Once Upon a Time When the Wind Blows

In the moments when the rain falls and smears the muddle into puddles of brown, I stare into the mist, and breathe in the quiet breath of the storm. The rain softly slides into spaces of silence and grace as it drips off the the blades of fading green leaves, suspended in moments of artistic brilliance. The chocolate water paints itself into a froth of foam and indecision, yet moves forward with enigmatic determination.

Great friends share a house full of laughter as the colorful glow of the day etoliates into the darkness of night. A new day tomorrow, and a new chance to see the water dance again.

In bright tones of sunshine, in the midst of an ominous parade of dark skies, the wind softly blows blades of grass in a soft whisper of sense. Time is stone, and the waters lap our feet. The sun hits our necks, and turns our skin a more distant brown. Words are exchanged with the subtleties of vibrant emotion. Smiles, stones, and sun. Once upon a time when the wind blows, we understand we are all here for each other.

In all our decisions, in all our choice, in all our brilliance, in all our tears, in all our joy, in all our moments, if we could only understand that we need be nothing more than the wind blowing blades of grass in the faded summer sun and crisp fall air.

Perhaps we might understand that we cannot truly know. Perhaps we might be happy.

Swell

In all of our many moments in life, every now and then one comes along that offers something fresh. An open beach in the mellow glow of the pre dawn light. The never ending expanse of sea wandering off into distant horizons. The faint shadows of sea birds painted on wet sand, and the sound of a deep swell echoing in the sweet salt air. Boards plastered with a fresh coat of surf wax, the characteristic smell allowing your mind to dream in anticipation. The first set rolls in and wraps itself around your ankles. The board floats quietly beside you. A few steps further and you enter the break zone. The chill of the ocean sets into your pores. You lay down and begin to paddle. The first wave crashes over you. A million claps of thunder reverberate inside your skull. You reach the lineup and you can feel your soul smile. Your arms burn as you paddle to catch your first wave. Your feet rhythmically dance their way into position. You are standing, dropping down the face, and leaning into your first turn. It is at this particular instant, in this single moment, that you are truly in it, fully draped with the color, feel, and flow of your own life. In this moment, without even realizing it, you understand why your are alive, and laughter fills the void.

This one's for Drew...

Difficult Run Flood

The Nugent

In another moment of glory, we finished a beautiful paddle on the Upper Yough in Garret County, Maryland, only to find that Ted Nugent himself would grace the stage in Seven Springs, Pennsylvania that very evening. Billy and I looked at each other, and our smiles grew deep and wide. We turned and looked at Mark, our dear friend Mark, who knew very well the type of evening in which he was about to participate. He just stood and laughed. He was game.

The Upper Yough itself was without major incidence. I was able to run a few new lines including the boof at National Falls. I caught a long hole ride in Zinger, but was able to finally draw myself out, much to the chagrin of an onlooking pack of boaters. On Sunday, the mighty Savage was a bit different.

In any case, we finished our run of the Upper Yough and embraced the glorious news of the Nugent. We dined on truly tasty cuisine at a local vegetarian restaurant on the banks of the river. They brought bowl after heaping bowl of salad, soup, and fresh baked bread. We spent some time with Scott Anderson, Dave, and Jason, all guys from the Potomac. Billy and I paid homage to the great Nugent throughout the meal.

The sun was moving toward the horizon as we finished dinner, sprays of clear mellow light littering soon vanishing carpets of green. We headed toward Seven Springs.

We arrived to find the concert in full swing, tattoos, brews, plenty of biker dudes and gun racks in the parking lot. Twenty bucks a ticket, and the concert was quickly nearing an end. I spotted an entrance through the woods, and decided to clamber down a steep bank to have a better look. I sat quietly, perched on a small knob, watching the yellow, blue and red concert lights illuminate the leafy green canopy of trees. Mark and Billy soon followed. We named our wooded perch the 'Nuge Knob', and after a few moments of revelry, we decided it was time to make our entrance.

We emerged from the woods and walked straight into the depths of a sea of trucker hats, bandanas and a few eloquently sculpted mullets. Our eyes gazed upon the stage, the illuminated eys of die hard fans, and we caught our first glimpse of the Nugent, adorned in full Indian head dress, a giant mural of himself, muscle bound and intent, as he pointed at the crowd Uncle Sam style. In the same instant his fingers danced across the strings of his guitar, as he belted out the uber cult classic, 'White Buffalo'. Suddenly a compound bow appeared, an arrow was aflame, and he sacrificed his guitar for a good hunting season. Nothing short of pure artistic brilliance and magic.

The crowd dispersed and we were soon back in the car wandering toward New Germany State Park. Billy and Mark slept on the ground. I suppose I was determined to construct my tent in the wee hours of the morning. I awoke to the noise of Mark's voice, ushering me along, so we could achieve the glory of the 'hot' camp. I moved quick, and we were successful. A delicious breakfast of biscuits and coffee from the King of Burgers and we were headed to the put in for the Savage. The weather was gorgeous, blue skies, cold water, and warm sun. I decided it was fun to swim out of sticky unexpected ledge holes, especially when speared in the chest by oncoming Scott Andersons. We rescued three people. One clung to the safety of my arm as he leapt from a tiny tree in the middle of the river. I jumped off a rusty abandoned bridge into shallow water, and Mark did back flips from a riverside rope swing. A soon to be ultra classic weekend.

The Nugent never dies my friends... the Nugent never dies.