Rivered Again -- The Longest Day 2011

The river can be cruel. I lost a poker tournament earlier this year on the river. Final table. Head to head.  Way ahead after the flop. Even better after the turn.  My opponent reached out to shake hands as his fate seemed sealed.

Then came the river card and crushing defeat. But the king of diamonds couldn't compare with the cruelty of the Esopus River on Saturday.

I felt so prepared with my pack stored in a dry bag lashed to the raft. Safe and secure--or so it seemed.  But one mental mistake and the pack was plunged into the swollen river. In a blink the class III rapids swept it out of reach.

I raced along the rocky shoreline, desperate to catch the runaway bag. But it was useless. I stared in disbelief. Helplessly watching as the bright orange bag bobbed through the rapids. Then in an instant it was gone. My gear. My race. My racing budget. All gone. Done in on the river.

Pre-race route planning

A Promising Start

5:00 am Check-in

Before the river everything was going well for our first race together. Our paces were fairly similar. Each of us could navigate, and we meshed well. We did fine as a group during the orienteering prologue at Belleayre Ski Center. Todd and I grabbed five controls together while Kirk went solo to find the other four. After the prologue, we mounted up and rode downhill to pick up several optional checkpoints on the bikes. After a minor glitch (mistaking a service trail for a ski trail) we re-oriented and grabbed three optional checkpoints before heading for the long ride to the top of the mountain. And when I say ride, I mean push. We weren't alone. By the time we reached the top, we ran into half of the field—some of them coming back down the mountain, which seemed like an unfortunate navigational error.

 

When we finally reached the top of Mt Belleayre, we rode the ridge until we found the first mandatory checkpoint at the top of the ski lift. One down, twelve to go. By now, about half the field congregated on the ridge. Some confused, some not. Todd confidently directed us to the second mandatory checkpoint before the descent. Some sweet downhill single track. After all the work it took to climb that bitty, it would be nice to bomb the descent. Unfortunately, the line of teams kept the pace down. At the bottom, we grabbed CP3 and soon enough we pulled into the first transition area. Just over 2-1/2 hours on the bikes. Amy (co-race director) and Denise (grand poobah of all things NYARA) greeted us and six or seven other teams at the TA. Everything was good. Clear skies. Seventy degrees. Smiles all around. You hope it lasts, but know it won't.

I throw on pants, we grab our trekking poles (aka Nettles Killers) and head up the road to climb Big Indian.  We follow a trail as long as we can, staying out of the abundant nettles and rocks. A few hundred feet from the peak we realize it's time to abandon the winding trail and head straight up through the rocks. When the terrain finally flattens out we start searching for CP5. Within a few minutes we're punching in. As we hear teams approach, we realize we've beaten several teams up the mountain. Unfortunately, we haven't learned the art of the stealth find and we wind up making it easier on the other teams.

We head downhill through thick underbrush looking for a trail to optional point A2. As we stumble out onto the trail and head eastward, a few teams pass us coming back from A2. Twenty-five minutes later we realize we've overshot the saddle we're looking for, so we head back. Within a few minutes we've located the saddle. Getting antsy about the time we'd spent missing and then finding the saddle, we abandone the search too soon. An hour of wasted time and energy.

Looking at the climbs required for the remaining optional points we agree to bail on them.  So we head down the mountain and out onto the road for the final jog to the start of the paddle. Total time on the trek: just over 4 hours.

Harder than it looks

Rodney (co-race director) directs traffic as a few teams come into the transition area. We're low on water, so we take some time to filter river water. We cram down some food and secure the gear to our 12-foot raft before pushing off.

I've never paddled on class III rapids, but I was sure it would be wet. I didn't feel like carrying around a soaking pack after the paddle so I packed a dry bag big enough to hold my pack and all my gear. Todd pulled up the integrated fly on his pack to try to keep spray of his pack (wishful thinking) and Kirk hoped for the best (even more wishful).

Today was a dam release, so the Esopus was running high and fast. We quickly learned that whitewater paddling isn't our forte, but one thing was for sure—class III rapids beat flat water paddling any day. The river didn't seem rough enough to feel dangerous, but that may have been deceiving. And it should have been obvious, but sitting up front was not the driest choice of seating. Rookie mistake.

