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Round the Bend in 16 Days: There and Not-Quite Back Again

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Offline Homer Wilson

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Re: Round the Bend in 16 Days: There and Not-Quite Back Again
« Reply #30 on: December 14, 2017, 12:10:08 PM »
This is awesome; already a great trip and you aren't even to the Santa Elena!

We were a couple of days behind you (doing "recon" on that canyon), but we found water at winterrowd spring.  It was already night when we hit it, so I didn't stop to mark the coordinates on my GPS, but it was a couple of shallow, slowly flowing pools to the left of the trail if you're heading away from metates.

Keep it coming!

Homer, that's fascinating. We need to talk to more. I'm working on my next installment right now, but after I'm done, I may PM you for more details. I saw several good tinaja pools inside the deeply eroded and narrow channel in the middle of the broad hard limestone shelf coming down from Rana, but didn't see anything that looked like spring-fed pools. Did you see the circular stone construction that I thought might be a memorial to Jeff Winterrowd?

I didn't unfortunately.  We were using the full supermoon for light, so water was very easy to spot due its reflection, but a rock feature would've just blended in.  Totally missed the actual metates too.  Bummed about that.  Did you take any pictures of those?

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Offline House Made of Dawn

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Re: Round the Bend in 16 Days: There and Not-Quite Back Again
« Reply #31 on: December 14, 2017, 12:14:00 PM »
I did not. My regular camera broke the night before I left Terlingua. I was relying on my very battery-poor iPhone5. I limited myself to 1-3 pictures a day in order to eke out my chances of taking pictures every day. Mainly just documenting my campsites. The metates were very much like those at The Chimneys, deep and perfectly circular, but the setting was powerful. Very easy to imagine paleo-Indians sitting on the limestone shelves above the river, slowly and patiently grinding meal.
"The trick, William Potter, is not minding that it hurts."

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Offline House Made of Dawn

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Re: Round the Bend in 16 Days: There and Not-Quite Back Again
« Reply #32 on: December 14, 2017, 01:47:31 PM »
Camp Tired: November 24, 2017

Following my return from the base of Tinaja Rana, I was back on the river by Noon. Yesterday I had noticed that the river was becoming increasingly turbulent downstream of Matadero Rapid. Whereas the first part of my trip had been almost boring, the river now featured rapids of one kind or another almost every quarter mile.  The thing about a packraft is that, without a keel or skeg, it doesn’t track well. Especially in large, sweeping curves, it moves like an old air-hockey puck: sliding sideways across the current with a wide sweeping arc that is almost impossible to correct. Swift curves bounded by hard overhanging banks are called “wall shots.” Well, the packraft never met a wall shot it didn’t take, and take hard.  Somewhere prior to Entrance Rapid, I found myself approaching an obvious wall shot, but this one wasn’t just rock, it had Allthorn growing out and over it, drooping down almost to the water; behind the Allthorn was a large protruding nose of rock at just about the level of my face. I could see the trajectories in my mind’s eye and they didn’t look good. I was either going to hit the Allthorn hard and possibly tear open the air chamber of my raft (there was only one, which included both sides of the raft), or I was going to hit the overhang hard with my head. Or both. Swept into the curve in an accelerating slide, I dug in hard with my paddle and tried to cut across the current and toward mid-channel just enough to escape the collision, but I couldn’t do it. At the last second, I thrust out my carbon fiber paddle toward the wall, punched through the Allthorn and made contact with rock. Immediately my raft bounced away from the wall. At the same time, my paddle rebounded hard - harder than I expected. The closest paddle blade went straight into my face, exploding my lip with a decidedly unsettling sound, breaking off a tooth behind the lip and jamming it into the inside of my cheek. There was a lot of blood. And the rapid wasn’t over yet. I brought the paddle down, dug in, spun around a last bit of rock into an eddy and caught my breath. The tooth was loose in my mouth. I spit it out with a stream of thick salty blood. I dug in with the paddle again and beached the raft on a thin strip of steep mud on the Mexican side of the river. After my heartbeat and breathing calmed down a bit, I dug out a signal mirror from my belly bag and looked at my face. Ooooooooh, not pretty. The lip was split but already clotting, the cheek was still bleeding profusely from inside, and the tooth was long gone, somewhere in the river, not in the raft (I looked). Fortunately, this was a tooth that had already been broken previously some years ago in a climbing accident. It had undergone a root canal and had a crown placed on top of it. The paddle knocked off the crown and broke off what little real tooth remained. It was a clean break in a tooth with no live nerve. That made a HUGE difference. I don’t even want to think about what I would have experienced had that tooth contained a living nerve. Still, there was the matter of the bleeding cheek. I untethered my backpack, spun it around, opening up the top, dug down deep into the pack and dragged out my food (in a sealed Basecamp odor-barrier bag), rummaged through and pulled out one of my three Irish Breakfast tea bags (special treats I’d brought for cold morning starts or leisurely evening star-watching). I’d learned several years ago that the tannins in tea bags are natural coagulants, so I packed a tea bag tight into my cheek like a serious wad of chewing tobacco, dabbed a bit antibiotic gel and then liquid bandage onto my busted lip, downed an ibuprofen, packed up, and headed on downstream. Just before I put my signaling mirror back into my belly bag, I took a last look at my face.  With a thick beard covered in drying blood, and more dribbling from the corners of my mouth, I looked like Hannibal Lecter on a particularly evil day.


