A lot of people got divorced during the COVID-19 years, and a lot of people fell deep into their addictions. Being an overachiever of sorts, I did both.

As the pandemic worked its way through the U.S. in the first six months of 2020, my three adult daughters, one of their boyfriends, my niece, and my son, who was a high school senior, were all living with me and my wife, Lisa, at our home in Camden, Maine. We sewed masks, worked out in the basement, cooked elaborate meals that sometimes took all day, baked better sourdough bread than 95 percent of you, played Scrabble and Boggle, and got into massive arguments during episodes of Jeopardy! As we stayed safely hidden away in mid-coast Maine, it was a never-ending summer-camp-cum-house-party.

Perhaps inspired by this atmosphere, we also drank. Some of us more than others鈥攚ell, me mostly, and way more. I drank fancy drinks in the evening with my kids, and I also drank alone in the afternoons from a bottle hidden in the garage. The pandemic was the perfect excuse for increasing the everyday drinking I was already doing.

Lisa would occasionally suggest that I take a break, especially after catching me downing a slug of gin or smelling like alcohol in the early afternoon. I, however, wasn鈥檛 worried. I didn鈥檛 drink in the morning. I was fine. More important, to my way of thinking, I still had a choice about whether to drink or not.

But as the months went by and my own private party continued unabated, that first gulp of the day occurred ever earlier. By June, I was drinking before noon, and even I knew I had to do something. It wasn鈥檛 uncontrollable, I told myself. I just needed to stop for a while, and I decided to do it with help from an outdoor adventure. Setting an impossible physical task, getting in shape, and then achieving it鈥攖his was how I had operated for decades.

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My father and I were sitting at a small indoor table, eating roasted Cornish game hens while we looked out at well-kept grounds below us. The meal was a good step forward鈥攊t was the first time he鈥檇 been out of his room to eat for at least a week. He was smiling and听laughing at my dumb jokes听when a man approached us and, somewhat haltingly, introduced himself as Gavin Locklear, administrator for the Carol Woods Retirement Community in Chapel Hill, North Carolina.

鈥淚 apologize about this, but we鈥檝e had to introduce a new policy regarding visitors,鈥� he said. 鈥淥nly staff and essential workers are allowed to visit building four for the time being. The policy went into effect this morning.鈥�

鈥淵ou mean family can鈥檛 visit?鈥� I asked. 鈥淚 understand why you鈥檙e saying this, but this is pretty awful. Do I have to leave right now?鈥�

鈥淚 know, and I鈥檓 sorry. Please feel free to finish your meal, of course. No rush. And if there鈥檚 any way in which I can help, let me know. Here鈥檚 my card.鈥�

My father, Hodding Carter III, had followed only some of the conversation; after I explained what Locklear听had said, he worked hard to repeat the information back to me, which seemed strange, since he was someone who鈥檇 made a career out of speaking to audiences.

No, that鈥檚 not quite right. His life was speaking to audiences鈥攕peaking and being witty, charming, and detailed. A former newspaperman and publisher, he鈥檇 served as Jimmy Carter鈥檚 assistant secretary of state for public affairs, and during the Iran hostage crisis, he鈥檇 kept the nation informed with appearances on the nightly news for nearly a year. After Carter鈥檚 presidency, he won four Emmys as a network television journalist and host, and he became a popular lecturer at several universities. At the family dinner table in Alexandria, Virginia, he expected to have political discussions and invariably did all the talking. He was never at a loss for words. Until now.

A few months back, Dad found out he has lung cancer. It is currently Stage IV. To make matters worse, something had rapidly affected his cognitive abilities. On bad days, putting more than two or three sentences together had become听a forced, trying exercise.

I鈥檇 planned to travel from my home in Camden, Maine, to Dad鈥檚 house in Chapel Hill听to visit and help where needed, but a few days before I arrived, he鈥檇 fallen while coming out of the shower and broken his hip.听After a short stint in a hospital, he transferred to Carol Woods for rehab, so instead of helping at home, I鈥檇 be visiting him there. Luckily, he had reserved a place听years before and would be getting much needed around-the-clock attention.

My dad and I had always been close but not close, and by that I mean we hugged hello and said we loved each other, but there was a limit. He never let me all the way in, and I was usually second to whatever else was in the room. But during times of crisis, he鈥檇 always been there for me, and it had felt good, right even, to be doing the same.

Now the coronavirus was fucking it all up. Dad would be stuck trying to rehab in a nursing home without visits from a single friend or family member.

I hate remembering the look on his face when we hugged goodbye. He understood what was going on. He pursed his lips tightly and nodded slowly when I departed. He was putting on a brave face. No one wants to see their听dad do that.