Kirk had some experience on whitewater, so he took the lead, trying to navigate us through the trouble spots while keeping us in the fast lane. I was surprised how much water filled the boat—most of it by crashing into my face before settling in the boat. When several inches accumulated Todd decided to start bailing. As he bailed, Todd lost his grip and the bailer went overboard.  Despite our best efforts, the bailer stayed just out of reach until it finally disappeared. It didn't seem important at the time.

Riding low from the water made the raft handle like a pig—not that it was nimble to begin with. As we approached a bridge, we had to go right or left around a column. The left side seemed really rough, so we picked the right side. Unfortunately, the right side became a shallow pool among large river rocks and the boat quickly bottomed out. The only way back to the river flow was a two foot drop over a cascade of large rocks. With all the water weighing down our boat there was no way we were getting over the cascade. Our only choice was to flip the boat to dump the water.

Gone In A Blink

We pulled the paddles out and checked to make sure the gear was lashed. It took all we could muster to get the boat up, and each time we got close, the bottom edge would slip out. Finally, we wedged the boat against one of the large rocks at the cascade to keep the bottom from slipping out.  With one last heave, the boat was up on edge. The water rushed out as we held the boat on edge. And then it happened.  The cord holding my bag released

The big orange bag tumbled over the rocky cascade and was immediately swept away by the fast moving current   I gave chase but there was no hope of keeping up with the current. This part of the river was so fast they were having a whitewater kayaking competition.

I watched as my bag floated right next to one of the kayakers on the course.  I yelled for him to grab the bag. But he was focused on navigating through the slalom gates.

As I stood there in a panic, a woman with a radio said she'd call down to the finish and they would have someone grab the bag. Still in disbelief, I rushed back to the raft. We finished draining the water from the raft and somehow got the raft over the dicey cascade back into the flow.

We flew down the river in the raging rapids trying to follow the general flow of the slalom course, figuring that would be the safest path through the torrent. I took a few of the slalom poles in the head as we rushed through.  Glad I had my helmet on--they're harder than you'd think. As we approached the finish area I could see about 15-20 kayakers hanging out in the river. We yelled over to the official with a radio asking about the pack. He yelled back “It was too heavy. They couldn't lift it onto the kayak.”

What did that mean?

There was no way we could paddle against the current to get over to the official. What now? As the river continued to drive us along we reached the group of kayakers. No one saw the orange bag. Really?!?

No one knew anything.

Did I mention there were about 15-20 of them and the dry bag was bright orange? What the heck was going on?

A few hundred yards downstream the river slowed down. We saw a group of people tubing down the river. They saw nothing. A group of fisherman. They saw nothing. A drunk guy on the shoreline—yeah he wasn't helpful either.

I could sense myself going through the 12 stages of loss. I was in denial, unable to believe that a big orange bag could float by so many people without being noticed. Where could it be? What would I do? How could I be so stupid to let this happen? What could I do to try to find it?  My mind was spinning.

Paddle and think. Paddle and think. That's all I could do.

I tried to focus on a solution but nothing was coming. Our gear bins at the end of the paddle had enough food and clothing to get me through the race, but I wouldn't have some of the mandatory gear. Who was I kidding? I wasn't racing 20 more hours without a pack.

With every failed attempt at a solution I kept coming back to one thing: kayakers are useless. Seriously, how do twenty people in kayaks stretching the entire width of the river let a bag of gear float by and doing nothing about it?   I hate kayakers.

Normally I let things go, but I couldn't stand the stress and the wait. The paddle took about another hour and a half. With every stroke I just wanted it to be done. My race was over. I let my teammates down. The only thing left is the dreaded DNF/DQ/Unofficial Finish or whatever they wanted to call it. Mercifully we finally reached the take out a little after 5:00.

Two Rays of Sunshine

I headed over to talk to Amy to figure out what to do. Her sympathy was encouraging. I wouldn't ask for pity, but it was nice to get some. She said she'd try a few things to track down my gear, and Rodney would check when he swept the course after the last team on the river. I wasn't optimistic, but I appreciated the effort.