Oddly, I wasn’t particularly unnerved by this incident. It was an entirely self-inflicted wound. I just needed to get better at maneuvering my packraft through the inevitable wall shots. I was pretty sure the trick was all in choosing the right entrance line. I wasn’t on my game yet. Live and learn. Of course, my wife would probably be a lot less sanguine about my new smile. But I’d deal with that when I got back to Dallas. I have a good dentist. He’s made a lot of money off of me, and I’m sure he wouldn’t mind making a little more.


So onward I went, ever closer to the entrance to Santa Elena Canyon, the aforementioned Entrance Rapid that I’d been warned about and, deep inside the canyon, the dreaded Rockslide. Now, bear in mind, I’d run the Rockslide easily several years previous in an inflatable kayak, but this afternoon’s messy wallshot didn’t fill me with confidence that I could maneuver this new packraft through that rocky maze. My mind was messing with me now. Frankly, I have no idea what the river flows were when I went through the Rockslide 15 years ago, so I had no idea whether or not 1000cfs would be good or bad in a packraft. I was making this up as I went. One thing I did know: the Rockslide would come fast and any decisions I made would be split-second ones.


To those of you that regularly boat, my worries may seem overblown, and no doubt they were, but it might be helpful to take my context into account. At the tender age of three, I nearly drowned in a Kansas City lake: walked off a dock when no one was looking, and was only pulled from the water (unconscious) by my parents a few minutes later. CPR and mouth-to-mouth saved me. That made a profound impression on me. Consequently, I learned to swim late in life. As an adult, working in Belize, I took a few days off to visit Caye Caulker and went snorkeling with friends. Apparently, I froze and went limp at some point and the guide found me floating face down, breathing water, I didn't come back to normal consciousness until he had me back in the boat. Prior to that, I'd reverted to a three-year-old floating in a Kansas City lake. Same thing happened a decade later when I was back in Guatemala.  Which is to say, my experience of the water is probably not your experience of the water. I'm afraid of drowning, yet I boat. I'm afraid of falling, yet I climb. I'm afraid of confined spaces, yet I cave. Go figure. I guess the best way to meet those fears is head-on.