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One version is this: we barreled out of the hills overlooking eastern Cannes, on the French Riviera, passing our opponents like they were a pod of salted snails. Or there鈥檚 this: I clopped downhill like a deranged Clydesdale while my partner, Alan Schmidt, tethered to me by a seven-foot bungee cord stretched to a tensile-testing 30 feet, backpedaled like a tortured two-legged crab.

The following account is based on the latter scenario.

鈥淚 told you I can鈥檛 run downhill anymore. Slow down!鈥� Alan yelled.

鈥淥nly way I can keep moving forward,鈥� I shot back. 鈥淐ome on! The ocean鈥檚 right there. We鈥檒l be swimming in a couple of minutes. Let鈥檚 go! Let鈥檚 go!鈥�

鈥淔uck you! I didn鈥檛 do this to you when you were dragging behind me on the uphills.鈥�

But, of course, he had. I gently reminded him: 鈥淵ou did too, asswipe.鈥�

I slowed down enough to reduce the tension (of the bungee cord, that is), and we shuffled up to the last aid station of the , a 23-mile race (18 miles on foot, five in water) and one of six qualifying contests in the that originated in Sweden. At this point, Alan and I had been swimrunning for more than six hours, with roughly 17 miles of running and more than four miles of swimming behind us. The only thing propelling us forward was our witty repartee, a smidgen of remaining pride, and the cheerful volunteers handing out recovery drinks and energy bars.

The final aid stop was perched near a small parking area overlooking the green-blue Mediterranean. But at this one, unlike previous stations, only Red Bull and large gummy candies were left. Alan clotheslined a half-dozen of our competitors with our bungee as he searched for water, aghast at the sugar and caffeine. I shrugged and started scarfing candy, washing it down with two Red Bulls for good measure.

While Alan disentangled himself and worked his way back toward me, I noticed a tanned, elderly gentleman standing on a rocky peninsula a few feet above us, hand on his hip, groin thrust forward. He was naked, with a penis the size of a Coke can.

鈥淎lan, look鈥攁 nude beach!鈥�

鈥淭hanks,鈥� he said, glancing quickly. 鈥淣ot exactly what I had in mind.鈥�

Calmly watching the race, the man shadowed us for the next couple hundred feet as we swam toward our third-to-last run. In the glow of my sugar and caffeine binge, I felt complete, whole for the first time in a long while. Despite our lowly standing, maybe I was born to swimrun after all. Or maybe I was just born to drink Red Bull at the far end of an all-day whinefest. Or maybe being so easily emasculated by Coke-can man flipped a switch. But for the first time in six hours, I was on fire. We were not going to get last place.

A while back, my wife showed me some photos online of a new race some crazy Swedes had come up with鈥�, held in the Stockholm Archipelago, a swath of some 30,000 islands just east of the city, in the Baltic Sea. With 40 miles of running across islands and six of swimming in hypothermia-inducing waters, the event looked designed more to maim than to challenge. Competitors tripped over barnacle-encrusted rocks, swam through whitecaps, and ran, often tethered together, through spruce woods. Yet most of them appeared to be smiling. Odd.

In Swedish, 枚 till 枚 means 鈥渋sland to island,鈥� and indeed, the whole idea began in 2002 with a barroom bet among four friends to see which team of two could make it faster from the island of Ut枚 to the island of Sandhamn, a distance of roughly 30 miles as the crow flies. The rules were simple: each duo could choose their route, provided they checked in at certain restaurants and bars along the way. The last pair to each of these 鈥渟tations鈥� would have to pick up the tab. The race ended up taking more than 26 hours. But no one died, and so it was a huge success.

In 2006, two Swedish race organizers, Michael Lemmel and Mats Skott, shaped the original challenge into an actual event. Nine teams joined the fun that year, wearing life jackets and using boogie boards for the swims. Since then, the sport鈥攐r the 鈥渟wimrun movement,鈥� as 脰till枚鈥檚 website calls it鈥攈as grown exponentially. There are now 150-plus swimrun events in Sweden alone and more than 600 around the world. The original 脰till枚 is now the world championship.

I鈥檒l pretty much try anything in or on water, ever since I fell into a pool at 11 months and crawled right back in after being rescued. I swam for Kenyon College when we won a NCAA Division III championship and since then have sailed a Viking ship in the Arctic, cruised the British Virgin Islands by swimming instead of sailing, and even tried out to be a mermaid, er, -man, at Florida鈥檚 Weeki Wachee Springs State Park. Also, I鈥檝e always bemoaned the inequality found in triathlons, a sport in which swimming has nowhere near the same value as running or biking. 脰till枚 was pretty much tailor-made for me.

If I could run, that is. The farthest I鈥檝e ever 鈥渞aced鈥� is 10K in fewer than a handful of triathlons.