Amy and Denise doing the heavy lifting

I wandered over to our gear box to grab something to eat. Amy was right behind. “Do you want to borrow my pack?” She asked.

“But I'm missing some of the mandatory gear—hat, space blanket, headlamp.”.

“No worries. I've got it.” And what she didn't have, Denise rustled up from some of the other racers.

Todd had put an extra water bladder in our gear bin, so between Amy, Denise, my teammates and my kindhearted competitors I was re-equipped in the field.  I'm stunned.

I scrambled to pull things together and get things adjusted. Amy is awesome, but she's also a foot shorter than me. I finally get things packed up and after an hour in the transition area, we hit the road.

I was re-energized as we flew down the road on a long ride to Overlook Mountain. A few annoying climbs, but mostly rolling terrain.  We moved well, but I started to degrade after about an hour.  I assumed it was just the cumulative stress of the last few hours, but my back was screaming in pain, and by the time we reached the base of Overlook Mountain I seriously felt like I was going to throw up.  I thought I needed some calories, but Kirk was sure it was dehydration. Thinking back I realized that in the rush of getting re-geared I didn’t think about eating or drinking, and Kirk pointed out that I didn’t having anything for two hours on the river either. So that’s four hours of racing without much food or water. Not good.   I chugged some Gatorade and the guys gave me a moment to sit before we headed up.

Riding up the mountain was not an option at the moment. It was a long slow push up the trail. Daylight was fading.  It would be good to get to the top before dark, but that wasn't in the cards.  I tried to keep drinking during the climb. Not easy to recuperate on a tough climb, but I could feel myself feeling better little by little—“better” being a relative term.

What the Overlook Mountain House looks like in the daytime

At the top, we came across the abandoned Overlook Mountain House. The concrete shell stood eerily against the evening sky.  Long since abandoned, the massive concrete skeleton was a stark contrast to the encroaching forest. What a great spot to investigate if we weren’t in the middle of a race. Who spent all the money to get that much concrete up here?

Overlook Mountain House
in better years

For a building abandoned over 70 years ago, it’s amazing how much structure still stands. Twice burned down and rebuilt in the 1800s and early 1900s, the elite vacationed in luxury atop this mountain. Even President Ulysses Grant visited the once posh location (I’m guessing his ride up the mountain was less strenuous than ours). After falling into disrepair, in 1921 the remote site hosted a secret meeting for what would become the Communist Labor Party. After the anti-communist United Mine Workers published an article about the hotel hosting the secret meetings, the hotel was mysteriously burned down. The site never hosted paying guests again.

Pressing on we came to a group of small buildings and sheds. Checkpoint 9 is nearby.  I reach in and pull out my flashlight that I picked up from the gear bin. Naturally it doesn't work. I pull out the headlamp from Amy, but I can't figure out how to turn it on in the dark. Trying those out in the light definitely would have been smart.   Kirk finally locates CP9 in the woods and I follow his headlamp to punch in.

Todd and Kirk pull out the maps and try to figure out our route to CP10. I sit on the grass and try to eat and drink. I still feel like crud. I'm a liability to the team right now and I have to change that.

We head down the mountain—yes mercifully, there's no way to go but down. I'm finally starting to recover and riding single track downhill at night is definitely a good way to get going. Partway down the mountain my map board “collapsed”. It was flopping around a bit until I flipped it down toward me. Didn't matter. I still was in no shape to navigate. A few minutes later Todd asked me for the clue for checkpoint D1. At this point my only job was to read the clue sheet that was mounted on my map board. With it was the other map that we’d need later tonight.   I looked down at my empty and impotent map board. You've got to be kidding me?! It’s empty.  It must have fallen off when the board came loose and flipped.  Great!  Now I’ve lost the map case with the clue sheet and half the maps. Could anything else go wrong?

I was ready for the race to be over. After 14 hours of racing we weren't even halfway through. I've never run into so many problems. I'm slowing my team down, and now I lose the freakin' maps.  I was at the end of my rope.

