A number of years ago I used to run surveys up in Alaska where my crew would sample an area for a month or so over the summer, then usually return home in time for the Fall semester. Most had worked for me for a couple of years, we all were friends, and I liked to reward them for finishing ahead of schedule and under budget by taking them on a trip or some kind of adventure.
One year in particular I arranged for everyone to take a guided canoe trip down the Kenai River and cross an arm of big ol’ Skilak Lake to supper on the far bank, an all day trip. Halfway down the river we stopped for lunch of caribou sausage and assorted veggies. Hungry from the morning’s exertion, we all feasted well. There was much to see… salmon and grayling in the glacial milk river, moose pellets all along the banks, bald eagles descending from large nests in the trees to swoop down upon the river and rise again with a clenched fish, so our lunch stay was not short. Munching darn near the whole time, we again shoved off, satiated to say the least, with my partner in the front and me behind, carefull not to let my oar drip on his back as I changed sides paddling.
My partner that day was Bill. Some of you may remember him by his necklace as mentioned in another thread, consisting of several bear claws, assorted Indian artifacts, a coon penis and his dessicated finger, blown off by primer cord in a work injury. If that’s not enough to make him memorable, his large, red handlebar moustache renders him the spittin’ image of yosemite Sam and Bill’s just as contrary. He’s of all things a High School teacher. So goes modest irony.
When Bill and I finally dumped into Skilak Lake, a coincidental term that would later come to a head in our ugly rear, I was a bit shocked to see how large it was and how far we had to go to again reach dry land. Our guide, in the lead boat, suggested we strike out quick lest high winds or fog catch us out in the middle. That was a good idea until we reached the exact geographic middle of our trip and my big lunch started hammering at my posterior, demanding a hasty exit right as fog did indeed begin to surround us. With feigned sorrow and genuine mirth I informed passenger Bill of my coprotory plight.
Now, I’m not sure how many of you have spent much time in a canoe, but it’s not the most inherently stable platform in the world… and it darn sure ain’t poo friendly. Unlike a regular boat with a blunt rear, the canoe by it’s very definition sends a long point out front and back alike that ain’t amenable to your buttock. In fact, it’s probably a perineum’s greatest enemy on a boat, save were you to try and take a dump on a propeller. Were I to try and hang a piehole out past it, I’d risk either testicular deformation or a backflip into the glacial meltwater. Helluva choice, that.
Also, I considered extending my orifice off the side of the vessel at it’s widest point in the middle. However, to counterbalance that position, Bill would have to sit exactly opposite me hanging his backside overboard in equal fashion, not to mention staring me, another guy, right in the face as I released my appreciable cluster of lake trout. Such a prospect apparently did not sit well with Bill.
I of course considered just moving back in my seat in the rear of the boat a bit but we’d so little paper for the clean up process on hand that there was nothing available to shat upon. Last thing I wanted with a half a lake still to cross was to just take a big ol’ dump right into the bowels of the canoe and then have to ferry it along, trying to outrace the non-perfumey aroma the rest of the way.
Finally, I came up with a plan. As Bill kept us oriented so he was upwind (his idea), I dropped trou and gently, deftly, held the paddle portion of my oar directly underneath my cake factory and proceded to evacuate to my heart’s content. I’d never had cause to catch my stuff upon exit before and was surprised at the push at the end of the oar I had to exert and the pull at it’s lever just to keep the oar level. It was a strange posion indeed and I languished in it’s newness. As I finished and carefully extricated the wooden paddle from beneath my legs, I was sure I likely resembled someone removing the hand-tossed hamburger pie of hell from an oven in Dante’s Pizzaria. Fortunately the fog persisted, lest another crew member paddle right up to us and see me crapping onto an oar between my legs in a rocking canoe while a guy with a coon penis around his neck intently judged the direction of the breeze.
To Bill’s relief, I finally replaced the oar in the quiet lake and we both watched my pooberg drift off, hopefully in search of some co-worker’s Titanic. We restarted our quest for the far bank, Bill still in front and me behind. In fact, the only thing different about the second half of our journey, besides our disturbing lack of conversation, was that he was now super sensitive to the prospect of water from my oar dripping on his back as I changed sides paddling. That Bill, I’ll tell ya’, he didn’t miss a trick.
