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Welcome to my Campfire |
| The day I left my cedar and canvas boat in the woods |
 This was the boat I took on the North Branch of the Oromocto, and abandoned in the woods for a week. |
The trouble was, the water was a little low that September, as it generally is before the hurricane season rolls up the eastern seaboard. Oh, it had rained hard the week before, and I was counting on there being deep enough water in the North Oromocto to at least scrape down with a minimum of effort. But high water doesn't last long in the summer.
When we finally pushed off the shore of Little Lake and paddled down the thoroughfare into the main channel of the Oromocto, it was obvious that we were in for a workout. The deadwaters above the North Branch Falls were okay, but one look at the Falls itself and the quick water below convinced me beyond any doubt that we would never make it down the cobblestone channel before dark that day.
Of course, I was paddling my cedar and canvas Ogilvy, a Fraser boat off a Chestnut mold, and I knew it would not last long being hauled over the rocks like cheese on a grater. I might have risked it with the boat I own today, a plastic Mad River, or an Old Town Discovery beater boat, but this was before I purchased a boat I could safely scrape over the rocks.
After a few moments consultation, it was decided that we would have to carry my boat out to the rural road following the rough dirt track that led from the North Branch Falls. I knew it was several miles out to the road, but I was determined not to leave my boat unattended by the river. I saw no reason to tempt a thief, nor to indulge a vandal.
I hoisted my boat up onto my shoulders and settled the yoke onto my life jacket, which I was wearing to soften the pressure on the back of my neck. Mike carried the paddles and pack, and away we went, up hill and down dale.
 The Oromocto River is wide and placid in its lower stretches as it nears the confluence with the Saint John. Pic by Robin Hanson. |
I got one banger of a brownie, lemmetellya. I don't know whether the impact dented the top of my skull, but it sure felt like it. It did break the skin and I began to bleed. It wasn't a pretty sight. Thankfully the bleeding stopped before I looked too maimed.
I was forced to leave my boat by the side of the trail, behind a screen of bushes. It would have been too much to haul it out several miles with each of us holding one end. I took a close look around, to imprint the spot on my memory so I could find it again as soon as I could get back.
We trudged out the remaining few miles to the main road in the heat. After a half-hour of sticking our thumbs out, we managed to get a lift in the back of a half-ton up to Little Lake to retrieve our car.
I never made it back to fetch my boat until the next weekend, after hiring the services of a local all-terrain vehicle enthusiast with a trailer. I was very relieved to find it untouched and intact, and swore an oath I would never abandon it again.
I replaced my gunwale bolts with stainless steel soon after that, and I try to remember to check them for integrity every once in a while. But I still wear those stoopid baseball caps.
Linda warns us not to forget our tent when we head out on the river.