Then two things happened.   I rode back just a few minutes and thankfully there sat the map case in the middle of the trail. What a huge relief! A quick trip back to meet the team and I find Todd and Kirk laughing at the sheer insanity of the whole thing. I needed them to be laughing rather than steaming.

After a few miles, the trail becomes a hike-a-bike slog. Not push-a-bike; it’s carry-a-bike. Lift the bike up onto a boulder, then pull yourself up. Every time the trail seems to open up, Kirk hops on and tries to ride. Thirty yards later he's back off. I quickly tire of the on/off on/off, so I just keep pushing/carrying until the trail finally opens up. Within a few minutes we're near CP10 with several other teams. Kirk heads upstream and CP10 is in the bag.

As we head back, it's decision time. Originally, we planned to take a short route to the transition at CP11, but it looks like a rough trail. Lots of up and down, with some serious climbs. The alternate is a lot longer, but a lot less climbing and mostly on roads. Easy call. Take the roads.

Overnight Download

As we hammer down the road toward CP11 in the middle of the night, we own the road, along with three or four other teams. The last few miles are a bit of a climb, but it's the end of the leg that we dread. A short, but steep hike, push or whatever up a trail. We see the silhouette of a peak off to the right and dread the impending climb. When what to our wondering eyes should appear but the two race support trucks and our intrepid race directors parked right off the road in a small parking lot. Turns out it was the best navigational mistake possible.  Reading a non-existent climb into the leg.

It was hard to leave in the middle of the night

We pull in and I peel my frozen fingers from the bike. Rodney confirms that they had no luck retrieving my gear. Not really a surprise. But it still sucks. He asks if I need a pack that fits. My back's killing me, but I turn down the offer. Fortunately, Rodney doesn't relent. When he mentions he has one of his packs handy, I drop the pretense that everything is cool, and accept the offer. Rodney grabs his pack and helps get things situated. It takes a while to get situated and by then I'm freezing in the sub-50 degree night air.  After taking a minute to warm by the fire, we’re off and headed straight up the hill.  That'll warm me up.


Total time on the second bike leg: 7 hours.

What's fat, white and slow

Kirk takes the lead navigating to give Todd a break. After a 45 minute climb we head into the thick woods looking for optional checkpoint F1. Pine needles stick to the back of my neck as we bushwhack through hemlock stands. Todd and I are sure we’re in the wrong spot. But Kirk has the map and he's determined. After Todd and I are convinced we're too far off the trail, Kirk finds the CP in even farther. Our first optional point since the morning—yesterday morning.

The trail continues to climb and I'm on point. Up ahead I see something moving on the trail. A big fat white puffball walking on the trail. Naturally every time I see it, the critter scurries off before Todd and Kirk catch a glimpse. I can't figure out what the stupid thing is, but it won't get off the trail. They're convinced I’m seeing things in the middle of the night until Kirk finally spots it.

“Are you a #$!?@ Idiot? It's a skunk!”

The fattest skunk we've ever seen, and by the way it hobbles, apparently it has a hip problem. Now that I think about it, I guess I’ve never seen a skunk from directly behind. I assumed I’d see black and white.

“Anybody else wanna lead?”. Naturally, I don't get any takers. I guess taking point behind a skunk is the least I can do after everything I’ve put them through.  But the way things are going today, this could be very bad.

We try to figure out what to do because the dumb animal won’t get off the trail. Each time we get close it scurries down the trail a bit. We quickly vote down the suggestion to throw something to scare it off the trail. Nothing good could come from that. After following the hobbled rodent for about a mile, it turns off the path and down into the woods. About time. We’re finally free to move faster than a handicapped skunk.

Sunrise at T2

As the sun comes up, the top of the mountain goes from comfortably cool to downright cold. Really strange how cold it got. We head down a steep trail to T2 and pick up the optional checkpoint on top of a boulder.

