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Happy Caesar Crosses the Rubicon (49 BC)! "alea iacta est" 🎲
Anyone have any pictures of themselves paddling or camping as kids?
- Thread starter Kayak_Ken
- Start date
Here I am in the bow with my two brothers, 1955, Muskrat Lake, Cobden, Ontario. I have that canoe in my barn, sadly in two pieces, Plycraft Canoe, made in Winnipeg, and of course I'm using a beavertail paddle.
Got the canoe but not me
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There it is Partridge Lake Littleton NH
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Guest
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I wish I did. My father didn’t carry a (working*) camera on my trips, but there was one trip photo I know and remember well.
My father’s method of planning canoe trips was to grab a State highway map, look for a stream or river with conveniently spaced road crossings and go for it. We ran the falls line on Deer Creek. Or rather he did.
We broached on a rock at the top of the falls. Dad laid on a massive brace and snapped his paddle. He shouted “Toss me your paddle AND GET OUT”.
I was a well trained lad and instantly did so. The canoe popped free, I swam the falls line and he ran it dry. There is a scenic overlook at the roadside there. When I swam ashore in the pool below the falls folks watching from the roadside above applauded.
That was one of the few trips where Dad had a working camera, and I know that photo clear as day in my mind’s eye. 12 years old, standing on the bank, sopping wet in an orange horse collar vest, grinning like a maniac.
*About the working camera. Dad carried a camera on every trip. A junked, non-functional 35mm. He carried it to take “photos” of fishermen we passed. He would spin them convincing stories about being a photographer for Field and Stream, working on an article about “Fishing Whatever Creek. . . . look for it in the June issue” and get them to assume various fisherman poses.
He had a devilish sense of humor. There is a State Park in Dahlonega Georgia near the site of a gold strike that rents pans. Before a trip there he ground down a bunch of copper shavings. He wandered off one day with a rental gold pan and returned hours later with a peanut butter jar full of “gold flakes”.
He smacked the jar down heavily on the picnic table and shouted something like “God dang honey, we’re rich”.
There was a literal run from the surrounding campsites to the camp store to rent pans.
My father’s method of planning canoe trips was to grab a State highway map, look for a stream or river with conveniently spaced road crossings and go for it. We ran the falls line on Deer Creek. Or rather he did.
We broached on a rock at the top of the falls. Dad laid on a massive brace and snapped his paddle. He shouted “Toss me your paddle AND GET OUT”.
I was a well trained lad and instantly did so. The canoe popped free, I swam the falls line and he ran it dry. There is a scenic overlook at the roadside there. When I swam ashore in the pool below the falls folks watching from the roadside above applauded.
That was one of the few trips where Dad had a working camera, and I know that photo clear as day in my mind’s eye. 12 years old, standing on the bank, sopping wet in an orange horse collar vest, grinning like a maniac.
*About the working camera. Dad carried a camera on every trip. A junked, non-functional 35mm. He carried it to take “photos” of fishermen we passed. He would spin them convincing stories about being a photographer for Field and Stream, working on an article about “Fishing Whatever Creek. . . . look for it in the June issue” and get them to assume various fisherman poses.
He had a devilish sense of humor. There is a State Park in Dahlonega Georgia near the site of a gold strike that rents pans. Before a trip there he ground down a bunch of copper shavings. He wandered off one day with a rental gold pan and returned hours later with a peanut butter jar full of “gold flakes”.
He smacked the jar down heavily on the picnic table and shouted something like “God dang honey, we’re rich”.
There was a literal run from the surrounding campsites to the camp store to rent pans.
G
Guest
Guest
Despite my best efforts I couldn’t hope to come close to some of his elaborate shenanigans.
Dad was close with the County cops and State Troopers. He built the 1[SUP]st[/SUP] K9 kennels for the county, and he kept the bar the Staties drank in supplied with special home brew under the counter just for them. That was back in the day when home brewing beer was illegal.
He always had a batch of homebrew going, and I spent many a childhood evening pressing the caps on the bottles. And early on learned not to sneak green beer.
Years later he had moved to Georgia, and had the same relationship with the local LEOs there, including being deputized in a half dozen counties. One of his employees was interested in the home brewing business, so dad set him in with the works and got him started.
And then had his cop friends knock on the door and pretend to bust the poor guy for running an illegal distillery.
My 7[SUP]th[/SUP] grade science project was a display titled “How to brew beer”. People were taking notes.