These worries were running through my mind when the sound of a quite large rapid drifted upstream and worked its way into my preoccupied mind. I was suddenly alert. I backstroked and listened for a moment. This was loud. Was it Entrance Rapid, that I’d been warned about? Michael from Angell Expeditions had warned me that it was bad this week. He’d run the river every day for the last six days and each time his parties had had trouble here. The traditionally navigable channel, the left one, he told me, was largely blocked with a long gravel bar protruding into the channel and overgrown with incredibly thick and thorny mesquite. There was no way through the mesquite without getting cut up, and only a narrow path between the gravel bar and several huge submerged rocks barely poking up through the very swift deep channel waters. Looking at my map, I could see I hadn’t yet hit San Carlos Rapid, just upstream of Entrance Camp and Entrance Rapid. The notes I’d made didn’t make any particular warnings about San Carlos Rapid. Okey-doke, only one way out of here. Let’s go find out.


The sound of crashing water got ever louder and more violent as I rounded yet another bend in the river, and then, there, suddenly, was the rapid. With two channels bracketing an island in the middle of the river. The right channel obviously too shallow for easy passage, with hundreds of small sharp rocks breaking the surface. The left channel much wider, but virtually the entire channel was blocked by a gravel bar extending from the Texas bank, and the bar was completely overhung with thick, thick, thorny mesquite. And the water was hitting it at what looked like 20mph.

Shit.

I was at the gravel bank before I knew it. I dug in with a complicated assortment of strokes on both sides of the raft for all I was worth. I was busting my arm, torso, and stomach muscles. I think I was screaming obscenities. I hove to, parallel to the bar, and dug in with my paddle at lightning speed, crawling perpendicular to the current, just a few feet from a faceful of mesquite thorns and cleared the bar by inches, leaping into the deep channel in the middle of this branch of the river. And just as I did, the deeper, stronger flow grabbed the bow of my raft and sent it spinning in vertiginous 270 degree arc and suddenly I was running the remaining rapid backwards. The whitecaps were filling my raft and the water was cold. The family jewels were shrinking, along with my confidence. I knew I still faced several very large submerged boulders. I’d seen them just before the current sent me spinning. The thought of hitting one of those at full speed, and backwards, no less, in the deepest channel of the river, was terrifying. I panicked, dug in my paddle, and tried to spin myself around so that my bow was downstream. The paddle caught the fierce current in a bad way, and the current used it as lever. I was tilting, broached, going over, and just then I slammed broadside into one of the large boulders, crashing to a stop that rattled my teeth, and then, implacably, the big muscular current swept up under my raft and tossed it high over the boulder in one angry hurl.  I was upside down for a second, and then plummeting into the swift river with my raft actually above me in the air. I hit the water and went straight down for several feet, never finding bottom. Involuntarily, shocked by the cold water, I inhaled, sucking in a huge draught of river water, and then I panicked even more. Looking up through the green-brown water, I could see the sunlight breaking up in shimmers and undulations as it passed through the current, then the raft coming down over me and blocking out all light.


Incredibly, my hand was still gripping my paddle, and the paddle was leashed to my raft. I realized this, and then realized I was panicking, and that was a sure way to drown. I forced myself to calm down, trusted my PFD and quit struggling. I laid back and let the PFD take me to the surface. I pushed the raft off of my head, and looked around. There was a gravel beach on the Mexican side and I began frog-kicking my way over there. It took a minute or two, but my feet eventually found a solid river bed several dozen yards downstream and I stood up, leaning into the current coming out of the shallower, right (Mexican) branch of the rapid and manhandled my raft up onto the beach. Soaked from head to toe, shivering, I began cursing at the top of my lungs, things too crass and obscene to print here. And then the river water I’d swallowed came up in one long stream, out of my gut and onto the beach. I knelt, closed my eyes, and took a moment to slow down. I was alive. I was okay. Everything’s good. But what about my stuff?


