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To make a long story shorter, the American was a Mennonite missionary in need of someone who could speak English. He was lost and needed to call friends in Costa Rica. After I helped him use the phone, he struck up a conversation in which he revealed that the world was run by a shadow government including Warren Christopher and one of the Rockefellers, and that Bill Clinton was somehow involved in suspending the US constitution. There was more, and my desire to visit with my family outweighed my desire to talk with a nut, so I excused myself.
On the River Again
After a fabulous supper of crayfish, we went to bed early to make the 6 AM boat. Coffee at 5 AM put to end a night of mosquito induced tossing and turning. Our Mennonite friend had missed the 5 AM boat and so there he was. Our trip would have been nice, except for his attempts at conversation. Lucky for me, the engine this time a Detroit diesel was too loud. Our attempts at conversation went something like this:
Me: Look at the pretty birds.
Him: You look like you could grow a beard if you wanted to. You know why we Mennonites don’t shave?
Me: Uh, no, why?
Him: We don’t want to change the appearance God gave us.
Me: Well, why do you trim your beard and cut your hair?
Him: Look at those pretty birds.
The Flight Out From San Carlos
We arrived in San Carlos about 9:30 AM . I asked a soldier about helping the Mennonite get aboard the correct boat to Costa Rica. The soldier asked, Where is he coming from? If I had my wits about me, I would have said the Mennonite had told me about living in the north, did not speak Spanish, and was asking strange questions about the customs here and talking about governments and that I though he might be with the CIA. I didn’t, so after waving goodbye to the Mennonite, we started walking to the airport, hoping to catch the morning flight, rather than waiting for our scheduled afternoon flight. We caught a passing cab which drove us to the terminal, no more than a shelter you would see at a bus stop.
A soldier directed me to the blue-jean clad female airstrip employee who informed us that there was space for three in the plane, a single engine Cessna Caravan. We climbed aboard and after the pilots asked a few people to move closer to the front, we were rolling. Bumping our way down the grass and gravel strip, we then bounced into the air, off to Managua. What had taken 8 hours by bus was a scenic 40 minutes by air. The pilot read the paper, the copilot kept a lookout for other planes and the autopilot flew the plane while we watched Managua pass by below us.
That was our trip. It really was one of the best travel adventures we’ve had.
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Irrational River Recipes
By Bob deRosset
A few years ago, Bob and Leslie, some attractive young ladies from a Columbia TV station, Shirley and I took a float on Cedar Creek, through the Congaree Swamp National Monument.
Able and Horan’s excellent Paddling South Carolina guide book points out that the swamp, all 15,135 acres of it inside the preserve can be a paddler’s adventure and a naturalist’s delight. By the mid 1980s, 87 species of trees of record size, including a Bald cypress about 28 feet in circumference, 130 species of birds, 24 kinds of reptiles, 52 varieties of fish and 41 types of mammals had been identified. Reportedly, otters, turkey, bobcat, deer, raccoon and possum are common as well as feral hogs and a band of black bears occasionally visiting from the Wateree River floodplain. Also among the trees is a loblolly pine, 140 feet in height and 15 feet around, and the last significant tract of old-growth bottomland hardwoods in the Southeastern United States. Among the mammals, the last wild hog taken by hunters in the swamp weighed in at 500 pounds. Since firearms or hunting have not been allowed since the monument was established in 1976, those feral hogs have had an opportunity to grow some over the last 25 years.
When we went to the put-in, the bank fishermen we saw had airguns or machetes beside them while they fished. We talked to the fishermen and among other things, were told the weapons were for snakes. (Incidentally, it was about this time that an anti-gun nut in Columbia discovered an obscure South Carolina statute allowing fishermen to go around in the pursuit of fish. Carrying his pole, wearing his straw hat and overalls, and with his arsenal hanging from shoulder, chest and belt, this guy stalked Gervais and Bull Streets in downtown Columbia, defying the police to arrest him. I’ve never found out what his point was, but he certainly attracted attention from bemused and bewildered public, not to mention the honorables going about their business in the State Capitol.)
The swamp and Cedar Creek were incredibly low when we floated and downed trees, formerly waterlogged, blocked what was left of the channel, forcing us to drag over some and squeeze under others. World class screams from the attractive TV ladies signaled representatives of the 24 kinds of reptiles dropping from the logs into the canoes.
Of the snakes writhing in the bottom of the boats, moccasins and copperheads were especially well represented. Progress was slow and we pulled out at an old hunting lodge and walked back to the put-in. My main worry wasn’t the snakes but the obvious rootings of wild hogs in the mud of the drying streambed. There were a lot of wild pigs in there, and frankly, I didn’t want to tangle with, or even be close to a wild pig. First of all, they are out of my weight class and secondly, they are both meaner and smarter than I am.
Actually, this is a great paddle, either as a day trip or overnight to the Congaree. Bob went back a year or so later with a friend, found the water high, the route well marked and unobstructed; they had a great time.
They saw no pigs.
(A very rational recipe is on the back page of this issue.)
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