"Camping" on the Columbia River

June 2011: Two intrepid explorers embark on a dangerous journey into the untamed wilds of the Columbia River. 

To begin this tale it is necessary to mention my family’s poor luck with anything camping related. Much like the famed movie family The Griswolds, we the Macaulays have a long history of vacation related accidents or mishaps. Ranging from food poisoning to nearby shark attacks shutting down beaches near a hotel, if there is something that can go wrong, it will. 

This tale is of one ill-fated summer camping expedition from long ago. It was a hot summer afternoon in late June, my father had just put the finishing touches on his newly remodeled boat and was ready to take it out for a spin. For some reason my sun-addled brain registered this as the perfect opportunity to attempt the mysterious activity known as camping. 

As a little history behind previous camping attempts: The last time we had attempted such a venture was over four years prior, and had ended up with the entire troupe of camping families being scared off by the heavy rainfalls of the Pacific North West, and instead detouring to stay at the Four Seasons in Seattle...

It  took us thrity minutes to put together what we felt was necessary for an overnight trip to one of the many islands that dot the Columbia river: A tent, some chocolate, fire wood, things to make fire with(I think they're called matches(Pronounced Ma-Chuz), but I can't be certain...), sleeping bags, water, and for good measure, a large net (You never know when you’re going to need one.) We loaded up the boat and took off for the nearest boat launch.

Of course when camping, it is always a good idea to check your dates. For us, this was a step we had skipped, and so we learned that it was Memorial Day Weekend only after we had hauled the boat thousands(ten) of miles.

 Every boat launch was full and had over a two hour wait. Defeated, we resolved to go home and try again later that night when some of the river yuppies would have gone home to their condos (Why anyone would ever buy a condo in Vancouver, I have no idea… Perhaps if they were aficionados of strip malls and fine bowling establishments?)

Later that night we tried again and were able to launch the boat. Minutes later we were on the water and searching for a campsite. It was around dusk by the time we were out on the river, but the heat was still unbearable, making the journey all the more epic and dangerous! 

In any case, my father had already pre-scouted a location for our trip, to avoid any of the traditional pitfalls that usually accompanied our trips. It was a secluded Island of the slightly ominous variety with a small beach cove, about a mile from the house. Goal within view, we sped off into the Columbia river, throwing caution to the wind, and began our long awaited trip.

As we neared the island I could see our perfect spot, somehow untainted by the flabby extremities of beached river yuppies. It was too good to be true, as we approached the anticipation mounted! Perhaps we will finally reach our goal and taste the sweet nectar of the universe that is camping! I thought, foolioshly.

Not a moment after the pleasant thought had passed through my brain the boat lurched and I was thrown forward onto the bow. Out of nowhere we were stopped, the motor was wining, and my face had been forcefully acquainted with a navy blue seat cushion.

It was at this time that I recalled one of the many dangerous geologic formations that populate the Columbia River, sandbars, second only of course to the fabled driftwood monster (More commonly known as driftwood.) The nature of the sandbar is of course to lie in wait for the river level to drop and then snag unsuspecting boaters with its muddy tentacles.

As I looked over the side of the boat, I could see that we were now in what appeared to be only about two feet of water, with murky and foreboding sand at the bottom. 

“You alright?” My father called. 

“Yeah, I think so.” The real interaction was much less pleasant, and may have involved a good deal of cursing/name calling, but end the result was the same. I was over the side of the boat, pant legs rolled up, putting all of my weight again the boat to dislodge it from the bar. A few super manly shoves and we were floating again.

“Ok, this time I think we’ll go a little slower.” My father, the captain said, confident that this was the last error we would make on this journey. Just as the captain of the Titanic before us, our confidence was foolishly misplaced in a boat that was "unsinkable"...

I hopped on the bow and looked for our campsite. After the sandbar there was only a matter of a few hundred feet through a narrow channel, and we would be there. Soon we would be sipping cokes and roasting hot dogs (Which we forgot), on the beach.

My Dad started the engine and we were all ahead slow….

Straight into another sandbar! Once again I found myself in the water, using my rippling (Underwhelming) biceps to move the massive(Somewhat small) boat. With a triumphant roar(whimper) I dislodged the boat and we were off!

 As we threaded the mouth of the channel, I knew that we had come to the end of our sand-bar ridden hell. The island was less than fifty feet away, and I could almost feel the gorgeous white sand(Brown mud) beneath my toes. That was until I heard a sickening scraping come from the underside of the boat. The all too familiar lurch came.

“That’s no sandbar…” Is what I like to imagine I said, but the truth was once again probably much closer to a host of  expletives and unsavory nomenclature for both the boat and the captain. 

We had "High Centered" the boat, which for those of you who are unfamiliar with nautical terms, means that the boat was balanced on a rock, with the point on its midsection. Or as it known to the layperson: "Totally Screwed".

The cursing continued as we tried to figure out a solution. The motor was now whining loudly, trying its to push us anywhere but on the rock. But this would not happen as it had been lifted part way out of the water. The boat made sounds that I had previously thought to be reserved for dying animals, or birds of prey. In short we were up a creek, and had broken the paddle through repeated abuse. 

Eventually we figured that if we both stood on the back of the boat, it ought to tip us so that the motor would dip back into the water, and for the first time that day we were correct. The back end of the boat tilted lazily into the water and my father gunned the engine to pull us off of the rock. We flew backwards momentarily, and then once again we were moving through the water with ease.

At this point in time a normal group of people might have given up, called it a wash, gone to one of the more populated campsites and had a lovely evening. My father and I are not normal people. The definition of insanity is doing the same thing multiple times and expecting a different result. Normally I like to think of myself as sane, but I can't say that we stopped trying to reach our ill-positioned campsite.

We were hell bent on having this camping trip, and so we moved to try further up the river. Never-mind the fact that we might have put a hole in the boat, we were going to continue on until we had a "manly" bonding experience. 

To make a long story slightly longer, we found a campsite and made it there safely, having the camping trip we had always dreamed of achieving....

Is what I would like to say had happened. The reality is that on the way to the next site we managed to find three more sandbars before finally saying "F%$# it!" After the fifth sandbar that day we found that our camping trip was doomed from the start, and resolved that next time we attempted such an adventure, we would do so on land. 

That night we went home and had a campfire in the backyard, where we took pictures that looked like we were "roughing it" and sent them to my stepmother. We burnt the hotdogs and ate a frozen pizza instead. Overall, pretty solid camping trip....