Snowflakes hissed into the dark water as we launched our kayaks on the Niangua River. The gloomy clouds made it feel like dusk instead of one o’clock in the afternoon.
“This is the first time I’m fortunate enough to go kayaking in January,” I remarked, then chuckled at the expression on Edwin’s face. “You look like you think it takes foolishness to go in this weather.”
“Hey, I wouldn’t have agreed to come along if I hadn’t wanted to,” he replied. “Everyone should step out of his comfort zone once in a while.”
As the four of us drifted along with the current, I wondered if we might get more than we had bargained for. The cold north wind slanted the snow into our eyes. The wet flakes melted instantly on contact, and our clothes became damp quickly.
“The trees on the bluffs and hillsides look like they’re dressed up with lace,” Rhoda remarked.
She was right. The bare branches were glazed with a layer of ice. The falling snow softened the harsh outlines. As we paddled down the river, it got colder, and snowflakes lingered on my kayak.
“What time is it?” wondered Lydia. “Do we have time to stop and warm up?”
“We should have plenty of time to stop,” answered Edwin, “but I’m not sure that even our plenty of time will be long enough to get a fire started with the wood as wet as it is.”
“I have a bag of potato chips along,” Rhoda said. “We can use some of those to start the fire.”
We paddled to the gravel bar and stiffly climbed out of our kayaks. I clapped my hands together, trying to warm up my numb fingers.
“Everything is wet, wet, wet,” Lydia said, scouting for some dry twigs.
I joined the search, and we managed to gather a small pile of wood that wasn’t saturated. “Where are the chips?” I asked Rhoda. “I think we’ll need some for a fire starter.”
The oily chips burned remarkably well, but the twigs were too wet to catch fire.
“Use more chips,” Edwin advised.
“Let me take a turn,” Rhoda offered. I sat back on my heels, coughing from the smoke.
After using half of the chips, the fire was big enough to warm our fingers. By now, the big soft flakes were falling steadily.
“It must be getting colder,” I said. “The gravel bar didn’t have any snow on it when we first came.”
“We had better move on,” Rhoda said, after checking her watch. “We have to be at the take-out by five o’clock.”
So we picked up our paddles again. “Twilight will be early tonight,” Edwin remarked. “ We might wish for our headlamps.”
The snow kept falling as we plied our paddles. All was silent as the early winter dusk crept over the land. In front of us, an owl’s deep “who-who-who” echoed through the river bottoms.
“The cold is starting to reach my bones,” Lydia shivered, as we paddled up to the boat ramp.
Our driver’s headlights swung around the curve as we pulled our kayaks out of the water. We wasted no time loading them. Our damp clothes were really letting the cold in.
In the warm cab of the truck, I asked Edwin, “Did you slightly enjoy it, or are you going to say, ‘Never again’?”
“It wasn’t too bad,” he said. “I don’t think I’d want to do a whole day in weather like this, though.”
I watched the snow swirl through the headlight beams as we headed home. It was piling up, making the road slippery in places. I was glad we had a chance to go kayaking while it was snowing. But I was also glad to be off the water and headed home.
Editor’s note:
Reading about the wet wood and wish for a fire, I am reminded of a time I went camping with several friends. It had rained and the forest was soaked. Like boys do, we wanted a fire. After all, what is a campout with friends unless there is a campfire and food—maybe hotdogs—maybe not. Maybe hot chocolate and cookies—maybe not. Maybe chips….
To make a fire was going to take some work. We gathered branches and used our knives to shave off the outer, wet wood. Once we were in to the dry wood, we continued fuzzing up the sticks with curls of wood that we left attached. They resembled porcupines whittled out of wood, I suppose.
One-two-three—we kept fuzzing up more sticks. Once we had a pile, they were carefully arranged, and someone lit a match. No doubt there were some boys on their hands and knees blowing the little flame to life.
We sat around our cozy fire, chatting like friends do, snacking occasionally, behaving ourselves.
When a ranger stopped by, he chatted a bit. Everything in camp was supposed to be quiet after 11:00. He looked at our fire; he looked at us; we looked at our watches. I think it was twenty minutes after 11:00. Finally he spoke again.
“If you boys got a fire going in this weather, you can keep it going.”
We thanked him, and off he walked into the night. I’m sure the fact that we were quietly keeping to ourselves played a big roll too.
I’d be remiss, though, if I didn’t mention David peering behind him, then suddenly bolting upright and exclaiming, “There’s a skunk!”
Poor David didn’t know skunks were old hat around there. But he learned. We kept to ourselves and the skunks to themselves. Occasionally a skunk would squabble with another one. We’d hear a little squeak, get a brief odoriferous whiff, then all would be fine again.