Wrapped and chilled, the Henri sandwiches were laid out in precise formation on the sun-drenched picnic table awaiting the arrival of 2005 participants.  The cars, straggling in from points south and north and complaining of traffic and missed turns, soon assembled in the tree covered depot off of Georgia 60.  As fathers and daughters emerged and friends reconnected, we knew that we were in for something special.

Our maybe it was the Henri sandwiches.  Offering a Soviet style selection of turkey, and turkey and more turkey, it was clear that Bob, father of Sara, had gone above and beyond on lunch.  Setting the tone for the weekend, people said.   Adding to the excitement, the drink master, Bill, father of Cooper, unveiled a beverage cart that showed why we won the Cold War—water, Propel, orange juice, (even beer and wine for the senior set).   Lunch was such a big hit that we almost decided not to go any further.

But our fearless leader, Gillian, oh no, I mean Gino, father of Anna, said it was time to shove off for our 30 hour tour.   No one seemed overly nervous about the journey as we were all grizzly veterans, but Gino, father of Anna, and Frank, father of Alex, did discuss Italy in a way that indicated that they were long lost cousins and would soon be buying real estate together upon their return in an undiscovered Italian Province recently written up in the New York Times.  Glenn, father of Emily, and Bob, father of Sara, too made a geographic connection, revisiting their roots in New York and quickly deciding that they would NOT be buying real estate in an undiscovered New York Borough never even visited by the NY Times.  Instead, they would focus their real estate intentions on an undiscovered piece of heaven in Costa Rica, the New New York (it’s a jungle out there, right?). 

Well fed, the girls were already playing in the water as supplies were loaded, and the sea worthiness of our vessels accessed.  Steve, father of Erica, sent a shot across the bow of all fellow boaters when he erected a Pirate flag to his stern.  The HMS Trouble Maker was its name, armed with high powered water pistols and a previous unheard of “potato shooter”.  The HMS Trouble Maker was certainly a boat to keep an eye on.

The initial leg of the trip was uneventful, despite strong warnings of imminent danger from our Appalachian Outfit leader Ben, father of someone I’m sure, but he wasn’t on the trip and just owned the land, the canoes, paddles, life preservers, etc.   He was telling a bunch of carpet baggers from the North (we determined that there were no native Southerners on board) to go left.  That was like telling someone if a tree fell in the forest and no one was there, did it really fall, blah, blah, blah.  But Ben was serious and said that in this case a tree had not fallen in the forest, but in the river.  Some of us Northern skeptics rolled our eyes saying to ourselves, “well if you cannot see the tree in the river did it really fall?”  Adding to the confusion was hearing a Southern gentlemen tell a group of Northerners to go left, not right.  Ben, we invented the left. Usually when you come to the South, you go right.  Then he started saying something about orange stakes, or was it red states, and quickly this situation turned into a political free for all. 

The election over, we adopted the “laissez faire” approach to canoeing, quietly floating downstream letting nature do the work, no hands on the paddle.  Emily, daughter of Glenn, and Gino, father of Anna, spoke Spanish and Italian to each other as the afternoon and our canoes quietly drifted away.   Fishing lines bisected the rushing water with the occasional fish story (“I got a bite!!!!”) breaking the golden pond silence.  

Before you could say sunburn, we arrived at our campsite.  Honestly, my heart sunk.  Where did it all go?  Last year it seemed much bigger.  We have to stay HERE?  Oh my gosh!  Panic quickly turned to self preservation and the battle for a tent site went into high gear.  Fortunately, I got there early along with Steve, father of Erica, and Bill, father of Cooper.  We decided that a nice sandy perch just above the water line would be perfect for “our three daughters”.  The other families, taking their leisurely time using their fancy fishing equipment with their fancy real worms and fancy specialty lures, were out of luck.  Onto the rocks with you!  This was “Survivor” and desperate times called for desperate measures.

Soon to be President Hillary (no comments here) has a saying, “It Takes A Village” and that certainly applies to me on a camping trip.  Thanks to fellow tent partners, Steve, father of Erica, and Bill, father of Cooper, the tents went up without a hitch.  Even a high-tech, battery operated mattress inflator contributed without sending our tents skyward like a hot air balloon. The Ritz by the River was quickly taking shape.

A word of praise for the fancy fishing set who arrived late on the scene.  There was no complaining about sleeping on the rocks, no negotiations, in fact, they were true professionals.  All I could see was a sitting area assembled, chairs around a campfire, bags of wood and charcoal and more foods than could legally held by a Publix’s.  The only thing missing was Frank, father of Alex, who seemed to be gone for long periods of time.  We were concerned, to say the least.

Perhaps Frank, father of Alex, was doing more than napping and had visited the North Pole because upon his reappearance, he arrived bearing gifts.  Of food.  15 one-pound chicken thighs with bones (remember, Frank, father of Alex, next time we want  boneless ones or there will be consequences, ok?).  Three yard long slabs of baby back ribs also found their way on to our two level, charcoal-enhanced, wood-burning grill set that would put any Weber to shame.   As if this wasn’t enough, throw in corn on the cob and a veggie platter, it was almost time to unveil our two top prize winners in the gastrological delight category.

The runner up who should hold his head high was Frank’s homemade Barbeque sauce.  Two non-descript jars offered up a flavor sensation so powerful that Ben, the campground owner and his sons, actually jumped into their canoes and paddle down to our campsite just to investigate what the heck smelled so good.  I am not kidding about this.  We were in the middle of no where and all a sudden Frank, father of Alex, opens these jars and minutes later we have visitors on our waterfront doorstep.   Correct me if I’m wrong, but I have never heard of any other barbeque sauce causing a family to paddle miles just to get a whiff.

While it seems impossible to top this amazing feat, the top prize in the cooking category goes to Glenn, father of Emily, who in his unassuming way, prepared a ribs and chicken feast for the ages.  Without any flame controls and just a small Swiss army knife, Glenn, father of Emily, filleted the ribs with a surgeon’s touch and moved red hot logs around with his bare hands.  Even though Frank, father of Alex, threw him a curve by first saying the chicken was boneless (it wasn’t), Glenn, father of Emily, went to great lengths so as not to over cook, burn or char the tender homemade barbeque sauce.  Glenn, father of Emily, was too busy working to finish the story of how he threw bread yeast overboard years ago on some cruise ship in the South Pacific that created a new island chain, but we look forward to hearing the full details on next year’s adventure.

The smores (thanks to Steve, father of Erica), the Mafia game and the two-word story that focused on Pistachio ice cream brought the night to a close. A full belly and a peaceful night’s rest were interrupted by a bright Georgia sun and the next big activity, breakfast.  And while I could go on and on (but have to go to work) with tails of eating, swimming, fishing and all, the true highlight of the trip was the time we got to spend with our precious daughters and with each other.  I hope this trip provides us all with a lifetime of wonderful memories and more wonderful adventures in the future.

With warm regards,

Bob