I stood up and headed toward my raft. The first thing I noticed, even before reaching the raft, was a big strawberry contusion on my right knee and a gash in my forearm. I got to the raft and thankfully my pack was still lashed to it. My belly bag was still attached to my waist. I fished out my medical kit and treated the scrapes and gashes with disinfectant, antibiotic gel, and liquid bandage. I surveyed my equipment: everything had worked EXACTLY as intended.  My raft was still intact and inflated. My pack never separated from the bow of my raft. Everything in my pack was stored in drysacks and the drysacks had held. Two of my three Dromedaries had been stuffed inside my backpack before I set out that afternoon (intuition?). The third, which had been in the floor of the raft, was gone, but I could live with that. I’d drink more river water. My spare PFD and firepan were still lashed to the stern of my raft. My VivoBarefeet shoes were still on my feet. My glasses were still on my head, held there by their tight strap. My hat was even still on my head, held by its tight chin strap. I never lost my grip on my paddle and my paddle was leashed to my raft, so I never lost contact with my raft. And even if I had, my belly bag, with all the necessary emergency survival suppies inside in a drysack, stayed around my waist throughout the spill. The only significant loss was three of my maps that I’d printed out on regular paper at the last minute, instead of Rite-in-the-Rain paper. Turns out the old Ziploc they were stored in was NOT waterproof at all. The Rite-in-the-Rain maps were fine, but the three copy-paper maps had turned into ink-blotched tissue paper. I could live with that.


It was a 75-degree afternoon with a little bit of wind. In my sodden state, I was starting to chill. I stripped off clothes and laid them out on the beach stones to dry. As well as a few other things I thought could use some sun. I dug through my food bag and pulled out a caffeinated GU and a couple of kind bars, as well as a water bottle from my belly bag, and then sat down on a large rock in my VivoBarefeet shoes, a pair of fresh Ex-Officio underwear and a fresh REI t-shirt, and slowly ate while replaying in my mind what just happened. What the hell was that? Was that Entrance Rapid, that Michael had warned me about? The description was spot-on. But then, where was San Carlos Rapid? This had to be San Carlos Rapid.


I was “meta-cognating” (as my wife likes to call it) when I spied a large commercial raft working its way swiftly through the rapid.  It was Michael, far ahead of his group of kayakers, scouting the rapid. I must have looked pretty pitiful because he hove to, looked at me, and asked, with obvious concern in his voice, “you okay?” “Yeah, I’m fine,” I replied, “flipped in that rapid, and I’m drying out.” “It’s a tough one,” he said, “everybody’s having trouble with it this week. Listen, we’re going to run the Rockslide, just downriver, in an hour or so after we do some hiking, you’re welcome to run it with us if you want.” “I think I might,” I replied, “my confidence is a little battered.” Presently, his party of kayakers ran the rapids and docked downstream at Entrance Camp, at the limit of my view downstream. I continued to sit quietly in the afternoon sun, warming up. Eventually I changed into my newly-dried river clothes, re-loaded and re-cinched my gear onto my raft, put-in and paddled over to their temporary camp.


Michael’s and Pam’s clients were a family from Houston: a Caucasian father in his 40’s, with a Vietnamese wife and three beautiful, bright, charming Amerasian children. So much like my family, I could hardly believe it. We chatted for a minute, I wished them good luck on their hike up the Mesa from Entrance Camp, and told Michael I’d wait for him and his party downriver at the entrance to Santa Elena Canyon. I shoved off and soon I rounded a sharp leftward bend to see: Entrance Rapid. THE Entrance Rapid. Exactly where I expected it to be. A split channel with a shallow right fork and a deeply-right-curving wall shot in the deep left fork leading IMMEDIATELY into the huge, dark, towering walls of the very narrow Santa Elena Canyon. Those walls clearly said, “don’t run this rapid unless you’re ready for what comes next, because there is NO TURNING BACK from here”. I beached on the Texas side, checked my drybags, re-cinched all my loads, broke out some food, laid down on the beach to eat and take a nap while I waited for the Angell Expeditions party to catch up.