One day, however, my favorite Fortnite partner, Zach Gasaway, 38, a.k.a. Tankyy11, and I were decimating a field of fifth-graders when Zach started talking about wanting to get in shape. (His avatar was a stud.) Concentrating more on beating him to a special weapon, I offhandedly suggested, 鈥淲ell, we could do 脰till枚. Maybe one of the series races outside Berlin at the end of September.鈥�

Zach, a swim coach and former swimmer, hadn鈥檛 laced up his running shoes since middle school cross-country, on account of flat feet. By his own admission, he was some 60 pounds overweight and built more for being carried in a litter than running. It was a ridiculous suggestion.

鈥淚鈥檓 in,鈥� he said. 鈥淚 just wanna go to Oktoberfest. Beer and sausage!鈥�

At its heart, swimrun is a tandem sport, to such a degree that, while not mandatory, practically everyone competes tethered to their partner. It鈥檚 the sharing of each stroke through the water, each fall on slippery rocks, that sets it apart from other endurance competitions. When you do 脰till枚, you鈥檙e only as good as your partner. If you don鈥檛 stay together, your race doesn鈥檛 count. You need teamwork, training, and complete trust that your partner is as ready as you are. With that in mind, Zach dropped out at the end of three months. He鈥檇 lost some 20 pounds but was averaging only six miles of running per week.

I was up to 18 miles on a good week, though I should have been closer to 40. I鈥檇 done maybe four days of bricks鈥攁 swim combined with a run or vice versa. The hard part was getting used to swimming with my shoes on, which is what every good swimrunner does, duh. That makes it impossible to kick effectively, though hand paddles are legal in swimrun races, which is some compensation.

With Zach out of the picture, I needed a ringer, quickly. So I texted fellow Kenyon swimming alumnus Alan Schmidt asking for suggestions. He鈥檇 organized a swim relay around Manhattan in 2007 that I鈥檇 been a part of and was in touch with way more Lords (our team mascot). I was hoping he could suggest a couple of thirty颅something prospects who鈥檇 partner with me out of kindness. Instead, he offered himself.

Like me, Alan is over 50. A hemp farmer outside Boulder, Colorado, he has done an Ironman triathlon, multiple shorter triathlons, and a handful of marathons. With his bald dome and fat-free physique, he looks like the endurance athlete he is, and as luck would have it, he had recently been swimming with a bunch of professional triathletes. Our prospects of finishing skyrocketed instantly.

Pretty quickly, however, I hated my new partner. I had to start running more frequently, farther, and faster. Even though he hadn鈥檛 run in six years, Alan ran his first three-miler at the pace I鈥檇 worked my way up to over months of training in midcoast Maine, where I live鈥攁nd he was running at 5,300 feet. The only good news was that there was a final series race in Cannes on October 21, a month later than the German event, and the water would be warmer. Also, how hard could hills overlooking a Mediterranean resort town be?

Wearing wetsuits in 脰till枚 races is mandatory, and Alan suggested we get some special Colting swimrun wetsuits, designed by three-time 脰till枚 champ Jonas Colting and artfully decorated with enough pecs, abs, and back muscles that we looked like superheroes. The open-water-swimming guru of Scandinavia, Colting founded the company a few years back, and I turned to him via Skype for some advice. He鈥檚 competed in 脰till枚 13 years in a row, yet he told me, 鈥淓very time I鈥檓 in the race, I always think to myself, This has got to be the last, last year. In the beginning, it鈥檚 always really difficult and technical, but halfway through, I鈥檓 happy once again I鈥檓 doing it. Once you get past those first three or four hours, you鈥檙e OK.鈥�

鈥淭o be honest,鈥� Colting added, 鈥淚鈥檝e pretty much never come across someone finishing a swimrun not being happy. 脰till枚 is arguably a lot harder than a triathlon, for instance, but you do it as a team. That becomes your main concern, getting from point A to point B with your partner. Not so much your time or place.鈥�

Strangely, the thing Colting said that helped the most was just how difficult a swimrun can be: 鈥淚t鈥檚 really an uncomfortable sport, all in all.鈥� Somehow those words, from one of the sport鈥檚 best, made the pain slightly more tolerable and got me through my one and only 12-mile training run.

I can鈥檛 say our first 12 hours in Cannes boded well for us. I felt our boutique hotel was quite chic, with its shiny gold and black wallpaper and cozy queen-size bed we got to share, but Alan said he鈥檇 rather have stayed at the fully equipped Airbnb he鈥檇 found with separate bedrooms. Admittedly, it didn鈥檛 help that a new cold had me coughing and snoring all night. Alan spent more time poking me awake than sleeping, and by the next morning鈥攖he day before the race鈥攚e were not in the best of shape.

A quick stop at the local patisserie helped us turn the corner, and by the time we made it down to the palm-lined park serving as race headquarters, we were even being pleasant to each other. From 100 yards away, we could see a large tented area and the giant yellow, red, and black 脰till枚 starting gate. We arrived just in time to watch the beginning of the sprint race. There were close to 200 competitors (there would be 320 in the World Series race with us), all of them disturbingly young and in shape.