The view from T2

Finally, we're headed to Hunter Mountain to check-in at CP12 before the 8:00 cut-off. About a mile away we come to a tough decision. We have two hours till the cut-off and we have two choices: (a) make a steep out and back trek to grab two optional points at Q2 or (b) skip the points and keep going toward Hunter. Kirk and I feel good and it seems like we have time to spare, but Todd is unsure. His knees are starting to complain about the descents, and he's not in favor of taking the chance. After looking over things again, Todd relents to our optimism. All the way down we could tell Todd was taking one for the team on this sidetrack. 

We set a hard turn back of 6:45 because the trail was steep and we definitely didn't want to miss the cut-off by spending too much time chasing an optional CP. By the time we reached the bottom we realized we should move the cut-off up to about 6:30 because the descent was a bit steeper and longer than we anticipated. At 6:25 Kirk and Todd were ready to bail, but I wanted to look just a little further. At 6:28 I finally found the CP hiding amongst the thick underbrush. Such a good feeling early in the morning.

I thought we were the only team in the area, but it turns out that again we led a few teams to the CP. Definitely need to get a better system for stealth finds.

I started to worry about our time as we trekked back up the trail. I estimated that the climb would take at least twice as long to go up as it took to go down. After twenty minutes of plodding back up the steep hill, I wondered if we had done the right thing. Then we turned the corner and my jaw nearly hit the trail. We’d already made it back to the top. Twenty minutes to get down and somehow we made it back up in twenty five minutes. I still can't believe it.

A stage for one on the way to R1

We head down the hill and finally make a stealthy find at R1 as another team comes up just behind us. A quick jaunt over to S1 where we find the flag on top of a 15' boulder.  A fun little climb and we've got our last points for the trek. With plenty of time cushion, we head down to CP 12

As we get close, we can hear what sounds like a zip line. That would be awesome. Turns out we had no idea.

Bigger, Badder and Better

Punching in at 7:30, eight or nine teams were in line ahead of us. But time stopped when we punched into CP12 and didn't start until when we punched out after the zip course. So it's time to relax.

Rodney and company brought pizza, chips and soda to the top of the mountain. What an awesome break as we waited our turn. We chatted with a few teams before finding a patch of grass to relax.

I leaned up against a tree and basked in the warm morning sun shining on my face. I forgot about everything I'd been through over the last 24 hours and just enjoyed the moment.  Just me, my pizza and a beautiful mountaintop.

We looked over the valley below, listening to the distinct sound of the zip line as each team headed down the mountain. Our turn would come soon enough. No need to rush. We relaxed and enjoyed the bubble of our race hiatus—every race should have a black-out section.

When we saw that a few teams who came in behind us were already geared up for the ride, we realized we must have missed our cue. We headed up to the lodge, got geared up and made our way to the launch deck.

The precipice is impressive. The first zip line is so long I can't see the end. Thirty-two hundred feet long—over half a mile. Hanging more than 600' over the valley below. Todd and Kirk go first. As they run off the deck I watch as they hurtle into oblivion. It seems like forever before the zipping noise coming up the cable finally stops. Now it's my turn.

My palms are sweating as I stare out over the valley. Every natural instinct compels me to stay on the deck. But as they count me down, I focus on the great expanse in front of me.

“3 . .2 . .1 . . Go” 

Click to watch video

I run off the deck and into midair.  Within seconds I'm flying over the valley at 45 m.p.h.  Absolutely awesome.  Words don't do it justice.

At the end I get the signal to open up like a parachute to slow down. In an instant, I'm stopped and on the deck. Kirk meets me and we cross a 500' bridge and ride the last four zip lines together. All totaled over 4-1/2 miles of cruising through the canopy at breakneck speed. Without question, its the best ropes course ever.

After the last zipline, we punch the bottom checkpoint and head up the long steep trek to the top of the mountain. It goes without saying that the trip down was way more fun.

Halfway up the mountain Team SOG comes chugging down. Apparently they forgot to punch-in at the bottom of the last checkpoint. They already climbed back to the top before realizing their mistake. Most teams would be annoyed—actually, most teams probably would forget about it. But SOG seemed completely unfazed.

One Last Battle

When we reach the top, I'm feeling fine except for some chafing that's starting. We only have a few miles to hike, then a twenty mile ride back to Mt. Belleayre. And there's no time cut-off left. 

