in two weeks. “My condition deterioated (sic) over the next three months and was thought to be AIDS, diabetes, bone cancer and an assortment of other diseases. All tests came back negative, but my life had been changed forever…I learned that I must love life for the present because tomorrow may never come. That is why I decided I should follow my dream today while I still could.”

Kinda gets you right here. Modesitt figures the trip will cost him $15,000, which he hopes to raise from donations. For a donation of $25 or more, Modesitt promises to send sponsors “periodic letters from me along the way.”

Modesitt says the response “hasn’t been too good.” Oh really? “Most people think I’m a fraud.” Well, there is nothing fraudulent about asking people for money to travel, although many receiving the letter thought it took a lot of chutzpah.

If you are interested in helping Modesitt, call him at….. I might also take this opportunity to say it has been my dream to love life by taking three months off work, flying the Concorde to Paris and spending the summer in a villa on the Riviera. I figure it will cost me about $75,000. If you back me, I’ll write you a novel.

I sunk to a new low. The whole idea of having individual sponsors completely failed, and with a major Denver newspaper having printed story about how crappy of a person I was, I wondered if trying to involve others was a bad idea. I knew in my heart that my intentions were honorable. To some people, I might have been perceived as scam artist, but I knew differently; I would be okay. I was going to make it with or without help from others, but support makes the difficult road that much easier.

I am no longer sick, and I never found out what disease I had. I no longer care. I only know that that disease is the best thing that ever happened to me – a gift of life. I am the complete controller of my life. Intake the good, take the bad, smile, and make the best of it. Life is crazy, that’s what makes it so interesting. If I were to get rid of all the bad valleys, then all the peaks would have no meaning.

I bought all the gear I needed, saved $3000 working in the mountains as a waiter and decided to leave as planned to see how far that could get me. A few companies thought I was doing something worthwhile so I now had a 3-person Kelty tent and some water bottles but since I decided not to use try for corporate sponsors, I didn’t try for their support.

Screw the people that thought I couldn’t do this.

I will do this.

I will succeed.

I knew the money wouldn’t last three years, but if I kept saving for all I needed, the trip might never materialize. I needed to go now.

I decided not to talk to newspapers anymore. Unbiased? Some writers you just need to be careful with, bias always plays a roll.

My parents had always taught me to make pros and cons lists before embarking on new ventures. With paper and pencil I took stock in myself.

Pros	Cons
Camping since I was 4 months old	Nothing more than a week and this is 3 years
Biked a lot when a kid	Mom and Dad were always just down the road
One overnight bike experience	One overnight bike experience
Canoed and camped since 6 months old	Stopped when 14
10 canoe trips with Kerala on Horsetooth	No river experience as adult
Strong swimmer (at 14 swam up to 1 mile a day	If I am swimming for other than pleasure, something has gone terribly wrong
Strong mountain climber	Wont be doing much climbing
Strong skier	No skiing
2 semesters of Spanish	A freshman in high school doesn’t listen much and a 6 th grader even less
Traveled to India and loved it	Limited international travel experience
Good map reading skills	Are my maps accurate?
$3000 in the bank	For the plan needed $15,000
The majority can mean that all the fools are on the same side	Public opinion about the trip is low
Street smarts	Different streets…different smarts?
Physically strong	Unknown illness 6 months ago
Fast runner to outrun bandits	Bullets fly rather fast
Never sailed before	Long sailing portions with no experience

And, after looking at all that I was even more confused than before. As Sir Edmund Hillary once said “if you are starting out on an adventure and are convinced that you will succeed – why even start?” Having the slight uncertainty helped and pushed me towards accomplishing my goal. I wanted to do something that others couldn’t or wouldn’t or shouldn’t. I wanted to succeed. My aunt asked me a little later, “What if you fail?” My reply was simply, “What if I don’t fail?” Both were valid questions, and sometimes the risk of failing far outweighs the risk of not trying. Personally, I couldn’t wait to get out there and find out.

The night before leaving I penned a note to my family in case something happened to me along the way. I would seal it and put it with some important papers left with my parents.

To my family,

I knew this trip had risks and that is why I wrote this letter. I wanted to say goodbye to all of you. I was determined to take this trip despite the risks. Some of the most adventurous and exciting things in life are often dangerous. You have taught me well. People get hurt all the time in many types of accidents. Personally, know that I would have been much happier getting my head chopped of by cannibals than enduring a passionless concrete world.

Mom and Dad, you two have been great. You make the perfect team. I probably made more than my share of mistakes in life but you always supported and loved me. After going to CSU my life changed considerably. I started reading, I cared about grades, and I started to focus on my future.

My childhood was wonderful. All the wonderful pets, hiking, camping, Boy Scouts, soccer, traveling, history, science and animals – you introduced me to all of what I hold dear to my life now. Thank you!

Kent, living with you was great, our trip to Florida and Key West was incredible. You have been a great brother to me. I have always admired who you are and your perspective on things. I was jealous of your brain and wit. I wanted to be just like you. Remember when I couldn’t stop sucking my thumb so I asked if you would hit me as hard as possible in the shoulder every time you caught me. I got a pounding. I also stopped sucking my thumb. Thanks for all the good times.

Lynne, I thought having a little sister was great. Walking down Mount Sherman with you hand in hand is one of my favorite moments as a kid. I have been so proud of you lately. You are a brilliantly talented person. If life seems a little shaky for us, remember, I believe in you and only want the best for you. Take care of you.

I love you all

Brad

For my burial I would like to be cremated. I see absolutely no need to be pumped full of preservatives. My body can help another organism live and flourish. I hope I died and wild animals have eaten my body. I probably wasn’t so could you scatter my ashes on your favorite mountaintop. Maybe you could sprinkle a little next to Grandpa John in Empire. I love it here like he did. Plant a tree for me and watch me grow tall.

If by any chance I am hooked up to machines with a bleak outlook for the future, unplug me. A physically handicapped person can achieve great things. A vegetable can accomplish nothing. I remember seeing Pablo after he was hit by the car and in a coma for months. He couldn’t do a thing. Absolutely helpless. Aware of nothing around him with no hope for recovery. That was the saddest sight. I don’t want you to go through that and I don’t want to go through that. Unplug me, please. I love you

I seal the letter in an envelope and leave it with some important copies of Id’s, bank accounts and credit cards and hope it never gets opened

Dad gives me a note just before we set off:

Dear Brad,

As you start out around the world, I’m apprehensive. But that is normal, and apprehension is a caution sign, not a stop sign. I’ve always believed in this kind of advice. I’m glad you do, too.

“Love life, be grateful for it always. And show your gratitude by not shying away from its challenges. Always try to live a little bit beyond your capacities – and you’ll find your capacities are greater than you ever dreamed.”

