Old Men River

Canoeing can transform into a whole different experience when there are number of ways you can be killed doing it. I should have realized that during the drive out to the canoe launch Saturday morning when the driver gave us the top three things to watch out for. They were:

1) Alligators and venomous water snakes — "They are in the water and people see them all the time. If you fall in, just stay calm and bang your oar against the canoe. Usually that will scare away the alligators."
2) Strainers — "These are logs that are under the water that you can't see until you're right on top of them. They WILL flip you're canoe if you hit them wrong." NOTE: These were the topic of my disastrous canoe trip with Jessica last fall.
3) Paper wasps — "There are large nests of these wasps in some of the fallen trees strewn across the river. Especially watch out for one large one that is hard to see around this bend in the river. If you don't paddle hard enough, you'll run right into it."

Needless to say, those first few miles in the waters of the mighty Ocklawaha, too deep to see the bottom, were a bit nerve-racking.

Last weekend, I loaded up the Silver Bullet with outdoorsy-type things and made the decently-long trek — along with buddy Mike — to the outskirts of the Ocala National Forest, two hours north of Orlando, for a weekend of camping and canoeing. The area is unique because of the diverse wildlife. Not only are there the above-mentioned creatures, there are also black bears, bobcats, exotics birds and butterflies and, my favorite, rhesus monkeys that were introduced decades ago to try to establish a tourist spot (which ultimately failed).

It was an amazing way to get away from the city just at a time when I needed a break. After the initial fear of alligators wore off, the canoe trip provided hours of relaxation. The first five miles were part of the protected forest, so we didn't see any people or development or roads or houses the entire time. <> Unfortunately, we never saw any bears, bobcats, monkeys, alligators or snakes either. We did see a ton of beautiful storks and ospreys, as well as turtles, butterflies and HUGE spiders in overhanging trees. It was excellent.

Oh yeah! There was also another thing we missed. Our canoe guide told us that just one night before, about 70 cheerleaders (including a few from the Tampa Bay Buccaneers, see bottom) stayed at the campsite during a summer cheerleading camp. Mike was especially angry when we heard this. I just cried for a little bit. The canoe guide wasn't as happy with it. Although he did seem creepy enough, he said the group overturned 5 of his canoes on a trip and didn't bring them back. Ha! But really, how can you be mad at cheerleaders? It's like punching Santa Claus.

I looked up book prices on the SBS web site today. I think I'm ready to head on back to Michigan soon.

The 'quez

I wouldn't normally strip a man of his private moments, but since Dirk doesn't update his blog nearly enough, I thought I'd offer a small glimpse into the psyche of a poet lunatic, even if it is at my own expense.

This is an email to the beloved, yet cleverly fruity Patrick Walters that I was CCed on. Background: Yung 'Quez and I are moving into the luxurious abode I once shared with Patrick Walters and J. Ryan Mulcrone. Patrick has some left over furniture that Dirk or other roommate Paul may be interested in...

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Hello Patrick,

so lovely to see your written word again.

Here are my thoughts as to your furniture dilemma. I've already relegated the menial task of dealing with the couches to Donald.. he gets anxious and flippant when he feels he's not given responsibility.

My friend Paul, our other roommate, has shown a good deal of interest in the desk, so that should be aight.

As for the other pieces, I could be interested in the bedstand, but I'll need the following information:

1) Cedar or cherry wood? --- though I've always loved the robust, uncompromising scent of cedar, it's not a wood you want watching you all night....shifty eyes, untrustworthy hands.

2) Was it varnished in the Parisian tradition, or that of the Finns? It's hard for me to fully respect a piece of furniture that doesn't have a good norse lacquer.

3) What's it likely to fetch at auction? If I'm going to add this sucker to my portfolio, I'll need to be able to guarantee returns.. or at least a good five minute spot on the next Antiques Roadshow.


I would be interested in the chest of drawers, but I've already orchestrated a plan whereby your mother comes to retrieve it and finds me strewn over my bed, naked, feeding myself wild cherries and figs and painting an exact copy of the mona lisa.... watercolor.

Seriously, though, given details I might be down for the dresser, too.

