The Real, Naked People
We would also take overnight trips, beautiful nights in a tent by flowing water; nights often interrupted by angry raccoons testing our food security. These nights will always remind you that, no matter how cute they seem on an internet video, raccoons are mean animals. Two raccoons arguing over a hot dog bun can sound like a fight to the death with hisses, growls, and angry squeals. Yet there is still nothing like falling asleep with a Michigan river flowing by, water on a twisty path to the Great Lakes and beyond.
The Pere Marquette is not a difficult river. It is neither too deep nor too fast. It is not the river for thrill-seekers but the perfect river for folks who want to cool off on a hot summer day. In fact, one can navigate most of the river by inner tube alone, just floating by. In a time-honored tradition that was legal in the 1980s, or at least not strictly enforced, boaters often canoed or tubed with a happy supply of beer kept cool by the river water.
This style of travel was the greatest hazard when taking camp groups down the Pere Marquette. It wasn’t raccoons or soggy food. It wasn’t scraping the shallow rocks. While annoying, the silver marks on granite stones proved this was a common occurrence for aluminum canoes. The great danger was the tipsy paddlers who stood in their canoes to take a leak, shouted language we didn’t allow, and jammed the river because they were too buzzed to get out of the way.
I had figured out some distractions for the camper in my canoe. I was always steering in the stern, so I gave them the job of navigator. I told that camper that she was the power of the canoe and had to keep paddling no matter what was going on. Also, she had to tell which direction would steer us away from those shallow rocks. When the river flows over a rock, it makes a v-shaped ripple, an arrow pointing toward you. A safe passage between two shallow rocks appeared as a water arrow pointing downstream. The camper had to look carefully for these markers and announce a direction.
If there were a group of us close together, the other distraction, which applied to many areas of camp, was to shout or sing something very silly. Try it yourself. Wherever you work or at some crowded place, shout “Knock, knock!” until someone answers with the proper reply. Then deliver the best (or worst) knock-knock joke you have. I promise that whatever was happening in the lives of the people around you has been disrupted.
Over the years, I had become a decent canoer. I was good enough that I sometimes served as the supply canoe, bringing up the rear without a partner. There was no soggy bread when I transported the food. Yet, that specialized skill could not prepare me for what to do about the naked people.
I was coming around a bend in the river when I saw that the canoe in front of us with two campers had stopped on the sandy shore. I wasn’t sure if they were in trouble, taking a break, or seeing something interesting in the woods. It was not unusual to spot a deer taking a drink or a heron fishing among the reeds. When we rounded the bend, the source of their distraction became clear. On the riverbank, which jutted out to make a sandy beach on this curve, were a cooler with a few cans, two piles of clothes, and two fully naked people, a man and a woman. I assume that they were planning to go skinny dipping, the alcohol in their systems washing away the idea that rivers are constantly in motion and no spot will be private for long. There they are, naked in the summer sun, giggling at their shared bravado, rushing toward the cool water. Then, two 10-year-old girls come floating around the bend.
Everyone froze. The girls in the canoe were stunned by the unexpected nudity. Being caught in the act paralyzed the naked people. Then I came around the bend with Justin, a 10-year-old boy, sitting in the bow of my canoe.
I was probably 16 or 17 on this trip and, my experience with live nudity was limited. Yet, even I knew that these were not the sort of naked people that anyone would pay to see unless you are attending a photo exhibition on middle-aged eroticism where people wander from photo to photo without any strong feelings of arousal but words like “Brave” and “Daring” and “Bold” float in the air. These were good, Midwestern naked people whose private parts were mostly covered by the consequences of a diet rich in beef, beer, and dairy.
Yet still, they were naked, and I was responsible for the children who sat there frozen by a sight I was sure would be further etched into their memories the longer we stayed in place. The river flowed calmly in the background as a few seconds passed. Birds sang. Squirrels skittered through the dry leaves in the forest. The natural order took no notice of our tableau with its portly Adam and Eve.
I didn’t want to overreact, making it seem like these could be dangerous naked people. I was hoping for more of a calm naturalist vibe, “Look, there’s a deer. Look, there’s a fish. And on your left, you’ll see a mid-life crisis.” Simply, I said, “Well, time to go.” I pulled the canoe with the two girls off the bank and pushed it into the current. Quickly they were out of sight, certainly giggling at the scandal of it all. Then I back-paddled my canoe off the bank and headed downstream. No words were exchanged with the naked people, though I believe there was a shared, awkward nod.
Justin and I canoed silently for a few minutes when he finally exclaimed, “Carl, those were real, naked people!”
“Yes, they were. Now, keep paddling, and which way is that arrow pointing?”
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