Love, Dad

The support that my family has given me exceeds anything imaginable. With them, I can do anything. At any point, my parents could have let their fears win the better of them and plead with me not to go or shorten my journey. They grasped what I dubbed my Journey Around the World with open arms. When things were tough with harassing calls and newspapers and naysayers, they were there – cheering me on. They will always be there – cheering madly and passionately.

After Kent’s call earlier Mom and Dad will be here in the morning, helping again. I finally drift off to a poor unrefreshing sleep.

 

3

Platte River

Life is like the river. You have a long calm period,

A short crazy rapid,

Another long flat spot where everything goes smoothly,

Another rapid pushing you in different directions

And so on.

One must learn to go along with the river

Take its waves and holes and eddies smoothly

Just like life.

Woman whitewater rafter guest on the Salmon River

- age 86

Lesson Learned: If you have to start explaining things aren’t going well.

May 23 rd Day 2

Morning comes and Mom and Dad bring three more large dry bags and two small dry bags. Hopefully, these will keep our things dry from now on. Dad also brought a book, Path of the Paddle, a how-to canoe book. He says it was meant to be funny, but we all know there is truth in our not knowing what we are getting into. Yesterday certainly wasn’t fun. We go back to our disheveled camp and pack everything away, say goodbye to Mom and Dad – again - then pack the canoe. Each bag is strapped in. Then we tie a rope over everything to form a net.

The river is much smoother now. The storm before we left yesterday must have brought the water up high. We even have time to look at the banks for wildlife.

Owls fly out of trees as we float by coming around a bend. We see a red fox stalking a great blue heron. The fox is ten feet from the heron and slowly moving closer. They both look at us and the fox continues slinking forwards. The heron has had enough and flaps its long, seemingly awkward wings against the ground and all over the place. The fox lunges the last few feet. The heron soars to a distant horizon. It’s not awkward flapping those wings while in the air as it travels out of sight

May 24 th Day3 –30 miles

Our first full day. Exhausting paddling. We portage around spillways and figure ways to line Kerala down others without taking all the gear out. At each spillway the river disappears. The water gets diverted towards crops, and towns, and lawns, and swimming pools, and car washes. All stuff that I used daily before. A hot shower would be nice though.

We cruise along making horrible time. The heavily laden canoe catches on the river bottom constantly, forcing us to get out and pull out of the bottom muck.

May 26 th

We seem to pull more than we paddle. We hoped to make it to Ogallala, Nebraska for Memorial Day weekend but have a hundred miles to go. A friend of Kent’s arrives to pick us up. We stash the canoe and bring clothes to wash, and a lot of gear to leave in Brian’s garage.

We party all weekend and try to forget the fact that our trip is not working out all that well. Brian brings us back to the canoe and tries to talk us into bringing it back to Ogallala. His offer is tempting, but we want to do it on our own.

May 31 st – 15 miles

Back on the river again. It feels good to be back home. Because we left so much weight in Brian’s garage, we haven’t had the need to get out and haul the canoe as much. I wonder how bad it would have been had we not lost a third of our gear the first day. The river appears to be higher as well. We read in the paper Saturday that there are severe floods expected the next two days in the Colorado area. We whooped it up when we read that. The river is still so slow that Kerala seems to stick in the water.

The Platte’s many braids make for many small, shallow rivers. The best thing about all these channels in the river is that we are able to camp right on the sandbars. The larger sandbars have great meadows with space to pitch a tent and to relax. They also have plenty of wood for an evening campfire. Another plus is we don’t have to worry about farmers and their cows, and the resulting cow pies.

We keep seeing farmers that have put their fences across the river. I thought rivers were public property. Another thing about the fences is that the farmers rarely put flags along the wires. Although I realize that few fools come down this way canoeing, I still wish that decapitation wasn’t on my mind so much. We constantly run right into the wires. The fact that 25% of the time, an electric shock pulsates through me does not warm me up to the farmers’ practices either.

Neither of us had a very good sleep due to ticks. Each of us has found several on us and now every itch becomes a tick that we have to check out. It is ridiculous. Finally, we both run into the tent to escape the critters. Fifteen minutes later it starts to rain. Early to sleep and early to rise.

June 1 st – 26 miles

The day starts out great with plenty of water maybe from last nights rain. The first fifteen miles goes smoothly with very little pulling, the river becomes slow again at a spillway with at least 80% of the water being diverted away.

The spillways are created so that the irrigation canal can have a constant flow of water. Any remaining water spills over to continue the river. We wonder if a farmer has opened all the gates all the way because we see no need to lose so much of the river in one spot. All the water that is flowing through to continue the river is coming through cracks in the boarded wall

With the water being so shallow all the time, we have tried several different propulsion techniques. First, I try pulling the canoe by tying it around my waist, and then run through the water. Extremely tiring. Pulling a canoe in water with a sandy bottom is probably one of the best running workouts a person can get, but I am certainly not out here trying to get the best workout possible. These difficulties makes this method last about a half-mile.

Next, I try using a branch to push against the sand, progging. The branch slides into the sand and mud about six to twelve inches and then holds it, making things rather difficult. The latest method is to have one person canoeing and the other walking or running alongside. This way the canoe doesn’t get stuck too often. The canoe will travel in two-inch deep water compared to about four inches necessary with both of us in it. This will be how we canoe across Nebraska. Hmmm.

Rounding around a bend a great blue heron takes off, which is not an unusual sight. Next to her are the immature herons. They just stand there until we come about ten yards from them. Suddenly, they fly up into the air, hit the water, back up, hit the water then up again. They bounced up and down the river corridor until they are out of sight.

The mother flew off and wasn’t seen from again. Duck mothers have more of what we call a motherly instinct or at least the type of mothers’ I want. For about 150 yards, they zigzag across the river pretending to have a broken wing. Most predators see this behavior and go after the tasty mother. Once the predator gets too close to her, she can fly further away and continue the broken wing scheme. This may be one reason why duck populations are doing better than the great blue heron populations.

We see a big snapping turtle and are able to catch him. By picking up the tail I can avoid the big snapping jaws and the inch long claws. He weighs probably ten pounds and is eighteen inches long. Cool!

Later, I see a coyote stalking two fawns. The coyote is only fifteen feet away when I walk up from behind some bushes and startle everybody. The fawns run to the right; the coyote left. The coyote has to run across 75 yards of open space before he can get to cover. He zigzags, stops, looks back at me and then continues. He does this four times before he makes it across.

Before we reach Sedgwick, CO, we make camp for the night.

June 2 nd - 25 miles

We walk into Sedgwick, Colorado for some water. On the way, we read a memorial plaque for the Sedgwick water drainage system. It speaks of the great things the spillways, irrigation canals, and flood control have done. Bullshit! Nowhere does it say anything about helping wildlife and much less canoeists. I can understand the canoeist thing, but what about the environment? This is no longer a river. It is more of a thin ribbon of wet sand connecting small lakes. Why must every component of nature be converted to only helping humans?

