In the summer of 2003 I took my first international flight over the badlands of America, the Grand Canyon and Salt Lake City - and I have to say, those salt flats looked really cool from the air, too. My final connecting flight, in a little eight-row, hiccup of a puddle-jumper, took me through what proved to be the worst turbulance I would ever experience, finally to land in a tiny airport, about 1800 feet above sea level, smack in the centre of the Rogue Valley in southern Oregon. I enjoyed it thoroughly but I can't say the same thing for most of my fellow passengers, many of whom had taken on varying tinges of green about the gills and who were holding on for dear life wherever hands could find a solid grip. I am pretty sure we entered that valley, over a snowcapped mountain, at a thirty degree angle.
As events would unfold, my arrival set somewhat of a precedent.
I had a blast for the first week or so, visiting tourist hot spots including Crater Lake with its impossibly inky blue waters and Jedidiah Smith National Park where the giant redwood forest sprawls across thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands, of acres of pristine southern Oregon and northern California. All of it wonderful stuff.
About two days before my return flight, however, my adventure reached its hiatus. My host booked a trip on an oversized jetboat on the Rogue River with about sixty-five other eager tourists. The morning of our little escapade, we arose bright and early and took the long drive to the loading dock, somewhere in the remote, Oregonian wilderness, far from civilization. I'm pretty sure I counted two bears along the side of the road as we drove along.
Once we got there, we embarked on this rather wide watercraft which bore no actual physical likeness to a
jet boat, but, nonetheless, proved to be able to do all the neat tricks that most jet boats can manage, including soaking every passenger by spinning around in dizzying circles every so often, as the operator told corny jokes and narrated the 45 minute trip up the river with tidbits about the flora and fauna all around us.
Once at our destination, a huge spread up a slight incline of green, all the passengers were invited to disembark and enjoy a three course meal, complete with large bottles of white wine and jugs of ale every couple of feet pr so along the tops of long picnic tables, upon which were spread snow white linen tablecloths. The menu was the best barbecue I have ever had and I ate loads of it. I actually lost track of how many helpings.
Because I ate so much and wasn't driving that day I figured I could have a few drinks of wine without any ill effects. So I did. Three full glasses, in total. And it did taste rather watered down so I assumed it wasn't very strong. Didn't feel even a little bit of a buzz.
About an hour and a half later, we all piled back into the big boat and started the return journey. I am delighted to say the pilot shared a ton of information about the salmon fishermen who could be seen every mile or so along the river, in tiny rowboats or sometimes fishing from elaborate piers which fronted stunning, multi-million dollar estates. I guess this wasn't such a remote part of Oregon, after all.
At one juncture, he cautioned us to be extra quiet as we came alongside three young men holding poles, sitting in a small craft. He explained how the fish were very easily spooked, even by the slightest noise. Of course, everyone complied immediately as we got closer and closer. Well, almost everybody that is.
That was when the three glasses of wine kicked in.
That was when I noticed the boat the fishermen were in was only a few feet from the dock along the side of the river.
And that was when I nearly got kicked overboard, if only in the imaginations of my fellow jet boat cruisers.
I stood up suddenly and spoke as loudly as I dared, doing my best to keep from falling back as the jet boat slowly manuevered around the now seemingly dwarfed rowboat.
"What are you doing in the boat? You're only five feet out from the dock?"
I thought it was funny. Hilarious, in fact. But I drew only one small chuckle from my captive audience and that from the elderly gentleman beside me, who, most likely was laughing more in sympathy than in amusement. As for the three in the boat, at whom I had thrown my brilliantly insightful comment, you know the saying about if looks could kill? - I can still see them glaring at me from only a few short feet away.
It was my first indication that, perhaps, just perhaps, the liquour hadn't been watered down, afterall.
And I never did find out why that boat was anchored so darned close to the river's edge.
No comments:
Post a Comment