This past weekend I embarked upon a canoeing expedition along the Ipswich river, enticed to that arcadian waterway by the melodious splish-splash of twirling paddles on dappled waters; the picturesque posturing of the balletic heron and the basking turtle; the salty promise of adventure on the high seas and a life on the ocean wave; "all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by." Oh yes, it's a pirate's life for me.
The river is almost three feet deep in some places.
As soon as we arrived at the water's edge I felled a tree with my power saw and began hollowing the trunk out. I was halfway through carving the sort of canoe that the Last of the Mohicans would've sold his last tomahawk for when someone told me that most day-trippers just rented ready-made fiberglass canoes by the hour from a trading post nearby. I was also informed that it was easier to simply bring a packed lunch rather than shoot one with my rifle. Apparently it is illegal to chop down trees and slaughter the local wildlife for some reason.
Frankly I thought that honing one's survival skills was what canoeing in the countryside was all about. What's the world coming to when you can't paddle down a lazy river in a recently timbered tree while skinning fresh kill? Since a load of bucolic busybodies seemed determined to spoil my fun, I decided it would be better for all concerned if I simply packed up all my weapons and tools and went back home. So that's what I did.
Next week: Extreme Ant Farming.
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