The man filling our water said that the spillway that took most of our water was being used to refill a drained reservoir. That just redirects a previous question. Why must they take all the water at once to refill the reservoir? Can’t they just fill it more slowly? What happens to the needs of the people downstream? Does anybody care anyway?

Well, it was a hard day. I ran about eight miles with the fifty-pound pack, solo canoed eight miles and canoed with Kent nine miles. My feet are paying the price. I can barely curl the toes of my right foot without intense pain.

June 3 rd – 25 miles

It rains all night and all morning with tremendous thunder. I have counted the difference between the light and the thunder to calculate some to be 1/8 mile away; some, I have no time to count. When it hits, the ground shakes a little, and the tent lights up like were using floodlights for flashlights. Sometimes it’s like we have a disco strobe light with us. Rainfall fills the river valley quickly as it comes off the fields and nearby drainages, making us want to use this rain for the good canoeing. Unfortunately, Kent left his coat with our stuff in Ogallala. Anyway, this hard cold rain can make canoeing miserable. Only a fool would try to canoe now, we have plenty of time.

We find Kent’s rainshell deep in a dry bag and are off. It’s 49ºF, and the water is even colder. We are wearing every piece of clothing we brought except one wet t-shirt: Long sleeve T-shirt, flannel, fleece coat, raincoat, fleece pants, rain pants, and bare feet. Yes, only a fool would canoe now. My feet are looking like a horrid rainbow with lavender toenails, some toes white and other toes red. My foot is a red-purple, my ankles are purple almost black, and my shins are purple. The weather is miserable. We paddle ten miles then decide to get coffee at an upcoming bridge and hopefully café six miles down river.

The coffee is great as I wrap my frozen hands around the white ceramic mug absorbing any heat possible. We each have six cups of coffee with massive amounts of sugar. For a treat we each order a side of fries and down a whole bottle of ketchup.

While at the Café we decide we might make it to Ogallala twenty miles away. Our reality is different. We travel a hard ten miles in 5-1/2 hours. That speed is painful. Tensions are getting worse because of these conditions. I say worse just because we are angry at the river. So far, I am really happy with the way Kent and I have handled it all. It’s strange being around someone for 24 hours a day with nobody else to share the physical and mental frustrations. The only other people we see are in cars on the bridges. Kent often can see my mood going down and comes up with some remark bringing laughter instead of tears.

Kent is freezing all night because his sleeping bag became wet earlier. I want to switch bags so that he can get some sleep too but can’t get the words out. My mind can’t rationalize leaving a warm dry sleeping bag for a cold wet one; the words never come out. Please let me be more compassionate tomorrow night.

June 4 th – 18 miles

Another freezing day but, no rain. We paddle ten miles to Ogallala. Before we set out on this adventure, the plan was to meet Mom and Dad in Omaha. They would fly in, rent a car, and do some canoeing with us. Reality is sometimes so different from our plans. The slog through the first part of Nebraska took twice as long as we planned. Mom and dad drive for a couple hours from Denver and meet us here in Ogallala. It’s a little depressing that it has taken us two weeks to get here and them only three hours.

We meet Mom and Dad at McDonalds. After a big tasty meal there, we pick our stuff up at Brian and Cindy’s, then return to canoeing. Luckily, the afternoon is much warmer than this morning.

To canoe, we unload our stuff into the car and let Dad sit on a cooler in the middle. Daphne, our golden retriever dog, would swim behind. At least, that was the plan. Daphne whimpers and whines until we let her in the canoe. Maybe she doesn’t want to run in the soft sand, I certainly can’t blame her. Mom drives to the next bridge a few miles away.

Having new passengers is strange. Dad is a hilarious canoeist. He is a birder, and he is liable to see lots of interesting birds here. He sees a bird and stops paddling or tells us to stop. We stop and hit a sandbar each time. The channel is only a few feet wide where it is deep enough to paddle, so the travel is a bit haphazard with him. Daphne is worse. She doesn’t want to be in the tippy canoe either. She leans over the left side, pulling us in. That is the first time we swamped since our first day. We laugh. Without any gear it is not a big deal.

We have a luxurious dinner: Chicken cashew, rice, egg rolls, salad and pistachio pie for dessert. All favorites of mine from Mom’s home cooking. It’s the small pleasures in life that bring the most satisfaction. We earned this meal.

June 5 th – 25 miles

The next morning we start canoeing with mom and dad drives around. The canoeing is really good with the water is deep and strong. Unfortunately, I am feeling pretty sick and am throwing up every ten minutes. The Insane Canoeists Handbook had warned about a well-balanced meal. I should have known better. Kent jokingly tells me to stop messing up our stroke when I puke. I end up being able to puke over one edge and paddle the other. Not too bad! I don’t feel too sick, just nauseous. Thankfully, this doesn’t last too long.

The Insane Canoeists Handbook is the fictional book that I plan to write when I return from my adventures on How-not-to Canoe. Who could ever take canoeing advice from a guy who can’t find water deep enough to canoe in. See the compilation in the appendix to see why normal canoeists could never take advice from the two of us.

Dad is able to clue us in on many of the birds in the area. Of the 900 species of birds seen in North America, he has seen nearly 700 of them. We see about 35 different species with him in a couple hours. Cool to have such an expert on what we are seeing daily and hopefully, now we have a stepping-stone to learn these birds.

Mom and Dad continue to alternate, one driving their car and the other canoeing with us. While canoeing with Mom, we come upon a new type of spillway. This spillway has six corrugated metal tubes for the water runoff. Each tube is about 45 inches in diameter, a little wider than our canoe. The water is flowing through well and has no drop off at the bottom. We decide to give it a go and slide through the tunnel gaining speed. Twenty feet, thirty, forty, and splashing through to the other side. The perfect spillway. It is just like the log ride at an amusement park.

Mom and Dad leave finish their time with us and now it’s back to just Kent and me.

June 6 th

A male red wing blackbird chases a great horned owl across the river. The bird pecks against the back of the owl as they fly. Once the owl is out of the blackbird’s nest area it is left alone. It is neat to see such aggressive behavior from the tiny blackbird.

We see a dead beaver up on a bank. It is about 24 inches long with an eight-inch tail and weighs about 35–40 pounds. It is still bleeding from the head and rigor mortis has not set in. Obviously, a human killed the beaver only a few hours before. We are perplexed as to why a person would want to kill and leave the prey. After turning the beaver over the reason is clear. The teeth are missing. Some macho fool, who doesn’t value life, nature, the universe, or must have wanted the teeth dangling from the rearview mirror of his car.

