Fogged Up

While sometimes poking fun at my “$1,000 air mattress,” my missus remains on the lookout for more places to launch my Alpacka Caribou packraft and she found a gem in nearby Stafford County at Widewater State Park with easy access to Aquia Creek, which leads into the Potomac River.

My daughter agreed to go on a recon mission to the park, about 40 minutes away, and the state park officers there kind enough to allow us to drive in without paying the seven bucks car fee to check out the launch area. The “creek” seemed more like a small bay -- large, blue and inviting. Looking across to the opposite shoreline, I could just picture myself getting into an easy paddle rhythm across the still waters.

Just a few days later, with temperatures promising to reach the upper 60s across the region, I planned a solo trip with my Caribou to test those waters. Normally, I’d be getting out on my mountain bike, too, with such a break in the weather, but my back had mounted a revolt following recent work trips. Sitting snug and comfy in a raft was one thing, bent over a set of handlebars was another.

Still, I had to prep my body for even a few minutes on the water, including putting on my waterproof Sealskin socks. With my back as stiff as concrete, I was unable to bend over properly for the task, so I first had to spread my socks on the floor, then work my toes into the tops and using the floor as an anchor wiggle my toes enough to to work in the top half of my feet. I sat down and leaned sideways enough to hook the top of each sock with the tips of my fingers and pulled.

To once again quote Mick and the Stones -- What a drag it is getting old.

I started to drive toward the park under sunny blue skies with the windows down. But, as I drew closer to the river, colder air made me roll up the windows. Then the sun disappeared into a white veil of fog. By the time I reached the park, I was surrounded by a foggy blanket.

As I paid my daily parking fee, the state park ranger told she was surprised to hear I planned to go paddling. I expected to hear about some prohibition due to the fog, but all she said was, “We just never get anyone going into the water this time of the year.”

“I don’t plan to go into the water,” I noted. “I plan to stay in the raft.”

Blowing up the raft with the air bag, I shivered a bit. The official temperature might be about 60, but the cool, wet fog made it feel much colder.

Out farther on the water, it felt downright chilly. The fog now made it nearly impossible to see the other shore until I nearly came upon it. Nothing but blank nothingness. I swore I heard hear Dueling Banjos playing in the distance.

I paddled lightly, the raft bouncing smoothly through the smooth water, the cushioned stern bracing my back just right. Within a few minutes, I stopped and just floated, lost in a foggy cloud that completely enveloped my Caribou and me. Don’t Fear the Reaper played into my earbuds from my iPod. How appropriate.

My mind started drifting into the fog, into the music. The first time I had heard that song I had endured another day of bullying as a kid in Philly and I couldn’t help but wonder then whether meeting the Reaper wouldn’t be all that bad, or certainly not worse.

But then, a few years later, after learning a thing or two about handling myself, I turned the tables on some of those who treated me so badly. And I became a bully myself -- until a few REAL tough guys, some a lot smaller than me, put me in my place, and almost in the hospital. There’s always someone else who’s badder, or sneakier or more ruthless.

I learned the hard way the real power comes not from using it, but from harnessing it, and keeping it in check until absolutely necessary. That’s real toughness.

It’s a lesson worth learning, even for nations.

I guess we just have to wait for the fog to clear.