Todd powers ahead

As we head uphill the chafing gets worse. Unfortunately, we don't really have anything to help. I trudge onward, but I'm slowing things down again. They always say to race in the same gear you train in. Unfortunately, that gear is lost somewhere in the Esopus Creek. Now I'm paying the price again as the chafing seriously deteriorates.

As bad as it is to walk, the stress of thinking about a 20 mile ride is the worst part. I'm praying for relief, but the pain intensifies. I decide that it's too hot and the sweating is not helping, so I take off my pants. I'm now trudging through the woods in white compression shorts—yeah pretty much wandering in my underwear. 
It'll be funny one day, but not today.

Total time on the trek and zip course: 9 hours

By the time we make it to the final transition area, my dread is through the roof. The chafing is bleeding.  There's no chance I can sit on a bike seat and there's no way I can walk my bike for 20 miles.

Todd calmly gives me the scoop on what to expect. The first third is mostly downhill. The second third has a big climb, but otherwise is mostly downhill. The last part . . well, there's no way to sugar coat it. The final third is all uphill including a humpbuster climb at the end. I can't imagine how this is going to go, but there is no way I'm quitting after all that we've been through. I don't care what it takes, I'm finishing.

The first few miles click away as I stand over the saddle on the merciful downhill ride. We turn and suddenly I see the first climb Todd mentioned. No way I can make it to the top without sitting, and no way I'm sitting. Kirk rides ahead while Todd plods up the hill with me. Surprisingly, the climb is over before I know it. Soon enough we're ten miles into the ride—halfway home. The pain is excruciating, but hopefully ten miles won't be much more than an hour. As we turn onto Route 42  I'm trying to keep up, but the bumps and rough patches are unbearable. I wouldn't normally even recognize the road imperfections, but each jolt feels like a razor.

Hell on wheels

Miracle Road

We turn onto Route 28 and I experienced a miracle from heaven. A blessedly smooth ribbon of asphalt stretching the entire length from Rt 42 to Belleayre Mountain. Even the seams at the bridges were miraculously smooth. The beautiful road surface allowed me to slowly and gently settle onto my saddle for the first time. Not comfortable, but comfortable enough.

Never has a road surface given me such an emotionally lift. The end felt near. With 8 miles left I could finally drop the hammer. I didn't know whether Todd and Kirk were right behind me or not. I was in a world of my own as I cranked down the impossibly smooth road toward the finish.

As the miles clicked by I started to feel the possibility of finishing by 1:15. The official 30 hour mark. No real reason since the only cut-off was back at Hunter. It was purely psychological. The goal felt doable until we turned the corner and faced the climb Todd had forewarned.

I won't lie. It was worse than I imagined. A beastly steep, absurdly long climb. I wanted so badly to be done. As the climb slowed my pace  I could hear Todd and Kirk come up from behind. “Way to hammer out the last 7 miles!” Todd encouraged. “Only a mile to go. You've got this. Let's finish.” His words were perfectly timed as the final hill started to feel like the final straw.

“How do you eat an elephant?"

"One bite at the time.”  I kept repeating in my head.

Little by little the hill grew smaller. Before I knew it the crest was in sight. A short ride up the access road and there was the ski lodge. A humble lodge, but a beautiful sight right now. 

Punching the final checkpoint was such a relief.  As we wandered around to find an open table, we got plenty of encouragement from teams who heard what we'd been through. I thanked the teams that had offered up spare gear, and then it was time to eat. It's amazing what your body wants after 30 hours of racing.

Out on the deck we piled our plates with everything. The barbecue queen asked if there was anything I needed.

”Can I get some ice? I don't want to be high maintenance, but some ice would be great.”

Kirk quips “I've just raced 30 hours with him . . . he might not want to be high maintenance, but he is.” Brutal, but funny, and regrettably true this weekend.

While we gorged on barbecue, they announced the final results. Not surprisingly, Team SOG was the overall winners by a huge margin—they cleared 90% of the optional points. We were pleased to grab second place in our division. Eleventh place overall. Considering the fact that 5 or 6 teams were elite machines, we didn't expect to place in the top few. And with everything we faced, I felt great about how we'd done overall.