We go into North Platte to get some provisions. Things go well, but we want to get back to the river. In five miles, the North and South Platte rivers will meet to make the Platte River. We have anticipated this moment for over a week. The North Platte, a much larger river, should give us some good deep canoeing for at least 100 miles. It may last even longer. The excitement is palpable in us both. We will be like real canoeists for a while, actually floating and paddling. I can’t wait to float. Usually rivers get larger as they go, but so many farmers and cities use the water that some rivers actually get smaller.

Check this out:

Documentary-maker Dan Rees writes about his short film exploring the plight of an indigenous tribe near the dwindling Colorado River:

The mighty Colorado River, which carved out the Grand Canyon, is used so heavily that it no longer reaches the sea. The river ends just inside the Mexican border, 60 km from the ocean.

As a consequence the huge wetlands at the river's delta have all but vanished. They once covered 800,000 hectares. Now just 7% of that area remains and in its place is a vast expanse of barren mudflats.

This loss has been catastrophic for the indigenous Cucupa people who have lived there for centuries, making their living by fishing in the freshwater lakes. As the lakes disappeared the Cucupa moved away in search of alternative employment. Fifty years ago they numbered more than 3,000. Now the fewer than 200 who remain are forced to tow their boats two hours to fish in the sea.

Delta decline

The rapid decline of the delta began in the 1950s, caused by mass extraction of the Colorado's water, principally by the USA, in an effort to "reclaim" the deserts of the American south-west for human habitation and agriculture. 90% of the river's water is extracted before it even reaches the Mexican border.

According to the United States Bureau of Reclamation, which is responsible for building and maintaining the system of huge dams on the Colorado, 25% of US food is grown on land that the Colorado River irrigates. Millions of people in desert cities like Phoenix, Las Vegas and Los Angeles also rely on the river's water for their daily needs.

Water conservation

Pressure is mounting, however, for more water to be left in the river to revitalize the delta and rescue the way of life of the Cucupa people. Campaigners believe that as little as 1% of the river's natural flow left in its bed might be enough to put the delta on life support. They also argue that this saving would be easy to achieve with a combination of simple water conservation measures and a switch to less water-intensive forms of agriculture.

The problem is that the political will required for making these changes appears to be lacking. At present the USA sends 10% of the Colorado's flow to Mexico and under a 1944 treaty they don't have to send any more. The powerful US agricultural lobby is loath to change this. Furthermore, because Mexico has taken more than its allotted share from the Rio Grande, a river covered by the same treaty, the Mexican government is in a weak bargaining position.

Political wrangling, of course, means little to the Cucupa, whose way of life has been destroyed by processes beyond their control. It would take very little effort by people in the US or Mexico to make the changes necessary to help the Cucupa. But until those changes are made the people of the delta will continue to suffer.

We make it to the convergence of the South and North Platte Rivers and Kent, comments that it is a bit scary to be on such a large river. It is about four times wider than the South Platte. This is better than I had dreamed. We will make great time from here on out.

Not more than a half-mile away is a dam. We pull up to the right side so that we can figure a way to portage around the dam. We stand at the dam and see Saudi Arabia. Sand is everywhere. Where is the river? Water is leaking through the control gates to form a three-foot wide, three-inch deep creek. The Nebraska City and Power Company is taking 99.9% of our water. We bitched about 50% and 80%. What can we do? The depression is overwhelming. All of our hopeful anticipation for this great river has vanished. The river is gone. How does the wildlife survive? What about the canals coming off further downstream? What about us? After all the pulling, dragging, and running we deserve a real river. We aren’t sure how to continue.

We make camp across the lake to camp on the other side of the ‘river’. Food doesn’t even sound good. I let Kent eat all the Ravioli to be nice. If food isn’t going to make me happy I might as well let Kent be happy (Kent used to hide cans of ravioli in his pillowcase when we were children so that nobody else could eat it). I brought Kent into this adventure and so far things have been so difficult and trying. Sometimes I wonder if he will wake up and say ‘Brad, sorry but this isn’t what I expected. I’m catching a bus back home.’ He never does though. We are in this together. Tomorrow, we will walk into town to see if there are any different options for this pitiful river.

June 7 th – 5 miles

We wake up early and put on what we call our city duds. Basically, this means our cleanest and driest clothing. Before going into North Platte, Nebraska we cross the dam and see some Central Nebraska Power and Irrigation Department workers and we tell one of the guys our problem. He says, “Yeah that’s a problem,” but then proceeds to try to think out a solution. He says that we can go down the Tri-County canal past Lexington, about 60 miles and then return to the Platte. This is where all the water from the river is being diverted. None of the water was being taken out, it’s being used for hydroelectric power. There will be ten dams that we would have to portage. We figure that is better than portaging 50 straight miles or more. It was even legal to go down the canal, not that we would have cared too much. Who would arrest us?

I ask him how the CNPID could take all the water out. Apparently, once irrigation season starts, one month away, they let most the water continue down the Platte. That way all the farmers can take the water. It does not surprise me that water rights lawyers make such high salaries. Who fights for the rivers and animals? The Lorax speaks for the trees. Who speaks for everyone else? Does anyone else even care?

We leave our new friend with high hopes again. The irrigation canal will not be too beautiful, but it will be quick and certainly better than a huge portage.

Kent needs a new Frisbee, which serves as his bowl/plate. We decide to fill our water containers and get a bottle of Jim Beam. The walk takes much longer than expected. To get there we have to run across an airport runway strip, cross two marshes, and walk five miles into town. We haven’t been wearing shoes because they get stuck in the mud or lots of sand in the straps, which leads to our feet have growing blisters from wearing shoes in town, so we eat at KFC for an all-you-can-eat buffet. The food, by the time I get my third plate, is pretty bad. I am determined to get my moneys’ worth, and eat several more helpings.

On the way back, we are told to leave the airfield or security would be called. Not wanting to make a three mile detour, we try our explaining/bullshitting routine to no avail. We turn around defeated, loop 50 yards around the side, then after looking left, right, and up into the sky, we sprint across two runways. Nobody follows. We make it. I wonder what the charge would be for that, trespassing? Or some FAA thing? Glad not to find out, though.

It is 4:00pm by the time we pack camp and start canoeing. Wanting to stop by 6:00 p.m. so that we can write and we only cover five miles. The canal has little current to help us along so physically water makes the miles seem more like lake miles, not that the Platte is a crazily moving river. The concrete walls make the time monotonous and mentally difficult.

We watch an orange sunset flow into a stunning red atop a ridge and listen to coyotes howling to each other as we write in our journals. Some young coyotes try to howl but can’t quite master the elegant style of their parents. We laugh at their squeaks and squeals. It’s soothing music to fall asleep to.

June 8 th – 25 miles

The going is extremely slow on the canal, so to help us along we build a sail out of the tent rain fly. While the wind is at our backs this doubles our speed. But, it is very tiring on the arms holding the sail with outstretched arms. Just another workout in the Insane Canoeists Handbook.