We met Anders Malm, one of the 脰till枚 founders, who told us 鈥淚鈥檓 sorry, I鈥檓 sorry, I鈥檓 sorry鈥� for inventing the sport. And we ran into the other American team, California Swimrun, made up of Andy Hewitt and Daemon Anastas. Also in their fifties, they compete in multiple swimrun races each year, some in Europe and some in the U.S. Andy, a blond-haired, blue-eyed former Marine turned businessman and a seemingly full-time swimrun promoter (his bright-yellow California Swimrun business card features a photo of him and Daemon emerging from the water midrace) had lots of good advice. Their team T-shirt alone offered No Complaining鈥� Ever! and Dog in and out of Swims. Andy explained the second one: 鈥淵ou know, a dog just runs full speed into the water and exits without a care. We do the same.鈥� According to them, we also needed to pee while running, so as not to waste any time on bathroom breaks, and we must shorten the length of our bungee to just past our height, so it鈥檇 be easier to draft off each other while swimming. Daemon offered what would prove to be the most important tip for me, however: 鈥淵ou definitely want to stay tethered the whole race鈥攊n the swimming, you won鈥檛 lose your partner, and in the run, when one of you is tired, that tautness on the line keeps you going.鈥�

Alan had lots of questions for California Swimrun, and I could sense his mind racing with worry. Or maybe it was just mine. With such short notice to get race ready, Alan had damaged his shins and heels so much that even walking bothered him, and I had so hurt my calves and knees during that lone 12-mile training run that I hadn鈥檛 resumed training for ten days. At the evening鈥檚 prerace meeting, we went over the course. There would be nine swims and ten runs. We would begin on the island of Sainte-Marguerite (famous as the site of one of the Man in the Iron Mask鈥檚 prisons), run halfway around it, then swim to the next island farther out, Saint-Honorat. We鈥檇 run all the way around that, swim back to Marguerite, and run its other half. Then we鈥檇 swim to the mainland, run a short distance through pedestrians and beachgoers, swim much of the world-famous Croisette Beach area, then鈥� well, after that I sort of lost track. We鈥檇 plow through the flea market and the old town, run up some steep something or other, swim again along the Croisette, run up an even steeper hill, and on and on, with the segments getting shorter toward the finish.

None of the presentation made any sense to me except that there鈥檇 be a shitload of hills, some of which would be really 鈥渇un,鈥� according to Michael Lemmel, the 脰till枚 series cofounder and one of the race directors, because they were fairly technical. The only good news: there鈥檇 be several nice long swims where we鈥檇 be able to catch other racers.

The gleeful look on the race directors鈥� faces was even more disconcerting than the exhausted look on the sprint finishers鈥� faces. There was a lot of talk about overheating, and I was suddenly concerned about the fact that my wetsuit was a tad (OK, more than a tad) tight in the chest, because I hadn鈥檛 lost the ten pounds I鈥檇 planned on. I wouldn鈥檛 be able to unzip and slip out of my top on the shorter runs, because it would take too much time to squeeze back in at each transition. I was almost certainly going to overheat. I wanted to go home.

After orientation, the California Swimrun guys introduced us to a Canadian team living in Nice, Nancy Heslin and her husband, PJ Heslin. The editor of Forbes Monaco, Nancy also edits 脰till枚鈥檚 online magazine, Swimrun Life, and she and PJ compete in series races every year. 鈥淵ou can鈥檛 worry about how you鈥檙e going to do,鈥� she said. 鈥淲e鈥檙e back-of-the-packers and love it. Swimrun鈥檚 about just doing it.鈥� They told us we were going to be fine, then proceeded to distract Alan with tales of anal bleaching and vaginoplasty by the riviera jet set. I don鈥檛 think he remembered to worry for hours.

Race day. Jogging down to the ferry taking all the competitors to 脦le Sainte-Marguerite, I felt surprisingly out of breath. Perhaps it was just from repeatedly saying 鈥溍巐e Sainte-Marguerite鈥� aloud with a bad French accent too many times in a row? I was also a bit annoyed with all the crinkly packets of Gu that Alan had thoughtfully brought for us, which I鈥檇 stuffed in the crotch of my wetsuit as Daemon advised. Once we were gathered on the dock with the hundreds of other swimrunners, however, I started to relax, almost. The colorful race jerseys鈥攔ed (men), green (mixed), and orange (women)鈥攍ent a festive air, and everyone was smiling, talking loudly, and snapping prerace photos. A third of the racers were from Scandinavia, maybe a quarter from France, nearly the rest from all over Europe, and a few from Asia and Russia. It felt more like a UN party than a competition.

We zipped on our superhero suits within the faded walls of Fort Royal, just yards away from the Man in the Iron Mask鈥檚 cell.