I awoke from a deep nap sometime later and stood up to stretch. I was still clearing the sleep from my eyes when I caught movement in my peripheral vision. I turned upriver to see a long, lanky, leathery, muscular NPS ranger in wellingtons and a PFD with an attached NRS rescue knife, about my age, striding toward me. “Well, hello ranger, the last thing I expected to see this afternoon was a ranger walking toward me on land out here. I bet you want to see my permit.” “Nah, don’t worry about it,” he said, “I’m just sweeping the river during the holiday week, checking out campsites, this looks like a good one.” I explained that I was waiting for Angell Expeditions to catch up with me before running the Rockslide together. He remarked that he’d seen their rafts and kayaks, but no sign of them. “Oh, they’re climbing the Entrance Camp trail,” I said. He nodded, then looked at my packraft and rattled off all the required equipment he could identify, “looks like you have everything,” he remarked, “what about a toilet kit?” “Wagbags,” I answered. “Great stuff,” he nodded, “a wonderful invention, it’s amazing how much they help. Keeps huge numbers of people able to enjoy the river. So what’s your itinerary?” I explained the whole thing, how I had tried to hike across the park last year, inspired by Ranger Raymond Skiles earlier attempt. He knew Raymond. I mentioned Raymond’s grandfather, who’d pioneered river running in Big Bend on behalf of the DuPont family of industrial magnates. He not only knew Raymond Skiles, he knew Raymond’s father, and Raymond’s grandfather. All of a sudden we were talking river hydraulics, river biology, river history, Texas history, NPS history, NPS regulations, personalities, war stories, love-of-land stories, and just generally sharing the glory and joy of being where we were when we were, just the two of us. He probably stayed there too long, and eventually he made clear he needed to get back upriver to his canoe and other groups. With a handshake and a “good luck”, he headed back from whence he came. I thought, “there goes the best of the NPS”, and I settled back down into the cobbled river rocks to wait for the Angell folks.

[TO BE CONTINUED]
« Last Edit: March 26, 2018, 02:35:03 PM by House Made of Dawn »
"The trick, William Potter, is not minding that it hurts."

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Offline House Made of Dawn

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Re: Round the Bend in 16 Days: There and Not-Quite Back Again
« Reply #33 on: December 14, 2017, 01:48:08 PM »
Around 4:30pm, a bit later than I hoped, Michael and his big raft rounded the bend and shot through Entrance Rapid, then he furiously backstroked to a standstill, papa-bearing his party through the rapid. One after one, the family members shot through the left fork, eddied just before the wall shot, and nudged around the rock corner next to Michael. Last came Pam in her kayak, “just pretend we’re not here, you’ll still have solitude!” “Not here? No Way!” I shouted, “if anything, I’ll pretend your Angels, because you are!” A few minutes later, after the party was well out of sight, not wanting to harsh their river buzz with my fussy presence, I launched into the water and fought my way through the Entrance Rapid wall shot. Some ways further downriver, beneath the dark and lowering overhang of the sheer Santa Elena cliffs, a full 10-degrees cooler than outside the canyon, we all stopped to discuss the coming Rockslide rapids.  Michael outlined a series of steps we would use to approach the rapids, including a final lining of our boats through the 30 or 40 feet leading up to the Texas and Mexican Gates. “I prefer that my clients not make their final decisions at 20mph,” Michael said. Fine by me.


