The Redneck River Ride - Pt 2.

This is the second half to this story, which you may want to read before continuing.

Where did I last leave our intrepid explorers? Ah yes, we had just arrived at our destination, the canoe outfitter, whom we promptly paid for our canoe and were on our way to where we would hitch a ride to the drop-off point. Thankfully now we had someone to follow, but everyone was following everyone else it seemed, and so no one knew where to go. We stopped at a likely spot and everyone got out of their cars, only to be told that wasn't the right place, so we all piled back in and moved down the road a piece, only to repeat our little dance down the dirt road, until finally we arrived at the right spot. There were canoes aplenty, lots of potholes, and an assortment of colorful locals. We must be at the right place!

We loaded ourselves, our kids, lifejackets, and coolers onto the back of a pickup truck, and waited to get rolling, when out of the corner of my eye I noticed a great bit of giggling and chortling amongst the brethren (and sistren, also). I tried to see whatever could be the matter, when my gaze fell on an image that shall remain lazed into my mind at least until I finish writing this blog. A neighboring pickup truck was loaded to the brim with what is commonly referred to as Flabicus Redneckus, one of which I immediately perceived to be of the feminine persuasion, and who I will henceforth cordially refer to as Moby. By my estimate Moby weighed, well... she was as large as a barge (bless her heart), and you know, I can respect that in a person. After all, I attended two full days of Diversity Training sponsored by my employer, which I thought would have left me better prepared for a situation such as this. But when she started to strip down to her bathing suit and rolls of fat came cascading out of hiding to gently undulate in the breeze, along with the hairs on her back, I started looking for a place to run and hide.

Thankfully the truck began to move, and the color gradually returned to my face. We were on our way! I got matched up with Josh and away we went down the river, paddling in perfect harmony, barely making a ripple as we glided noiselessly downstream, perfectly in synch with the forest. At the mere hint of Josh's hushed whisper to "paddle left" or "paddle right", we would move as one to effortlessly corner tight bends or precarious deadfalls.

Now, how many of you out there believe that? In fact, our voyage was lightly seasoned, salted and peppered with a few "ardent discussions" about proper paddling technique, but for the most part we did quite well. Except for when we got caught under a tree, and Josh had to spontaneously learn yoga to keep from tipping the canoe over. Oh, and that other time, too, hehe, when Josh polished his face on a tree trunk. Actually, there were quite a few of those episodes, now that I think of it, har har.

Interestingly, I don't remember anyone having to step into the trees to relieve themselves during the entire 6 hour+ trip. Funny how everyone enjoyed frequent romps in the water though. It was quite routine to see someone far downstream in waist-deep water, apparently deep in thought. In fact, I believe at one point there was a line of people from the shore all the way to a particularly inviting "thinkin' spot" downstream from the main group of swimmers. Personally, I do my thinkin' better in private, but to each his own I guess.

At just such a sabbatical from the labors of paddling while sitting on an aluminum seat as hard as titanium, one of us guys had the bright idea to have a sprint race. The idea was that we would race until someone passed out from exhaustion. We would swim like mad for what felt like 1000 yards, and then some bright young lad would proclaim, "Let's do it again!". And the amazing thing is, we would! And then, when I thought I couldn't swim another race, someone proclaimed that wouldn't it be fun to have a chicken fight?

A chicken fight involves heisting a compadre onto your shoulders, who will thusly do battle against an opponent, equally heisted onto another friend's shoulders. Whoever falls into the water first loses, although to be quite honest there really are no winners or losers, it's just a big testosterone filled brouhaha, the true meaning of which only us men-folk can truly grasp. In our case, simply heisting our big lard buckets (for lack of a better word) into the air was a far greater feat than defending against any opponent, in fact we often declared a victory just for getting into the air. The guys on the bottom of the totem poles strained, red in the face, while the guys on top basically leaned against one another, with occasionally swatting back and forth, until someone fell over. An unquestionable testament to all of our manly manliness.

As part of the "ceremony" of the whole thing, it was customary to declare one's weight if you were to be on the upper-most portion of the "chicken". I'm still not sure why, it just seemed logical at the time. No matter how much the declared weight, the person on the bottom always made an attempt to heist the other fellow. I don't think anyone weighed less than 192, but one chap's weight was declared to be "around" (aka "in the neighborhood") of 260. All of us men folk traded impressed, and slightly worried, glances all around. A pall of apprehension dropped over the crowd. Was the heister about to burst his spleen? Was there a doctor in the house? One thing was certain: entertainment was imminent.

In two seconds it was all over as the leaning tower of... chicken... collapsed into the water. But you can't say they didn't try! I wager that if the poor fellow had weighed 350 lbs, someone would have tried to heft him. That's just how us real men are. When we see a problem, we try to solve it. No matter how big it is.

And so, after an hour or so of swimming at breakneck speed for no particular reason than to say we did, and lifting each other over our heads over and over for no particular reason than to fall back into the water, we set off paddling again for maybe another 2 hours or so.

All this time no one had had to go to the bathroom (I'm still baffled by this). And all this time we had seen practically no one else. Except for this one guy with a severe disdain for personal hygiene who followed me and Josh along the bank whilst trying to engage us in conversation. He seemed like a nice enough fellow, but I kid you not I could see the stench. And something had scratched the tar out of his side, just above his waist band - Mr, you need to get some o' that there salve on that right thar.

But we hadn't seen anything until we saw the crowd that lay just around the bend. Rednecks of all shapes, sizes and dimensions, a veritable smorgasborg of Redneck. They had all brought what looked like their entire living quarters to the banks of the river, including tents, grills, lawn furniture, playground equipment, and loud music. At every turn there was someone new and exciting to wave howdy-do to. At one bend in the river there was a group of maybe 20 or 30 rednecks, most of them in the water, and one of them was loudly cursing at a young kid, who didn't seem to be having much fun. I did not say howdy-do as we swept by.

At another turn, as we slowly rounded the corner, I came face to face with a double-double-wide Redneck B-U-T-T pointed firmly upriver as its owner retrieved a beer bottle, or something equally worthy of her attention. I tried to look to the left, then to the right, but my entire field of vision was consumed! So I looked down and resumed paddling. We almost ran aground, but another canoe ran into us and set us right.

It was about that time one of the chilluns pointed out that, oh my goodness, we had a leech sucking on our boat (yes, a real leech)! Just under my hand, about 3 inches long. Ain't that somethin'? Maybe I'm from ignoramus-ville, but I thought leech's were something only Steve Irwin needed to worry about. We pulled over and Josh went gonzo on it with his oar.

With no further mishaps or outstanding Redneck sightings, we finally made it back to land, loaded up, and headed back to Mobile, AL. Josh and Zachary slept the entire way home. After hours of paddling, the only sore part of my body was the part that had been in constant contact with the aluminum seat. Zach said it all when he woke up, "That was sooo fun!"

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the saga of the Redneck River Ride. Let's do it again sometime. Next time I'll bring the Redneck Repellant.