Everyone had their swimming paddles either strapped to their equipment belt or, like me, already attached to their wrists. Most of them also had race-legal pull buoys strapped on their belt, but Alan and I had opted for more streamlined, shin-guard-like calf sleeves, which had built-in flotation. I found that my worries had been correct: I couldn鈥檛 breathe, because my suit was too tight. Not only that, but we鈥檇 somehow ended up starting at the very front of the pack. Even with my tiny triathlon experience, I knew that we were about to be shoved and pushed aside like last week鈥檚 meat loaf.

When the race started, however, half the pack whizzed by us, but without a shove or jostle. They even politely hung back as we made our way through a section of rocky singletrack.

鈥淛ust keep it nice and easy,鈥� Alan told me a half-mile in, as if I could do anything else. Our California buddies trotted by, saying, 鈥淒on鈥檛 worry. Most of these guys will burn out!鈥� They may well have, but we certainly never saw it.

Either the 1.8-mile run around the first half of the island was longer than the race directors claimed, or we were a couple of minutes off our projected pace. Frighteningly, my legs were already tired, but Alan kept things light, pointing out certain birds, large private yachts, and anything else that might distract me. I was really glad we were in this together. Then we hit the stunning first half-mile swim and dove in like dogs, my pink paddles chopping through the light swells. The ocean was clear blue, with fields of seagrass waving beneath us, and we passed a dozen competitors.

The second 1.8-mile run was on Saint-Honorat. Using more wind than I could spare to talk, but wanting to seem at ease, I remarked that the abbey we were running below looked like the one in a Monty Python movie. This sparked a long monologue from Alan about the merits of The Holy Grail while he intermittently repeated, 鈥淔etchez la vache!鈥� (fake French for 鈥渇etch the cow鈥�).

On the next run, after swimming back to Sainte-Marguerite, we passed Michael Lemmel. I told him how much I hated running hills as we worked our way up a teeny-tiny one. He laughed and then called out, 鈥淥h, you鈥檙e in big trouble if you think this is hill running!鈥� About then, Nancy and PJ passed us, exclaiming, 鈥淗ey, 国产吃瓜黑料, smokin鈥�!鈥� I misheard this comment as 鈥�国产吃瓜黑料 Smoke鈥� and kicked myself for not thinking of this perfect team name myself.

We were now in the bottom quarter of the competitors. But we soon regained our mojo, passing dozens of teams during the third swim, a mile-long crossing from Marguerite to the mainland. We felt like the Romans, masters of water everywhere, arriving to conquer Gaul. Of course, many of those same teams trotted right past us on the next short run. That would be the back-and-forth pattern for the rest of the race. We developed a friendly rivalry with a couple of the teams, in particular two Frenchmen roughly our age, who we took to calling Team France, yo-yoing with them until the race鈥檚 end.

The course took us through crowded streets, past markets with grandmothers toting bags of produce, up narrow cobbled lanes, and, to my chagrin, up every single incline overlooking the city and the Mediterranean. After the fifth swim, along the Plage du Midi, we hit our first real hill. I kept a decent pace for the first couple of miles, until the route turned nearly vertical. My legs ached as if I鈥檇 been running stadium stands, but as I tried to slow to a walk, Alan kept his pace, stretching our bungee tight. It kept me moving, just as Daemon had said it would. We fist-bumped at the top, and as Alan started on a guarded descent, I blurted out 鈥淟et鈥檚 go for it!鈥� and set off at a sprint. Tripping over my tired feet, I fell flat on my face. Luckily, I was still wearing my paddles, so my hands escaped with only a scratch.

That first hill would be the only one I鈥檇 run up all day. From then on, the end of every ascent consisted of Alan beckoning me forward, sometimes with 鈥淵ou can do it, Hoddo!鈥� and other times mockingly: 鈥淐ome on, loser. You can鈥檛 walk here. Even my dead grandpa could do this.鈥� The worst was when he went into a long-winded anecdote that his high school swim coach liked to recount, something about how 鈥淥n the plains of hesitation lie the bleached bones of countless thousands who on the dawn of victory paused to rest, and in resting died.鈥� I so wished I had one of those bleached bones to smash his face in with.

The worst hill for me took us up the steps to Mus茅e de la Castre, an attraction majestically overlooking the western end of Cannes, which houses a collection of artifacts from around the world. Here, a kindly 80-year-old woman took one look at me and started clapping and chanting, 鈥淎llez! Allez! Allez!鈥� When I responded, 鈥淣o, no, no,鈥� Alan encouraged her while sprinting ahead to tighten the bungee, and she started running beside me, cheering as she went. She beat me to the top.