We beached just upriver of the gates, lined our boats up to the final gravel bar just a few feet from the final commitment and gauged our chances. Just about then, the river ranger reappeared, saying he was trying to decide whether or not to run the Rockslide that day or the next. He knew there was at least one group (the UT-SA kids) that were coming up behind him and maybe he should wait for them. Personally, I think he was just papa-bearing us. Michael shouted out instructions over the roaring water, throwing rocks to identify decisions points, guiding his clients through the Rockslide. Not just his clients, but me, too. Some man he’d met by the side of the river yesterday. Somebody who wasn’t paying him a dime for his hard-won professional expertise. A random interloper that he’d taken responsibility for: amazing. He went first and the rest followed. Meanwhile the ranger and I talked about our love for Big Bend and Santa Elena in particular. Me waxing enthusiastically and he always with one eye on each client as they negotiated the maze of rocks, occasionally leaping up onto a promontory to keep track of them. One thing he said stuck with me: “the thing everybody forgets: never panic if you go down backwards, you’ll almost always make it.” Now he tells me. Finally, dead last so as not to mess with the family’s experience, it was my time. I climbed in, pushed off, shot threw the Mexican Gate, and chose my own route:  eddied and pulled hard right, skipping the Tight Squeeze to slip counterclockwise through the Even Tighter Squeeze at extreme right (only my tiny raft could fit through there), muscled my way leftward across the eddy toward the Keyhole but bounced off the guardian boulder, started to spin, quickly corrected, and slipped through the Keyhole and on downriver past several miscellaneous obstacles to the beach below the rapids to join everyone else on the gravel bar. Piece of cake. A bunch of worry for nothing. My packraft shone here; this was one of its few strengths: strong current, tight gaps, micro-maneuverability. I didn’t follow Michael’s route, but I guarantee I was buoyed up by his presence and his care. Had I been running this rapid alone, by myself, with no one else in known range, I would have been majorly, majorly, maybe incapacitatingly, puckered at this early stage in my journey.


Making it through the Rockslide was a huge mental and emotional milestone for me. Clearly I had over-hyped it, but I simply didn’t know how my new packraft would act in the rapid. It performed like a champ and I was happy. The Angell folks offered to share that night’s campsite with me, but I felt I should give them their privacy. The river ranger was nowhere to be seen, presumably still waiting on the UT-SA folks. The Angell expedition headed downriver and I stayed just below the Rockslide to empty the overflow from my raft, dry out a bit, take a few photographs and reflect. I asked the client family to call my wife when they got out and tell her I’d made it through the Rockslide and was still on schedule. I might not get to contact her personally until several days later at RGV, if then.


Eventually the Angell group passed not only out of sight but out of hearing. I was once again utterly alone. I checked all my lashing again, cinched everything tight, swung my legs into the raft and pushed off downstream. Originally, I had hoped to camp opposite Fern Canyon, but that seemed like an unreasonable goal now, given how long I’d waited for the Angell folks at the entrance to Santa Elena Canyon. A fair trade by any measure, though. I meandered my way downriver until close to dark and, spotting a decent looking island, well above the river, beached and prepared to make camp. The point at which I beached was liberally-decorated with old tires carried there by past floods. One of the only trashy spots I’d seen during my time on the river, it was well-tired, and so was I. Physically, emotionally, I was done for the day. I unloaded, attended to toiletries, changed into dry clothes, laid out my bedroll, my messkit, and heated up a fine dinner of Lime-Shrimp Ramen Noodle Soup, Serrano Seed Jerky, and M&M’s. Dark fell early as I was eating and I watched the walls of the canyon grow ever blacker, stars slowly fill the gap high overhead, between the walls, and then, ever so slowly, the invisible moon cast its light on the Texas wall, starting high, and inch-by-inch, yard-by-yard, crawl down the cliff face coming ever closer to my campsite with an eerie iridescent ivory glow, contrasted with the near-pitch-black of the opposing cliffs. On the Mexican side, unimaginably huge rocks, tumbled from the rim, sat lodged in the talus above me - no place for old men afraid of falling rocks (of which I was, fortunatey, not one). Finally, around 9pm, even the singular beauty of Santa Elena Canyon in the moonlight, and a distant overhead sliver of crystalline stars, could no longer capture my attention and I drifted off, lulled by the murmur of tumbling water on either side of me, to a deep, deep, exhausted sleep. Santa Elena Canyon was effectively over; tomorrow I would exit the canyon mouth, sail past Castolon and Cottonwood Campground and head east into what the guidebooks called The Great Unknown. No more fellow boaters, no more people, just mile after mile of uninhabited, rarely-traveled wilderness river.