As we wrapped up, our team seemed encouraged by how the race went. I know I'd race with these guys any time.

Epilogue

After finally getting myself together for the long ride home, I stopped by to thank Denise, Rodney and Amy one last time for all their help. Really gracious hosts. It would have been easy to simply write me off as a DNF when I lost my gear.

Amy offered her sympathy and suggested that I stop by Town Tinker's Tubing in Phoenicia on the way out. Apparently when people find gear on the river they often return it to Tinker's assuming it was lost by a tuber. It's a long shot, but I may as well check.

On my way out I turn into the small town a few miles down the road. The guys at Town Tinker's were nice enough, but as expected, they had nothing. Oh well, I had to check.

A Final Miracle

Mistakenly, I turn right heading out of Tinkers instead of backtracking the way I came into town. I cross the river and the GPS tells me to turn right again to get back on the road home.

Hello . . .What's this?

A bunch of kayakers congregating in a parking area next to the river. Not just any kayakers. THOSE kayakers.

I couldn't hit the brakes fast enough.

Turns out the kayak competition was a two day event. Call it dumb luck. Call it divine providence. Call it whatever you want. I just stumbled across the kayakers awards ceremony and all the kayakers were there.

I waited through the endless array of awards. No lie, there had to be 45 awards for 25 kayakers. I could sense the tension as the kayaking community wondered silently why a non-kayaker crashed their ceremony and hung out in the back.

When the awards finally ended I made my way up to the race director and asked if she knew anything about my gear that shot the rapids alongside the competitors. She remembered hearing something and put me in touch with one of the kayakers. A seed of hope grew as the kayaker recounted the fate of my runaway gear.

Hurtling through the rapids, my bag got caught on a strainer. Pinned against the strainer the bag tore and water flooded in. Laden with water, she couldn't drag it on board, so she pulled the bag to the river's edge. Apparently that wasn't communicated well to the guy we talked to us as we rushed by on Saturday. In retrospect, we should have figured out how to pull over to the edge of the river and get the whole story. 

Not knowing what to do with the gear, they decided to leave it by the roadside, assuming the owner would return. Great I thought. Someone returned, but not the owner. I started to hate kayakers all over again.  But the woman continued on. One of the kayakers called the police to turn over the gear. Awesome. Things are finally looking up.

“Which police?”

“Ummm . . . might have been the sheriff.”

“OK. Which sheriff?”

“Actually, I'm not sure if it was a policeman or a sheriff. But it was definitely someone official. You might want to start in Phoenicia.”

So I headed off to the little town of Phoenicia with a glimmer of hope.   I pulled into a country store and a woman at the counter was helping a local mountain man buy his lottery tickets. After she finished, I asked about the local police.

“Shandaken's the closest police. They're up on Rt. 28 about 5 miles back.”

Then mountain man chimes in “They're on Rt. 42. Turn right and they're right there.”

As I headed back up Rt. 28 I wonder who I should listen to. The clerk seemed more sane, but Mountain Man had more details. As I approach Rt. 42 I see the Shandaken fire house on the right. They must know where the Shandaken Police station is, so I pull in for directions.

“It's right up 42. About a half mile on your right.”  Hmm . . . Mountain Man was right.

“But there might not be anyone there. If you don't see anyone, try going in. If it's locked, dial 911.”

OK so my choices are breaking into a police building or calling 911 and telling them that my emergency is that I lost a bag of gear and I think they might have it?

Fortunately, when I pull up to the police department one of the garage doors is open. I walk through the door and there it sits—my long lost equipment.

Still filled with several inches of water, and somehow missing one of my trekking poles, but everything else was in the bag. I spent about 45 minutes wringing out and laying out the soaked gear. Fortunately, most of the gear was in Ziplock bags, but it was still a mess.

Gear in tow, I finally headed for the long trip home. By the time I pull into my driveway it is nearly 2:00. After getting things put away, it's 3:30 in the morning. The Longest Day has become the Longest Weekend.