After that we swam along the Croisette again, then headed off on yet another, roughly three-mile run. We were jogging up a city road from the beach, next to a pair of women from England who we鈥檇 changed positions with a couple of times, when one of them said, motioning toward the highest hill in town, 鈥淵ou don鈥檛 think they鈥檙e making us go up there?鈥�

鈥淧lease no,鈥� I moaned. 鈥淭hat鈥檇 just be cruel.鈥� But, of course, they were. It was in the posh neighborhood of La Californie, Cannes鈥檚 Beverly Hills, but less tacky. As the miles went by and the path narrowed, the trail followed a worn-out funicular track overgrown with trees and brush, rising at what must have been a 60-degree angle for almost a mile. Every team we鈥檇 passed in the last swim went by. When we rested on the edge of a precipice and Alan encouraged me to keep going, I imagined pushing him off, him screaming, his head bashing the rocks as he tumbled down. But I was too weak to follow through.

The 鈥渞un鈥� down was even crazier than the slog up, as the 鈥渢rail鈥� was a bushwhacked, equally steep course through dense underbrush, culminating in a mile or so through a drainage ditch. For the most part, this was best done speed walking, as we had to plunge from solid rock to two feet of water to a soggy log to a rock-strewn bottom to a muddy, foot-sucking bottom鈥攁gain and again and again. Once we got out of the muck and back on a road headed toward the nudist beach, I started to run, but Alan reined me in, because he could barely walk. While I felt bad for his pains, I kept the bungee tight simply because I could. Oh, and a little payback.

Here, Team France passed us yet again, smiling and calling out, 鈥淪ee you after the next swim!鈥� Soon after that, we ran into Coke-can man, I drank the heavenly Red Bull, and we passed Team France in the swim. They then did the same back to us on the second to last run, because at that point Alan could only walk. Still, I kept the bungee taut, stretching it out to 30-plus feet at one point, dragging him along. Jumping in for the last 200-yard swim, Alan rallied, exclaiming, 鈥淟et鈥檚 catch the French!鈥�

Alas, it was too late, and sprinting off the beach we crossed the grassy finish line at 7 hours 34 seconds, a hundred or so feet behind them but not so far that the four of us didn鈥檛 get to hug and congratulate one another. Clearly, none of us were qualifying for the world championship鈥攖his time!鈥攂ut what the hell. We鈥檇 survived. Then Alan, who was having difficulty even standing, threw his arms around me. 鈥淭his was perfect,鈥� he said. And it was.

Contributing editor W. Hodding Carter () wrote about retracing Benedict Arnold鈥檚 1775 Quebec expedition in the July 2018 issue.

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鈥淪ay, do any of you have extra underwear?鈥� asked Rob Stevens, looking like a miserable Santa in his sodden red woollens and fluffy white beard, as he inspected our replica 18th-century bateau. His lisp was a bit more pronounced than usual, so I knew he was upset. 鈥淭hey need to be 100 percent cotton.鈥�

The bateau was overturned on the bank of Quebec鈥檚 raging Chaudi猫re River鈥攚hich basically means 鈥渂oiling cauldron鈥� in French鈥攁nd Rob, the 62-year-old boatbuilder who鈥檇 constructed it, was charged with the emergency repairs. The riverbed had shredded our boat鈥檚 bottom like so much Gruy猫re. Even worse were the see-through gaps where rocks and water had ripped out the caulking.

I peeled off my long wool underwear, tottering a bit on the rocky shore, and slipped out of my green tartan boxers. They were my favorite pair鈥攁nd apparently the only cotton ones at hand.

鈥淥h, those are nice,鈥� Rob said admiringly. 鈥淣ow tear them into long strips. About this wide.鈥� He held his thumb and forefinger about an inch apart.

I readily sacrificed my skivvies because the damage was my fault. The day before, I鈥檇 safely guided us down 30 miles of fast-moving water, but late in the afternoon, just as I was beginning to realize that I was tired and couldn鈥檛 see all that well, I had failed to slip our 417-pound craft past a pour-over that didn鈥檛 end up having enough water pouring over it. I could point out that my bowman, a young filmmaker named Wilder Nicholson, did not have a paddle, because Ben Schott, our resident whitewater expert, who was sitting just inches in front of me in the stern, had grabbed it for himself. But that would be unseemly.

Just as I鈥檇 screamed 鈥沦丑颈颈颈颈迟迟迟!鈥� and swung the stern almost far enough around, Ben helpfully added, 鈥淲e鈥檙e not going to make it!鈥� Indeed, the bottom stuck on that boulder as if it were covered with grippy tape. Our bow swung upstream, and the 22-foot boat filled with angry brown water.

Thankfully, it wasn鈥檛 our first swamping鈥攎ore like our 20th. The four of us somewhat calmly sat there until the weight of the water simultaneously freed us from our captor and submerged the boat. Ben swam off to retrieve a few items that had swirled away in the current, and Wilder and I kicked, stroked, and willed the sunken vessel to shore. It was like trying to eddy out a submerged pickup truck, especially with Rob hanging onto the bateau as if it were a giant PFD.

