But over a gallon of moonshine and case or two of Reingold chasers, Uncle Jiggy once told me of the Muckassic period. See, he was once run over by a runaway John Deere up on the fire road and as a result couldn't pronounce his words none too good. And what he sweared to to his dying day was that this island in question was home to "a whole bunch of muckin' man-eating dinosaurs that damn near took muckin' Herbie Hooper's good arm clean off." Hence, the Muckassic period.
Since everyone else declined our invites after learning of our planned upon destination, the expedition was reduced to Kayak Dude, Zach and myself. While Zach was still claiming that he didn't believe we'd be eaten alive, both Kayak Dude and myself put ashore heavily armed.
We put in at the little-used riverfront park at Pittston. And I have to say, between the rampant vandalism and the obvious lack of necessary upkeep, it would be a serious stretch to call this locale an amenity for the residents. Typical federally subsidized project: If you build it, we can't afford to maintain it.
And as is almost always the case, the water quality at Pittston is the very worst that the entire Wyoming Valley has to offer.
|The gooey waters off Pittston|
|Enter at your own risk?|
Or as Uncle Jiggy would say, god damn commies!
|Symphonic TV with a built-in VCR|
|Relax! It's a bullfrog!|
|Nothing like a bag of glass and rocks|
|Yum! Save me a claw|
My biggest fear was that we'd head back to the boat at some point only to have found it bitten in half. But in that event, I had fire (My Zippo), we had knives and we had our cunning and our survival instincts. And if any of those had failed us, we could simply wait until the river gets really, really low in August, lay in wait for adventurous tweeners making the low-water trek to the island and go the way of cannibals. Dibs on the fat kid!
Besides, back in the forest away I came upon a washed away shingled roof, which would have made for a great start on a shelter. Our new home.
But unlike the great explorers that preceded us, we wanted to get on home before we got in big, big trouble with the chicks in our lives.
So we paddled back upstream to Pittston, avoided the goo slick clinging to the shoreline, humped the U.S.S. Dude all the way up to Kennedy Boulevard, and then made reverent noises about having escaped with our lives.
And after such a life-altering experience, we secured the boat and the gear and we headed straight to the nearby Burger King for some kiddie chow. Whew!
|111 years later|
So, as much as it may distress you, I survived my second foray onto Dinosaur Island.
And I want to thank KD for driving two hours with his boat in tow just so he could make like a little kid with a little kid and his little kid of a grandfather. We, males, are hard-wired by nature. We are inherently hunters and gatherers, but most importantly...we are explorers.
And it is for that latter reason that our exploration of space should not have been all but deep-sixed in favor of providing safety nets for the able-bodied.
Dude, Medusa Island awaits.