We do a few small portages of twenty yards and one half mile portage that was down two hills. Carrying the 85 pound empty canoe upside-down while balancing it on my shoulders, I make the long portage. The wind is horrendous and I can barely hold the canoe steady. Then a big gust of wind comes up, picks the canoe off my shoulders, lifts it ten feet above me and tosses it down twenty feet away. Kerala is fine. I am frustrated. I drag her though the windy spots.

We come across a canal leading back to the Platte. We want our wildlife back. The canal is boring which makes the canoeing seem even slower. I’d rather pull the canoe and see the amazing wildlife instead of the concrete walls of the canal.

We camp back on the Platte and feel more at home.

June 9 th – 17 miles

A slow day! We hit two spillways today that take most our water. We try the solo canoe technique which does not work. We try dragging the canoe. Not enough water. The river is incredibly low and makes pulling the canoe even harder. We end up having one person carrying a 50-pound pack while the other runs through the water with a rope around his waist. This is extremely tiring work, and my ankles take it the hardest. The muscles are not used to such work. The soft sand moves around and forces me to constantly keep my ankles tight.

The person carrying the pack has a hard time too. The pack does not have a hip belt to help carry the weight. The 50 pounds bear down on our shoulders as we jog. They say running on pavement is bad for the joints. No worries about that. We get to run in mud and sand! The ground beneath us is constantly sinking. We sink in anywhere from one half inch to four inches each step with an average of about two inches. Every 50 yards or so, we hit quicksand that sinks us four inches to twenty inches with an average of six inches. The sand fills in around our feet so that we stick in the ground. Getting out is easy; I fall down and roll out.

Running on the sand has some advantages. The animal tracks tell us what has happened over the last few days. The snapping turtle has two sets of clawed foot marks about eight inches apart with a squiggly line down the middle from its tail. Some of these tracks lead up to a partially buried hole where the female has laid her eggs. Deer tracks crisscross back and forth everywhere. A rare track, the fox, looks like a small dog. One fox track leads to a Great Blue Heron track. There is then a circle of both tracks, four feet in diameter going all around. Tracks are everywhere, I cannot tell if he captured the Heron or not. I think he did. Bird tracks are abundant, but I can't distinguish species. The raccoon leaves proof of its nocturnal existence. The beaver has a clawed forefoot and large webbed back feet. The most distinguishing trait of his track is that often a track of scraped ground follows to the side, which depends upon the size of branch the beaver has just chopped down.

We also see the non-wildlife tracks: the cow and the human. The cow has a large, rather blank track. Human tracks are fairly rare, possibly that of a fellow canoeist. Yeah right! What canoeist would be out here? Must be a farmer.

The river is in what we call post spillway blues. I guess that can go for us too. After a spillway the river usually loses a good deal of water. The next ten miles are ‘post spillway blues.’ The river must gain some water before recapturing its “strength.” I use the term strength loosely. One of us pulls the 400-pound canoe like a sled. The other carries the 50 pound pack along the shore. We run for hours like this. The second 10-mile stretch is done with solo canoeing and all the gear in Kerala. The second person can run unhindered on the shore. The next ten miles can be canoed by both of us. And, finally, just prior to a spillway, for about a mile, the river deepens. Deep enough for a full paddle stroke. We then slowly pull up to the spillway to see how bad the next thirty miles will be. The miles we cover vary depending upon the amount of water taken from the river. This one doesn’t look too bad.

June 10 th – 23 miles

I see something cover up as I canoe by. I dig two inches, then four, then six. This is not a clam. It will probably bite me, so I get a stick to dig it out. Digging through the sand I notice this thing is really big. I flip a sixteen inch turtle out of the sand and instantly scurries a few feet away and slips back into the sand. He takes two seconds to disappear.

While I am solo canoeing and Kent is running, I come to a tree branch crossing the river a couple of feet above the water. I need to exit the canoe to get under the branch. Stepping out, I see a three-foot long, 2-inch diameter spotted fish. It has a needle nose, which makes it look really mean like a barracuda. Do they have barracudas in Nebraska? Hence, I stay in the canoe and smash into the tree. Luckily, Kent is running downstream and misses the episode.

We find five clams in the sand but do not know how to cook them. We boil them first and then fry them until we know they are well cooked. A bit hard, but not too bad. Once, I ate a raw oyster that slid up and down my throat several times before I finally swallowed it. The experience was horrible. That was the last time I had oysters or clams, over ten years ago. Today, I caught these myself. That is why these were to be tasty. I know after traveling to India that much of eating something new is in the mind. After brains, lung and things I never could identify, I can eat most meals presented to me.

I cut the clams; the first one gushes out something reddish. Intestines? Food? I don’t cut the rest. The more I think of it, I must have had a seriously powerful positive mindset. The first bite something gushes out of the middle. It is mushy and I quickly swallow. The outer part is rubbery and hard to swallow. I chew and chew but get nowhere. I swallow, not too good. If we find any more clams, they will be safe from our cooking pot

All morning I sing High Hopes written and sung by Frank Sinatra.

High Hopes Next time you’re found, with your chin on the ground There’s a lot to be learned, so look around Just what makes that little old ant Think he'll move that rubber tree plant Anyone knows an ant, can't Move a rubber tree plant But he's got high hopes, he's got high hopes He's got high apple pie, in the sky hopes So any time your gettin' low 'stead of lettin' go Just remember that ant Oops there goes another rubber tree plant When troubles call, and your back's to the wall There a lot to be learned, that wall could fall Once there was a silly old ram Thought he'd punch a hole in a dam No one could make that ram, scram He kept buttin' that dam 'Cause he had high hopes, he had high hopes He had high apple pie, in the sky hopes So any time your feelin' bad 'stead of feelin' sad Just remember that ram Oops there goes a billion kilowatt dam All problems just a toy balloon They'll be bursted soon They're just bound to go pop Oops there goes another problem kerplop

I have always been a horrible singer, and at least nobody can hear me out here. Yep, I am still a horrible singer.

The boat is cracking in two spots. One crack is serious. It has not gone through to the inside but seems close. We need to be much more careful when portaging. I have given up hope of selling Kerala, which I guess is not too bad. The $600 from the sale would have been nice, but now she is more than a canoe. She is an extension of me. My home. My transportation. My friend. How could I sell her?

We meet some kids spearing carp. Kent asks if they were eating them. “Nope!” “Just spearing them?” “Yep!” We laugh, I guess there is not a whole lot to do in Overton, Nebraska. Mom used to dress us up in old sneakers and go for hikes down the creek beds for miles. I loved walking down a river and seeing all the wildlife and tracks, making plaster of paris imprints of nature at its best. We never knew what would be around the next bend. We would walk for miles. Now, Kent and I are doing the same thing, but for 2400 miles. Thanks, Mom.

June 11 th

A day in the life of two foolish canoeists.

