Fighting with Fire Axes

My apologies for Thursday's post taking a detour down the verbose and the Drowning Pool. As I said before, I did real things at real places this week. Tuesday found me and several of my long-standing contemporaries camping in the quasi-remote town of Front Royal, Virginia. Though I have not completed extraordinary feats of survival along the lines of The Blair Witch Project, Survivorman, or Simple Life Goes to Camp, I would hazard to say things were pretty easy for us, save the persnickety paranoid Asian woman at the front desk of the campground who freaked out like the Rain Man when we inspected her merchandise around what was essentially an amalgamation of a Lost and Found bin and a robbed 7-11. In all seriousness, the general store at the Front Royal Campground legitimately hawks the possessions and arguably, antiquities, of those who stayed on its diamond-hard soil. While perusing the store I noticed price tags on discarded and broken water guns, weather-worn tchotchkes, and even a faux San Francisco Giants batting helmet from the mid-1990s that was most likely given away at a promotional night during a Barry Bonds off year.

I suppose that every post will take a long-winded divergence. My "bad."

After Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves were banished from poking and prodding the Crown Jewels of Front Royal, we set up camp with relative ease, aside from having to use travel-sized jackhammers to loosen up the earth for tent stakes. In the end, our Jimmy Stewart-straight stakes would look more like former U.S. Senator Conrad Burns (R-MT) than anything else.

A sporting game of wiffleball followed camp setup, what with countless trees, rocks, and other natural obstacles forbidding us from an average game. Still, a game of men was played and afterwards a hearty meal was consumed. Then, it was time to pass around a bottle of Maker's and see who could bullshit the biggest tale, since we all know nothing of any interest. Hemingway might have been proud.

The real objective of all of this tomfoolery was to float down the Shenandoah River in giant rafts for several miles, a goal we succeeded in completing the following morning and afternoon, in spite of nagging precipitation. Ignoring the warning plastered all over the putrid bathroom walls of Front Royal Canoe Company, we shucked our life jackets and popped tops as soon as the drop off point was out of sight. Other parties around us were significantly offended and really made it a point to keep their distance.

If you have never floated down a river, I must tell you that it is an activity you should consider. It is something that is both relaxing and invigorating, basically like the Chicken Soup series without reading anything. There are times when the river required strength and speed, and other times when it required patience and deference. We dodged snakes and swung from ropes, shot water guns at mating dragonflies (somewhat mean), paddled, pushed, grunted, and even napped our way to glory.

It was a time. Perhaps something less narrative when we meet again?