Not Pumpkin Spice
Dave Esposito’s picture captured my best side.
I have to admit that I have become kind of a Substack junky. I obsessively check my stats and try figure out if it indicates a growing audience or some other trend. Hey, I like validation as much as the next guy. I was going to repost last night’s Substack here but this morning it struck me that I could write something here…
Fall is my favorite season. It marks the passing of summer, whose heat and humidity I am not a fan of. The leaves change colors and their night time air becomes tinged with scent of smoke from countless chimneys in my plat. Shorts get packed away and sweaters are dug out of the recesses of the closet.
Fall also heralds the premier event of the season, not football, not Halloween, not Thanksgiving but the Blackstone River Canoe trip. The trip happens every October and this is the thirtieth anniversary. The trip is and has been a chance to get away from the pressures of the world, do a little paddling, drinking and camping. I have few fonder memories than those standing around the campfire with my fellow paddlers, sharing a drink or story. Some years we’ve been treated to dramatic recitations of Robert Service poems.
Over three decades we’ve added and subtracted members depending upon schedules and the impositions of life. Deployments or urgent business trips, sick relatives have all impacted the roster at times. We were mostly college or just post college kids when it all started. Meals were usually pouch noodles from Lipton, Little Debbie snacks and lots of cheap beer. In those days the trip was chance to take a break from the worries of uncertain futures and not having much money. Camping is egalitarian, nature usually doesn’t charge an admission fee.
December 2023 on the lower river.
In the early days, when we were all thinner and had more hair, the river was almost exclusively ours. A former industrial engine of the 18th, 19th and early 20th century it bore the scars in the form of pollution. It wasn’t much of a draw for paddling crowd. Over the years, we started to notice more fish, turtles and birds when we were making our way downriver. Over the years we also noticed an increasing number of fellow paddlers. Now it is quite common to run into them either on the water or as they are paddling by our campsites.
Maybe it’s ironic that as my friends and I have grown more financially secure, some even prosperous, so has the river. Gone are the bags of Lipton noodles, replaced by high end meals, like pan seared tuna filets, or bacon wrapped filet mignon to name a couple. Now we bring cheap beer but not out of financial necessity, wine and whiskey figure just as prominently these days. These days, it’s pretty rare to see whole appliances, discarded and rusting in river and cormorants are a common sight.
I won’t pretend that I am not nostalgic for the early trips. The guerilla camping aspect of it was romantic, like we were on a grand adventure. Slipping down the river to find a site to camp, while often just a few hundred yards from civilization often felt like being on some sort of secret mission. There was also the feeling of newness and wonder that comes from any youthful endeavor.
Nor would I pretend that the trips are superior now because we can afford to eat and drink better. The truth is each trip is it’s own thing, it’s own memories made. The riot of colored leaves is just a beautiful a sight to behold in the thirtieth years as it was in my first.