Sincerely,

Baby 'Quez

p.s. I concur with Donald that this semester is bound to be very hyped, what with him going to see plays with jessica on some nights and fighting to kill affirmative action on others.
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Blood, sweat and gears

Beyond West Palm Beach, beyond Jupiter Island, even beyond Burt Reynolds Park, there is a land of alligators and exposed palmetto roots. It is a haven where lizards dance with spiders in a sandy, sticky orgy of nature's most unruly characters and emotions. It is an overgrown asylum of thorn bushes and dense palms better suited for beast, not man. And yet someone decided to build an enormous labyrinth of criss-crossing, off-road, one lane bike trails smack in the middle of it.

The third of my planned six weekend excursions was cut short by Hurricane Dennis this past weekend. Of course, I didn't get to report from the field, enjoying the full capability of the storm's thrust. I was asked to come into the office Saturday and edit Web feeds. Ugh. Needless to say, Sunday became my half-weekend and I was planning to spend it bicycling along the shores of Jupiter, Fl.

I packed up Golden Thunder and climbed into the Silver Bullet, but on the way to the paved trail, I caught sight of Jonathon Dickinson State Park. I remembered reading about this place when I first moved down here. It was the homeland for Club Scrub, a strictly bad-ass off-road bicycling club in South Florida. They had built miles and miles of trails through some of Florida's most ferocious terrain. I thought that a spin on the trails would be a lot more exciting than constant beachfront mansions and sail boats.

I paid four bucks to get into the park, left the Bullet nearby, and made by way along a paved path to the Middle Ridge and Osprey loops. The place was like a ghost town, except for the toned, fit Lance Armstrong-looking guy who sprung from the end of the trail as I was approaching. That should have been my first clue.

The trails were intermediate, or so the lady at the front gate said. And c'mon, like I'm going to go to the "beginner" loop. It was called the Tortoise loop for pete's sake. But as they say, pride goeth before the fall... down a steep bank into a swamp. More on that later.

I started out on the trail, and immediately realized I was in very unfamilar territory for Golden Thunder. The trail was about a foot and a half wide, with "walls" of shrub and brush on either side. Since I'm in Florida, it was mostly sand. Huge palmetto roots shot up around every corner. And then, just to make things fun, random logs were thrown in to really scare the hell out of me. There were a couple fun additions. There was about a 3-and-a-half straight drop once where I caught some air. There was another pyramid-type structure made out of wooden planks that I rode up and then down. But mostly, it was pure hell. If you looked away for a second, you were smashing your foot against a hidden tree stump or getting whacked in the face by a dead, hanging branch.

At one point, I rode alongside a murky swamp. I had once asked a co-worker how you can tell if there are alligators in the water. He said if it's fresh water, there are always alligators. So I looked over to spot a pair of eyes or a tail, lost footing around a patch of sand, and flipped sideways and upside-down, down a bank into a thorny shrub. Golden Thunder was pinned on top of me, I was caught in the thicket, and I wasn't sure what type of animals could be sneaking up around me. I realized that the water was only a few feet away. I saw these reddish ants climbing up a stalk a few inches from my face. I had already seen all sizes of lizard on the ride. So, I flipped out, started struggling violently to get out, and about a minute later, I was upright and standing on the trail. There was sand and bits of plant stuck in places on my hand where skin had been. My right leg was full-flow bleeding from a couple of long cuts around my shin and calf. I checked myself for other cuts, found a few, and then jumped back on the Thunder.

An hour later, after stopping once because I thought I was going to puke (ok, I'm in decent shape, but this trail was insane), I finally popped back out onto the paved trail. In a strange way, it felt invigorating to finally finish it, with my shirt soaked from top to bottom and blood rolling down into my socks and smeared on my bike frame. I thought of Club Scrub and whether they'd be laughing or applauding. I told myself I'd try it again before I left Florida, only with a helmet next time. I loaded up the sand-caked Golden Thunder, hopped in the Bullet and drove to the nearest gas station to get some hydrogen peroxide.

It was a good type of sting.

A writing exercise

I just finished reading a great new story on ESPN.com about Steve Bartman, the notorious Cubs fan who received death threats after he interfered with a catchable foul ball that may have cost the Cubs the NL pennant. The story is written in first person and is more about finding the story than actually Bartman himself. It's a great example of what journalists go through and the emotions they experience while covering a tough story. If you're a journalist, you should read this, even if you care less about baseball.