A Day in the Life – adapted from Lennon and McCartney of the Beatles

Woke up

Got out of bed

Shook the sand out of my head

Found my way outside and had a cup (coffee)

Looking up I noticed I was late (our only clock – the sun)

Grabbed my paddle and hat

Made the bridge in hours flat.

Found my way up the bank

Found out I stank

Somebody waved and I went into a dream. (People always wave in small towns)

7:30 am Wake up 12:15 Bad bowels

7:30 to 8:30 Write Walk 6 times

8:30 Coffee and eggs 12:20 Kearney Canal

9:09 Start paddling 12:25 Photo break (Say Water)

9:40 Barbwire fence 12:38 Portage over dam

9:54 Barbwire fence 1:07 Snapping Turtle

10:05 Deer scatters off 1:11 Kent steps on bull snake

10:13 Blue Heron flies off 1:20 Beaver Hut

Walk 8 times 1:22 Great Blue Heron

37 strokes/min while paddling 1:24 Tick removal

10:37 Deer 1:51 Beaver Hut

10:44 Red Fox Hunters duck blinds every 50-100 yards

100 cliff swallows 2:02 Pelicans hundreds of them

10:48 Elm creek bridge 2:20 Next Bridge (another 6 miles)

(4-5 miles today) 4 mi./Hr.

Walk 30 more times 2:40 Lunch – Pork & Beans, 2 potatoes,

Following good 4-foot channel Cup of soup 55¢ meal.

Orange body black 3:24 continue canoeing

winged-bird (oriole) Chase two herons and a

More Herons Turtle while leaving

Walk another 12 times

11:00 Walk into town for water 4:10 Hawk harassed by 2 Red winged

11:02 Fall in river Blackbirds

11:03 Newt lizard

11:38 Back at Canoe 6:30 Stop for camp

At camp we unpack the canoe, set up the tent and start cooking dinner. As the sun sets we write in our journals. As the last light of the day fades away, we peacefully fall asleep. I have dreams of deep water. Deeper than anything, we can paddle easily. We don’t have to run in the sand anymore. Relaxing dreams.

June 12 th

This morning a huge storm hits at 6:00am. Lightning flashes are going every few seconds. Each strike has several minor flashes following it. The thunderous claps and cracking noises boom all around us. We are directly in the middle of the storm. The wind is blowing the tent down onto our chests. We must push it off to breathe. The wind howls like a freight train. What’s going on out there? The rain pelts down on us, splattering down through the tent fly. We had not put in the stakes holding the fly away from the mesh tent. In fact, we considered taking off the fly last night. The temperature was 84º at 9:00pm and we saw no sign of a cloud anywhere. The only reason why we did not remove the fly is because we were too tired.

The storm lasts about two hours dumping about 2-1/2” of water into our canoe, not flash flood material, but it is still fairly large. At 8:45am we break camp and try to use some of the rain to our advantage. It is really hard to tell, but I think the river rose at least an inch during the storm. We will take any help we can get. Lately, we have been dreaming for storms and floods of water. We could ride the cresting wave to St. Louis.

The map shows a railroad bridge crossing the river. Crossing underneath we don’t see any railroad tracks and climb up to investigate. The tracks have been replaced by an asphalt trail. I assume this is a Rails to Trails project. RTT converts old railroad trails into biking and hiking trails. This is the first conversion I have seen. It had always sounded like a good idea, but it looks even better. They built benches overlooking the Platte. Boards forming a nice wooden path have replaced the tracks over the bridge. On shore, the paths are asphalt. The path bends slightly left into a dense bunch of tall cottonwoods and disappears.

We see our fourth dead beaver. This one has no head. I really want to find out why people are killing these beavers. Soon thereafter, Kent finds a beaver skull which brings up some philosophical questions. The beaver teeth are indeed very odd, colorful and interesting and would look nice on a necklace. The beaver was already dead, so it should not matter if we use the teeth on a necklace, but what if someone else sees our necklace and decides they want one, too? This person may then go out and kill a beaver. I would then have influenced the killing of the beaver. Should we let the beaver wither away out here or keep the memento for ourselves? We plan to think about it and bring the skull with us to debate the issue a little further.

We eat dinner at somebody’s picnic table overlooking the peaceful river. It is a luxury to have a seat and table to eat from. We have the old standard: two ramen packets, three large potatoes, and a can of pork and beans. These meals are becoming even more bland since we have the same crappy food for each meal. Food seems to always be short, because of the massive amounts of physical exercise that we have been doing. Today, we split a raw potato for a snack which left a bit to be desired. We are going to try dipping it in sugar next. We are constantly hungry.

I solo canoe for five miles listening to music. Once in the zone, I really push myself because we don’t want to waste money on batteries. We rarely use the Walkman tape player, but when we do, the sounds stir the bones in my soul. The water is low but I get going pretty well. Kent has to run too fast for his liking. We double up again, pushing Kerala fast through the water. It’s fun to actually be canoeing.

We are excited to hit our mileage goal of 30 miles. Originally, I had planned on 60 miles a day and now our renewed goal has been half that. Still, it’s difficult to make.

With the physical exertion my left elbow seems to be hurt. It feels like a dull pain every time I paddle. I counted for a half-hour how many strokes we were doing and figure that we are paddling 22,000 strokes today. Not surprisingly, it gets pretty sore. There is not a whole lot that I can do except deal with it.

The river follows a pattern that directly coincides with the irrigation canals and spillways. Each day follows this same pattern. Early on, we hit 10 spillways a day and now, we are down to one or two big spillways each day. This is what it is like now.

Dam with spillway

Level 1 – Low or very shallow water

Stage 1 - Full portage conditions over the spillway 40 yards

Stage 2 – 1 person pulls canoe, other runs. 10 miles

Stage 3 – Solo canoe other runs. 10 miles

Level 2 – Enough water for 2 people in canoe

Stage 1 – Walking a little less than canoeing. 2 miles

Stage 2 – Generally not much walking, but horizontal stroke. 3 miles

Stage 3 – Enough water for a ¾ stroke. 5 miles

Level 3 – Plenty of water

Stage 1 – Full paddle stroke. 1 mile

Stage 2 – Full paddle stroke w/current. 200 yards

I reread about the Insane Canoeists Handbook about the lack of actual canoeing and fall asleep.

June 13 th – 25 miles

We continue to get rude treatment from people while we are in towns buying food and getting water. As we walk by, people lock their car doors as we stroll down the sidewalk. Security guards in supermarkets follow us. I understand the profiling, but they don’t need to be rude. Just because I smell doesn’t mean I’m a thief. People jump off sidewalks when they see us coming. The service from restaurants or mail centers, which is our only interaction with the outside world, is often rude. They assume we are homeless transients invading in their town. I hope that this is because people do not see our mode of transport. If we were walking or biking, people could understand why we look and smell the way we do. We canoeists crawl out from under bridges with the additional smell of the river on us. It sure isn’t a plus on our side. I suppose it has been two weeks since our last real shower.