[TO BE CONTINUED]

« Last Edit: March 26, 2018, 02:38:42 PM by House Made of Dawn »
"The trick, William Potter, is not minding that it hurts."

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Offline Slimkitty

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Re: Round the Bend in 16 Days: There and Not-Quite Back Again
« Reply #34 on: December 14, 2017, 05:03:06 PM »
Amazing stuff.  I HAVE to get more serious about my adventuring.


Sent from the future.

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Offline iCe

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Re: Round the Bend in 16 Days: There and Not-Quite Back Again
« Reply #35 on: December 14, 2017, 05:13:02 PM »
 :shock:  wow... just... simply... wow...

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Offline SergeantFunk

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Re: Round the Bend in 16 Days: There and Not-Quite Back Again
« Reply #36 on: December 14, 2017, 05:33:21 PM »
 Informative, funny, simply riveting.  I'd push right past Wordpress and go straight for the 'zon and Kindle.
"Luminous beings are we...not this crude matter." -Yoda

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Offline rocketman

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Re: Round the Bend in 16 Days: There and Not-Quite Back Again
« Reply #37 on: December 14, 2017, 06:47:03 PM »
I would buy this in hardcover.
Making ice cubes FROM THE SUN!!!

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Offline GaryF

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Re: Round the Bend in 16 Days: There and Not-Quite Back Again
« Reply #38 on: December 14, 2017, 08:07:57 PM »
I would buy this in hardcover.

I’m holding out for the movie.

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Offline House Made of Dawn

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Re: Round the Bend in 16 Days: There and Not-Quite Back Again
« Reply #39 on: December 14, 2017, 08:56:06 PM »
I would buy this in hardcover.

I’m holding out for the movie.

I held out for Harrison Ford to play me. The studio offered Jerry Lewis instead. I said, “he’s dead.” They said, “we know.”


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"The trick, William Potter, is not minding that it hurts."

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Offline iCe

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Re: Round the Bend in 16 Days: There and Not-Quite Back Again
« Reply #40 on: December 14, 2017, 09:06:04 PM »
I would buy this in hardcover.

I’m holding out for the movie.

I held out for Harrison Ford to play me. The studio offered Jerry Lewis instead. I said, “he’s dead.” They said, “we know.”


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That reminds me of when I was talking to my psychiatrist about the voices in my head... she said I didn't have a psychiatrist  ???

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Offline House Made of Dawn

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Re: Round the Bend in 16 Days: There and Not-Quite Back Again
« Reply #41 on: December 14, 2017, 09:07:38 PM »
I would buy this in hardcover.

I’m holding out for the movie.

I held out for Harrison Ford to play me. The studio offered Jerry Lewis instead. I said, “he’s dead.” They said, “we know.”


Sent from my iPhone using Big Bend Chat


That reminds me of when I was talking to my psychiatrist about the voices in my head... she said I didn't have a psychiatrist  ???

                                                                                                                                                                                                                         :s_laugh:
"The trick, William Potter, is not minding that it hurts."

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Offline Txlj

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Re: Round the Bend in 16 Days: There and Not-Quite Back Again
« Reply #42 on: December 14, 2017, 10:18:23 PM »
Simply amazing House. You truly have a way with words.  Please keep it coming. And I agree on a book. Signed copy please.

Sent from flat land


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Offline PacingTheCage

  • Coyote
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  • 170
Re: Round the Bend in 16 Days: There and Not-Quite Back Again
« Reply #43 on: December 15, 2017, 08:54:39 AM »
Epic, epic story.  Great writer and great storyteller.  You are a "man's man", sir.

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Offline SergeantFunk

  • Roadrunner
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  • 57
Re: Round the Bend in 16 Days: There and Not-Quite Back Again
« Reply #44 on: December 15, 2017, 12:13:24 PM »
Like a Labrador waits on his next meal, or a young child waits for Christmas...we suffer until the next HMoD installment fires off.  :icon_lol: :notworthy:
"Luminous beings are we...not this crude matter." -Yoda

 


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