1999
Uncle Wally's Weirder-Than-Real Paddling Adventures (uncommon campfire) (a52)
by Uncle Wally
Remember those "duck and cover" drills we used to hafta do in grade school? Well, maybe you're too young. They were supposed to protect us against anything from a tornado to an atomic bomb blast. Just duck under your desk and cover your head. Yeah. Even back in second grade, I had my doubts as to the efficacy of the duck and cover regime. I had no idea it would one day actually save me from the (un)common campfire.
A sea kayak trip to the Apostle Islands seems like an odd occasion to be conjuring up knee-jerk reactions learned in Mrs. Griggs' second grade class. But that's how it was. It was on a little jaunt out to Oak Island I took one July with a friend and the friend's friends.
Cheryl and I had kayaked together before. We were pretty compatible paddling companions. But Cheryl's friends were an unknown to me. Rob and Melissa had done a fair amount of sea kayaking, mostly down in the Baja, and they were proficient paddlers. But I soon had my suspicions that they were an entirely different breed of campers.
To begin with, the mountain of gear surrounding their kayaks at the put-in was bigger than anyone else's mountain of gear. Way bigger. It took 'em quite a while to get everything loaded up. Now, I know that packing a sea kayak for a voyage is an art form that can require some substantial sleight of hand, if not the summoning of occult powers, to get everything to fit. I'm not much of a minimalist camper myself (which is why I had to give up on backpacking.) But heck! we were only gonna be out for one night! And I've long since learned the Law of Diminishing Returns when it comes to packing along a lot of comfort items when camping. So I got my gear stowed and took a leisurely, warm-up paddle along shore while Rob and Melissa puzzled over how to stuff the folding camp chairs through a hatch, debated how accessible they needed to keep the cell phone, GPS, and EPIRB, and lamented the fact that the coffee grinder and mini espresso maker didn't fit neatly inside a suspiciously large cook kit.
And then there were the coolers. They had a cooler for lunch, three for dinner (one to keep the wine chilled), one for breakfast, and another for tomorrow's lunch. I'd never seen such an array of little soft-sided coolers outside of a discount store summer clearance sale!
Well, they knew what they were about, 'cause they eventually got it all stuffed in their boats. Then we all enjoyed a fine, invigorating paddle over to Oak Island into a brisk headwind and three-foot waves. It was fun.
As you may imagine, camp that night was pretty civilized. Rob and Melissa had volunteered to do all the cooking this trip, which was a good thing because they probably wouldn'ta eaten anything I woulda brought. I mean, I get as hungry as the next guy, maybe even hungrier. But when it comes to camp cookery, I favor things I can plop into one pot, boil into submission, and eat without the need for formal introductions by a U.N. translator. I prefer to leave the haute cuisine, candlelight, and spirits to the industry of some restaurant after the trip.
Bein' intimidated by the very sight of some of the specialized cookware they were pullin' outta their bags, I put myself on wood gathering detail by way of makin' myself scarce until dinnertime. As I wandered off into the woods, Rob and Melissa were discussing how they were gonna elevate the salmon steaks the prescribed distance above the coals to get 'em to cook just right. Apparently, the hibachi didn't fit in the kayak.
By the time I got back with the third load of wood, they had engineered a perfectly beautiful little stone barbecue right in the middle of the fire pit. Dinner preparations were in progress at several different venues around camp. It was all way outta my league. So I went back out for more wood. By the time dinner was ready, I'd brought in a wood supply that woulda lasted us through the winter.
I have to admit, dinner sure was tasty, whatever it was. I have a hard time rememberin' things I can't pronounce. And though I'm not too particular about camp coffee, as long as I don't have to pick the grounds out of my teeth later, it sure was nice to sit back by the fire, sippin' espresso over that fancy dessert.
With all that wood I'd hauled in, we got a pretty good roarin' fire goin' after dinner. Campfire conversation was drifting lazily from one topic to another when, all of a sudden, there was a small explosion in the middle of the fire and something went zingin' off into the woods, uncomfortably close to my left ear.
I found myself instantaneously transported back to Mrs. Grigg's class, ducking for cover at the alarm. And if a school desk seemed inadequate protection to my eight-year-old self, the log I had just vacated seemed positively insubstantial now. And this was not a drill. I hit the dirt behind the log and covered my head.
Cheryl musta been older than I thought, 'cause she had this duck and cover thing down cold. Rob and Melissa, however, were still sitting there in stunned silence. "Get down!" ordered Cheryl. As if to emphasize the command, there was another POP! from the fire pit as another granite grenade launched some shrapnel into the woods. One small fragment thudded dully against Rob's knee.
"What the . . .?" began Rob.
"We seem to be under fire from your barbecue pit," I said. "Where'd you get those rocks from anyway?"
"Down on the beach," answered Rob. "There were some nice, flat ones not too far out in the water," added Melissa.
"Don't do that again," said Cheryl, curtly.
When no further bombardment was forthcoming, I got a stout stick and started raking rocks out of the fire pit. Some were still whole, others newly fractured. All were highly suspect. I explained to our chefs that the phrase "solid as a rock" was actually somewhat misleading. Cheryl launched into a long, scientific explanation of how water can permeate submerged stone and how that water, converted to steam by an external heat source (say, a blazing campfire) can generate enough force to fracture "solid" rock. "Sometimes dramatically," I added. But that point had already been taken.
Well, that was the end of the fireworks for that night. But before I drifted off to sleep later on, I said a little thank-you to Mrs. Griggs, wherever she might be. I wanted her to know that I really had learned something in second grade. And all these years she thought I hadn't been paying any attention!
* * * * * Well,'til next time, keep your paddle wet. And keep in touch. Drop me a line c/o Mickey McBride, 8191 Belden Blvd., Cottage Grove MN 55106 or mickeymcb@worldnet.att.net. Let me know if applied physics has ever enlivened your campfire discussions. Remember, Uncle Wally promises to 1) tell the truth so no one would ever believe it anyway and 2) never reveal your true identity to anyone, not even Bill Nye, the Science-Guy.
