Another eighteen miles of paddling and
we call it a day. We settle in at a campsite called Gambler’s Point and its
name seems to live up to its appearance—empty beer bottles and makeshift
tables, no doubt a party site for locals looking to have a good time. But
tonight is the Fourth of July and the party must be somewhere else, for we are
alone, nested high above a sandy embankment, with pine trees towering over our
pitched tents. When darkness falls we hear the blasts of fireworks echoing in
the distance but that’s the only sign of our nation’s birthday that our senses
collect. There are no flashing colors in the sky, mobs of children running
around with sparklers, or the smell of gunpowder floating in the air. We go to
bed having missed the celebration, but I wake in the middle of the night, as
Mother Nature has decided to put on a show of her own. Rolling thunder barrels
out of the sky with such ferocity that the ground shakes. Every few seconds the
night becomes as bright as day and I count the seconds between the flashing
light and the deafening noise. “One-one-thousand, two-one-thou…BOOM!” The storm
is close and the wind is picking up and the trees above me are swaying
violently, causing the branches to bend and creak. I can’t get the idea of a
falling tree out of my mind. Wouldn’t
that be something, I think to myself, to
have made it across Winnie without a hitch, only to die in a tent, crushed by a
giant piece of lumber. It happens more often than you’d think...
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