With another set of boat-destroying rapids just downstream, a narrow eddy was our only hope. Perhaps a bit callously, I yelled at Rob, 鈥淟et go, goddammit! You鈥檙e dragging us back into the current. Let. Go. Of. The. Boat!鈥� He didn鈥檛.

Later, after we鈥檇 made it to shore and I was bent over huffing and puffing, Rob asked, 鈥淲hat the hell were you talking about, let go of the boat? Are you insane? The boat was the only thing keeping me alive! I don鈥檛 know, Hodding. I鈥檝e never seen this side of you before. I鈥檓 not sure I trust you.鈥�

I鈥檓 a fanboy听of Benedict Arnold鈥攜es, that Benedict Arnold, the traitor who makes the folks in today鈥檚 Russia investigation look like they were playing tiddlywinks鈥攁nd it鈥檚 all because of his part in the 1775 campaign to take Quebec from the British. Essentially, it was a daring two-pronged attack by the Continental Army to take the fight for American independence to King George鈥檚 troops up in Canada. One prong, the supposed main one, led by General Richard Montgomery, would travel the comparatively reasonable route up Lake Champlain and then down the Saint Lawrence River to the fortified ramparts of Quebec City, which sits on a promontory overlooking the river. The other, led by Arnold, a colonel already known for boldness, would take 1,100 men over the seemingly impossible backwoods Native American trade route. If they succeeded, they would arrive in total secrecy.

In late September, Arnold and his men sailed roughly 40 miles up the tidal stretches of Maine鈥檚 Kennebec River, where they disembarked at present-day Pittston and switched to 220 wooden bateaux. Hastily built, the 22-foot flat-bottomed boats leaked worse than an old man鈥檚 bladder and were prone to capsizing in novice hands (and nearly all the men were novices). Each bateau carried 1,000 pounds of gear, including 45 days of rations. The soldiers would spend the next seven weeks pushing, poling, dragging, and carrying these loads up a 100-mile stretch of the Kennebec, over a 13-mile trail called the Great Carrying Place, then 40 miles up the Dead River, and through a dozen miles of bogs in an area called the Chain of Ponds before crossing the high-elevation mark, the Height of Land, between the Kennebec and Chaudi猫re river basins.

This was all before they headed downstream on the Chaudi猫re, 115 miles of whitewater that empties into the Saint Lawrence near Quebec City. By then the expedition had lost most of the boats and provisions to a hurricane鈥攁nd hundreds of soldiers to desertion. The rapids of the Chaudi猫re quickly destroyed the remaining boats, and the barefoot, frostbitten, starving soldiers suffered mightily as they stumbled toward Quebec City, arriving on November 14.

Despite this Sisyphean trial, Arnold鈥檚 men beat Montgomery鈥檚 to Quebec and had to twiddle their thumbs for more than a month outside the city walls. When Montgomery finally arrived and they all attacked on the night of December 31, it was a near instant disaster. Montgomery was killed at the outset, and Arnold was gravely wounded in the leg. The vast majority of the American soldiers were wounded or captured.

While the campaign to sack Quebec was an unmitigated failure, the approach journey is still considered one of the greatest American military expeditions of all time. Arnold鈥檚 contemporaries termed him America鈥檚 Hannibal (as in elephants over the Alps, not human liver, fava beans, and a nice Chianti). 鈥淭he guy was a real badass,鈥� says Nathaniel Philbrick, author of . 鈥淚n the moment of battle, there was no one else quite like him. He was like a comet.鈥�

Last spring, I finally decided that it was Arnold ho! time. I had wanted to retrace the expedition for decades, ever since I鈥檇 read Kenneth Roberts鈥檚 Arundel, the classic novel about the campaign, published in 1930, in which Arnold comes off as a swashbuckling leader of men and the expedition an oddly appealing trial in pain and misery. I was 54 and had put it off far too long.

I did some quick figuring. Arnold had 1,100 men and 220 boats. Three soldiers manned each boat in the water, while two or three huffed it on shore. I should be fine with one bateau and two friends, with a few more to rotate in when needed. Arnold had taken 51 days; I figured we could do it in 35. I gathered a couple of old lightin鈥檕ut buddies: John Abbott, 52, the director of outdoor programs at the University of Vermont, and Rob Stevens, 62, who had constructed a replica Viking ship that the three of us sailed from Greenland to Newfoundland in the summers of 1997 and 鈥�98. To lower our median age鈥擜rnold was 34, and most of his soldiers were in their early twenties鈥攚e snagged Ben Schott, 36, a Vermont-based whitewater guide who has run the Grand Canyon six times, and Wilder Nicholson, 24, an environmental filmmaker from Maine.

