Barfalo River

This is a hangover story. You've heard it before. Here it is again.

So I drank too much. I blame Jamie, my sister's boyfriend. No particular reason except he brought the rum. We canoed on the Buffalo River on Tuesday--it's pristine, so clear we could see all the fish beneath us, and the bluffs were gold and red and brown. There were no other people around.

Then we found a gravel bar. Emphasize bar. I had a few rum and cokes. Then a few more. We set up camp. If this sounds like a Bukowski poem, it is.

We told stories by the fire, which Jamie stoked with the attention of a butler or a sprite. Bats flew around us. Then owls. Then we thought about bears and went to sleep on a bed of fossil rocks.

At the crack of dawn I felt wiggly. I drank some water. For a second, I thought I might escape unscathed. But then...the pain! the pain! the dryness like a desert yet so much clear water ahead! I jumped in the river and said, This is it! This will cure me. Like the thermal bath at Hot Springs I took with my sister a few days before. Curative! The river was Adderall or morphine or Freud!

No such luck. I barfed in the Buffalo. After that, I ate a peach. We broke camp and paddled another six miles. I barfed once more, over the side of the canoe and I learned something. Really, I did.
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3 Response to Barfalo River

July 12, 2009 at 4:54 AM

You're in good company. Why, some of the finest people I know have barfed in the Buffalo.

July 12, 2009 at 6:47 AM

I have never barfed in the Buffalo. Maybe it's because of the number of times The Hubs has tumped us in it.

July 12, 2009 at 11:30 AM

You are such a trooper! You are the only person I know who can go canoeing and hiking with a hangover. Me, I just crawl undr the covers and stay there until it's time to drink again.

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