Foul Play: On the trail of the most reclusive man in sports

london fog

I was happy to hear that good buddy Sarah Frank was not among the at least 37 people killed and 300 injured this morning in London. What a sad day. It makes me angry.

Winner of California's "World's Ugliest Dog" contest this weekend

This is the most frightening thing I've ever seen. If I ever saw this dog, I'd immediately kill it. It's that fucking scary looking. It honestly looks worse than something out of a Hollywood horror movie. They should sign this ugly beast up for the movies. Just looking into its milky, demon-crazed eyes makes you doubt the existence of God. I'm going to cry under my desk for hours.

Whoever owns this dog should either 1) exploit it for money, or 2) swiftly kill it. That's all that you can do for this freakish canine. Oh my god!

Ponce, pirate, ghosts and spirits

Juan Ponce de Leon was always my favorite among the 15th-16th century explorers, primarily because he was simply the most idealistic of the bunch. I used to love reading about him in history class throughout grade school and high school. While some looked for gold and others looked for spices, Ponce was looking for the Fountain of Youth. It's hard to imagine the dedication a person would have to risk his own life and the lives of his men, not to mention a fair amount of Spanish capital, to sail across an entire ocean in search of something so mystical. You have to respect that. He never gave up on his dream, even if it meant rough seas, pirates, scurvy, etc.

So Sunday, when I stood at the spot Ponce's ship first struck land, I was envigored by his spirit and determination. As you probably know, Ponce de Leon discovered Florida and claimed it for the Spanish. The spot he discovered soon developed into a city which still stands today. In fact, it's the oldest city in the United States. St. Augustine, FL was the second of six destinations I plan to tour before it's time to pack it all up and head northward.

The Silver Bullet and I made the 4-hour-long trip to St. Augustine early Sunday morning. I love to drive to new places, watch the scenery go by, notice the quirky billboards, so it didn't seem long at all. The hostel I was staying at was in the heart of the historic district, and when the city is 1500s-historic, the roads aren't exactly made for supersonic minivans. I bid a sweet adieu to the Bullet and strolled through the cobblestone streets to the Pirate Haus, appropriately named because of the city's constant problems with pirates throughout history (sacked in the 1800s, which sucked). The staff was dressed like pirates, and one guy with a red bandana pointed out the best watering holes the city had to offer. I took note of the pirate's suggestions and headed out into the city.

I explored mills, courtyards, taverns and an old Spanish cathedral. I toured the San Sebastian Winery and sipped wines made from Floida's muscadine grapes (very tasty). I ate a roast beef dinner at the Prince of Wales Inn (a throwback to a brief era of about 20 years where the British owned Florida right before the American revolution). And then on Sunday night, after downing three pints of John Courage amber ale at the Prince of Wales, I embarked on the St. Augustine Haunted Pub Tour through the historic district. At this point, you may be wondering why I'm doing all of this by myself. But hey, you should try it out. It's nice to explore a new place at your own pace, do what you want to do, and meet people that you wouldn't meet if you had company along for the trip. And that leads me to the women from Tampa.

On the pub tour (really more of a pub crawl), I met Patty and Linda, two middle-aged women who admitted to having children around my age. They were old friends who went on trips alone every summer to get away from their families and let loose. It turned out that they were to let loose on me. After they discovered I was the only one of the tour who was alone (I was perfectly happy talking to our guide, Tom, about ghosts, ghost hunting, ghost sightings, etc., because that shit really gets me going), they promptly insisted that I was now with their group, which was fine, I suppose, except for that these women were the kind you'd see half-hanging off a pontoon boat in Lake St. Clair with a Milwaukee's Best poking out from their beer coosy and a Newport dangling from their lower lip. Oh well.

We went to four pubs, learned the stories behind them and had a lot of beer and coconut rum to drink (a lot). We smoked cigars, talked about ghosts and took a lot of pictures (to come later). After the tour, we hung out on the patio of one bar with a journalist couple we met from Lakeland, FL., and drank until closing time.

After Linda (or was it Patty?) gave me her number and address in Tampa, I stumbled back home through the cobblestone walkways to the Pirate Haus, climbed to the top bunk of my bunk bed and immediately passed. Arrr, matey, what a fine eve-nin.