In the morning, I take the beginning run. The banks are full of vegetation so I jump a fence into a farmers’ field, who usually have some kind of road at the edge of their property. I run along the hard dirt and feel good, strong. The ground is not moving beneath me and the path is straight. Compared to running in sand and water this is a walk in the park. I scare several deer into the river as I run. I see Kent again after a mile or so who has been solo canoeing. He asks if I want to switch. “No,” I feel really good. We continue for the next few miles neck and neck racing each other. The river makes a sharp 90 ° right turn. The road turns too. No problem. The road becomes less of a road and then there is no longer a dirt track to follow, only matted down weeds. The river and road keep getting further apart. I rationalize that the road will meet up with the river because the river will continue its earlier course. I am right, but for us to reunite it takes five miles.

Running through the fields, the colors are incredible: different shades of red, yellow, and green patches. With the wind blowing against the grains, weeds and surrounding forest in different directions, the countryside makes flowing waves of color. I feel like I am running through a scene on a Nebraskan Sound of Music. I never would have guessed Nebraska could be this beautiful?

I run across a new animal for us in the fields too. It looks like a turkey, but I am confused by its’ actions. It advances towards me. I am fifteen feet away before I realize what it is. Pepe’ Le Pue - A skunk! Aahhhggghhh! I stop dead in my tracks. It has its tail pointed in the air and is waddling backwards locked and cocked towards me. Not wanting my stench to get even worse, I give the skunk the right of way and circle around it.

The dirt track leads to Interstate 80, which I follow running barefoot on the shoulder, A mile later, I–80 meets Highway 34 which should cut directly across the Platte channels. I turn right and go a few hundred yards to the Platte channel I expected Kent to be. From atop the bridge I yell, “Kent! Kent!” No answer. He must have beaten me here. I walk into the gas service station to ask if there is another channel of the Platte further up the road. The large man with a slow Nebraskan drawl says, “Well, there’s two up that away by Timmy’s (a restaurant), and there’s another about two miles up the road. He wouldn’t be on that one though cause there ain’t enough water to be canoein’ on it.” I think to myself that most of this river is not somewhere people would be canoeing. Maybe this guy has read the Insane Canoeist Handbook, because he thinks it is at least in the realm of possibility to canoe here.

I set off for the channel two miles away, without enough water in it. I know the other two could not be the ones, because we split up with them fifteen miles before. I now jog along Highway 34, barefoot in shorts and a fleece jacket. A lady and her daughter stop up ahead in their sleek mint green Mercedes. The window rolls down, so I peek in.

“Are you with the canoeist?” the mother asks form the driver seat

“Yeah! Where is he?” I retort. The two look really puzzled. They haven’t read the Insane Canoeist’s Handbook. I start explaining.

“The water is often too low for both of us to canoe, so one of us has to run. Today is my turn. While running today, the road split from the river after about five miles and then I ran through the woods for five miles and I followed I-80 for a mile and now, well here I am.” This seems to confuse them even more.

“Are you canoeing?” she asks again.

“Well, yes we are canoeing.” I am confused now because I thought we had already established this.

“Then why are you running?” Once again it is me who is confused. I repeat my previous statement.

“Who goes canoeing and runs half the time?”

“Only fools from Colorado.”

“I saw your friend…”

“Kent, he’s my brother.”

“Well, I started telling my daughter how I lost my wallet and keys canoeing once with my husband and had to run for help.”

“You’ve canoed the Platte?” I almost scream in astonishment.

“No, no we were on the Niabrara River, there’s more water there.”

“Ah yes, Where do you see the canoeist?”

“Back that way a mile towards the gas station.”

“Great! Thanks.”

“Do you need a ride somewhere?”

“No, no I just lost my brother.” They are starting to look confused again.

“Would you like a ride?” We are comrades now having lost a wallet and a brother.

“Thanks, But you telling me where he is has made my day and really saved me.”

They look confused again as I call myself a canoeist, yet I only have relayed running today for twelve miles. They are really looking confused as I wave and run back from where I had come. Actually, more like ‘dazzled’ as I leave. I wish I meant dazzled as in awe, it was more like meeting a leprechaun for the first time. I imagine their first words are, “What an insane canoeist, running along the road.” I never did tell them where we started or where we were going, these details may have cleared up a few of my actions or may have made them wonder more. Does it sound crazier to be doing this for only a day or for the last three weeks? Either way I came off as a complete nut. I’m laughing hysterically by the time I reach Kent.

I meet Kent back at the bridge and tell him my story as I take four embedded ticks off of me. I had a total of 13 ticks today. Most I remove before they hitch on.

We see some people camping by the river, the first we have seen since starting. Closer, hellos are exchanged. They don’t seem to be too friendly, so we move along. Later we see a 3-wheeler cruising around in the river. ATV’s are probably the Platte’s most common recreation other than fishing. I walk twenty yards closer to say hello. I wave. No reply.

“That 3-wheeler looks a whole lot easier than pulling a canoe,” I say to warm them up a little.

“Yep,” someone replies. The crowd of six is still mostly turned away from me. Still trying, I ask “Are you setting up camp?”

“Nope, we live here.” They were capable of communication at least.

“It sure is beautiful out here,” I exclaim.

No reply. I give up hope and move along.

The fields have a whole lot of Cannabis growing, we notice eating lunch on the bank Weed. Jamaican Red. Whaky TabakySkunk Weed, Ganja. I wonder if it was planted or wild. More importantly, would I be shot for being here? Maybe that is why those people along the river are so weary of people. I would hate the feeling that at any time I could be found out and put in jail. That would certainly make me weary of strangers., friends and life.

Around 9:00 p.m., the clouds exchange energy in the form of huge lightning bolts. I do not like the feeling of standing in water being in a wide-open area. A second thing to avoid in a lightning storm is not be the tallest item around. Being an inch taller than Kent makes me the most likely lightning rod. Kent’s theory is that there is a better chance of winning the lottery than getting hit by lightning. True Statement. I do not play the lottery and do not intend on getting hit by lightning. If I don’t play then I can’t win. I don’t want to play with the lightning so we make camp.

June 14 th – 31 miles

We have a late start at about 10:30. I write for 2-1/2 hours and drink coffee. A relaxing morning for once. Kent pens a letter home to mom.

Dear Mom,

HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

I wish I could be there to help you celebrate but this note will have to do. We’re about five miles from Silver Creek, Nebraska, and it’s Monday 6/14. Our feet are sore but spirits high with the resurgence of the Platte (we still walk on many sandbars but they are becoming less of a problem. Omaha and the Missouri are three days away.

I wanted to thank you guys for showing up last week in Ogallala. It was quite a lot of fun, and just the medicine we needed to deal with the Platte you never saw. I’m glad the canoeing was good while you were here because I don’t think walking in the sand for 12 hours a day would have been enjoyable. I wrote in my journal about how relationships change and how the kid – parent relationship has become better and better over the past few years in our family (not that it was bad before). I think this last outing on the river is a prime example of how fun it can be when we’re all together.

One thing I’ve learned from this trip is that I want to spend more time with you and Dad in the near future. Sometimes I get so caught up in my school and work that I forget about some very important aspects of my life. Maybe we could try golfing and I promise not to lose my temper.

I also wrote in my journal how great it was that you’re doing so much you enjoy (I hope it’s true). It’s wonderful to hear you talk about the goings on at Urban Peak, this club or that meeting. Urban Peak sounds like a great organization with great people and a good way to experience another side of life while helping someone else.

Well, I better be going as the physical exhaustion is numbing me into a sand infested sleep. I just want to close up by saying that what a great person you are and it’s an honor to be your son. Lately it seems I haven’t been giving much in return but hopefully that will change with the long awaited graduation. I love you and hope you get everything you wish for this birthday and I’ll see you shortly. (if the Missouri and Mississippi treat us right)

Well, Happy Birthday

Love, Kent

Tell Dad hi

We buy a postcard that reads: Nebraska takes its name from the Platte River! The Omaha Indians called it “Nibithaska.” The Oto Indians called it “Nibrathka.” Both these words mean flat or shallow water. This was in a time before dams, canals, and irrigation ditches. I wonder how much smaller the river actually is today. Nice planning Brad, could you find a worse place to start this adventure? Fool!

Running through a section of water I wrap a snake around my foot and immediately shriek like a little schoolgirl. I have images of all the people warning me about water moccasins. I am absolutely terrified. I can feel its slithery body go around my ankle as I step forward. The leathery smooth skin pulsates as the snakes’ muscles tighten and release, moving it along. I am in three feet of water. I start to run, immediately trip over a log and I am swimming without losing any speed. I soon feel ground underneath me and start to run once again. The stories I have heard about the deadly water moccasins suddenly triggered something. Kent following a ways behind decides to walk up on shore to avoid this place where my little incident occurred. His laughter fills the valley.

My hair continues to look funny. At different times, Kent has told me I look like Corey Hart, Buckwheat, a young Don King, and a young Einstein. As we are discussing some plans he blurts out, “How can I take you seriously?”, then bursts out laughing. I wonder why. He tells me I look like a caricature of Ronald Reagan. Kent has longer hair than I do, dirtier, almost in dreads and he is laughing at me? Perhaps leaving the mirror behind was a brilliant move. I don’t want to see how I look.

June 15 th – 48 miles

We buy a bunch of groceries and now have corn (39¢), Cream of Mushroom Soup (79¢), Cream of Chicken Soup (69¢). We will use these soups as topping for our spaghetti. We also bought bread again, in hopes that we do not crush it. Some overripe bananas are being sold for 19¢ a pound. We buy nine pounds, all they have left. Oh how tasty! We are eating for about $4.00 a day for the two of us, even though we are eating two or three times as much as we normally do. The quality of our meals is horrible so I keep reminding myself of how cheap the food is and where it will get me. Sometimes, I wonder whether I will ever eat these foods again once I’m home. Personally, if I never eat oatmeal again, I’ll be okay.

Now that there are no more spillways stealing water from the Platte, it has grown tremendously. Three miles after Columbus, Nebraska the Loop River enters the Platte. The river is like a boiling cauldron with pockets of water rising up.. The current is fast! Floating, we go about as fast as we did working our tails off on the South Platte. By dusk we have gone 35 miles. This is our furthest mileage day yet.

We decide to try some night floating to get even farther. I try to sleep in the bow while Kent takes the first shift steering in the stern. Kent paddles only when an obstacle like a tree lies across the water. The other time is spent relaxing and listening to tunes from the Grateful Dead. The wind really picks up and starts to blow the canoe back upstream,. We paddle to shore and set up camp. It is 3:00a.m. I feel badly for not taking a shift steering at all. We find out in the morning we have gone ten miles during the night which is like getting free miles.

For lunch we each have: spaghetti with mushroom soup, corn, ¼ pound of saltines, and a rice crisp treat for dessert, each. Not bad. We are ecstatic about the changes in our in menu. Dinner: four hot dogs with onion, peanut butter and jelly sandwich, twelve eggs, ¼ pound saltines, rice crisp, ten pieces bread. Obviously, food has become gold. We are never satisfied. I drink lots of water just to fill my belly. Working all day uses so much fuel. We can’t get enough calories.

My toe is now in bad shape. The toe next to the big one got a splinter straight in a few days ago which I squeezed out. Now, in its place a hole has grown to about 1/8 wide by 1/8 deep. A callous has now grown around another 1/8inch. Hopefully the callus will prevent the hole from getting bigger. The problem is that the toe is now swollen so that there is no loose skin. I can only bend it halfway, and any is painful. It hurts more in the morning after it has rested all night. After walking in the sand awhile it loosens up and goes numb. During the night, I must keep the toe straight in the air so that it does not touch the ground or anywhere. If it does, I wake up in intense pain. I hope the Missouri will give it a rest. We shouldn’t have to run fifteen miles a day once we get there.

June 16 th – 40 mi.

We make it to North Bend, Nebraska in the early morning where we have our first mail stop and some laundry. Four weeks of working out in the same clothes has more than necessitated the stop. Our clothes may soon be running on their own. Hmmm, sounds good. The change dispenser steals my quarter; the soap dispenser steals 35¢. A lady walks in, and we ask if we can buy two scoops of her detergent. She gives us the soap. We wash all our clothes, write, and I read letters from home.

We decide to spring for a small town meal and stop in the corner café. The waiter asks about our strange looking waterproof bags. We tell him our story. He replies, “What, you got nothing better to do than go canoeing?”

I think this is one of the best things we can be doing, but I do not tell him that. Most people do not understand what we are doing. They think, “It does not make money. You are not learning anything new. You stink. You both are limping. It cannot be much fun.” We may be limping and smell a tad atrociously, but the rewards are worth it. I am learning more than I could have imagined. Being out here for 24 hours a day we have become part of the wildlife scene, and get glimpses into what the animals are doing. With nothing else to interrupt my thoughts, I can focus on what is here in nature. I can feel some of the hardships that Lewis and Clark dealt with 200 years ago. Mentally, I can overcome the difficulties here and ease of things at home. I am pushing myself beyond what I thought I could do both mentally and physically.

Late in the day we need water, so we dock behind someone’s house. After putting on our shirts we head for the front door. Nobody is home. We go to the next house for a try; hanging in the doors’ window is a hand-knitted welcome sign which looks promi