Then we turned to the bateau. Maine loggers were still using the craft well into the 20th century; with its long-stemmed, high-sided bow and stern, it鈥檚 the best thing for navigating New England鈥檚 rivers with a good-size payload. Yet most Arnold expedition aficionados agree that it was the wrong boat to use: heavy, clumsy, and, in Arnold鈥檚 case, too leaky.

Undeterred, we stuck with the bateau because, despite the criticism, it was the river workhorse of its day and the only practical boat Arnold could have used. Indeed, we would prove it was the right craft by being the first fools to get one all the way to Quebec!

By July we had a set of boatbuilding plans, thanks to Maine鈥檚 Arnold Expedition Historical Society, and enough money, courtesy of Kickstarter, to begin construction. Arnold鈥檚 boatbuilder, Reuben Colburn, had completed his fleet in two weeks. Not by coincidence, no matter how much I nagged, Rob couldn鈥檛 start on our one measly bateau until September 10, about two weeks before the September 26 departure date.

A week into the build鈥攊n a boatyard along the downtown waterfront in Bath, Maine鈥擨 was sorely wishing I鈥檇 persuaded Rob to start sooner. The long, one-inch-thick planks didn鈥檛 fit together tightly no matter how much Rob and my son, Angus, and I bent and clamped them. As soon as we鈥檇 nailed something into place, Rob would say, 鈥淭hat鈥檚 gonna leak!鈥� Even so, our bateau was starting to look like an Arnold bateau, with her wide pine boards, naturally curved bracing (using maple knees from trees I鈥檇 cut in my backyard), and rosehead nails we 鈥渃linched鈥� into place, hammering each one in and then bending the sharp end back on itself, like a preindustrial staple. We filled in the gaping seams with long strips of oakum, pouring heated tar over the cotton caulking for good measure.

Besides the gaps, the only troubling thing came when, one afternoon, Rob offhandedly revealed that he鈥檇 had a heart attack in the past year. Then, a day or two before our scheduled departure, as we ate burritos next to a pile of wood shavings, he also let me know he had a defibrillator.

鈥淎re you going to die?鈥� I asked, slightly hopeful, since it would result in a splashier story.

鈥淣ah, I don鈥檛 think so. Anyway, there鈥檚 no place I鈥檇 rather do it.鈥�

When we tested our bateau on Saturday, September 23, she leaked like a sieve. But leaky wooden boats are commonplace in Maine, and those of us in the know stood around, hands in our pockets, telling each other, 鈥淪he鈥檒l swell up.鈥� After all, we still had three days.

Meanwhile, my desire to re-create the expedition didn鈥檛 stop at the bateau, so I busied myself gathering up appropriate stores. My wife, Lisa, and our friend Jen Iott, a sailmaker, were hurriedly sewing together the wool period outfits鈥攇orgeous billowy shirts and sturdy drop-front pants鈥攖hat I was going to make my friends wear. I鈥檇 also been soaking 15 pounds of pork in water salty enough to float a raw egg. Salted pork was an Arnold expedition staple鈥攗ntil they lost most of their provisions on the Dead River.

When launch day arrived three days later, we all met at the boatyard. Ben, who I hadn鈥檛 met before, looked pale and tense, despite resembling an overgrown merry woodsman, with his bushy beard and long hair.

鈥淗ave you seen the bateau?鈥� I asked excitedly. 鈥淪he鈥檚 been swelling up the past three days.鈥�

鈥淵ep,鈥� Ben said slowly as we walked toward the dock.

She was underwater. No amount of swelling could have sealed the slots we found when we hauled her out. Undeterred, we trailered the boat up to Pittston to launch. As 40 or so friends and strangers milled about helping and watching, we added strike plates (protective wooden battens) to the bow and stern, drove in more caulking, and poured even more melted tar over every visible gap.

The original expedition had also been forced to wait for last-minute repairs. Arnold鈥檚 diary, September 28: 鈥淭he whole Detachment marched, except Scott, McCobbs and Williams Companies, who are detained for Battoes to be mended.鈥�

鈥淚 think this is as good as we can do right now,鈥� I announced. 鈥淲e just need to launch and get going.鈥� That鈥檚 when Rob told me he couldn鈥檛 join us for a few days (which would turn into weeks), and Ben, who I thought was leaving the next day to wrap up other work, said his mom was coming to get him wherever we camped that night.

The men were already deserting, and we hadn鈥檛 even begun.

A bald eagle听soared overhead as we finally shoved off at 4 p.m.鈥擶ilder, Ben, and John each taking an oar while I steered. The boat still leaked, but it was more manageable after somebody at the launch tossed us a plastic bilge pump. Yet when we tried to row, water was still pouring in with each stroke of an oar. So we paddled. It was a warm, summery afternoon, and the tide was with us. By 6 p.m. we鈥檇 covered five miles and were about four miles south of Fort Western, in present-day Augusta, where Arnold would split his army into four divisions to depart on four separate days.

On the edge of a hayfield, we sent John to ask at a nearby farmhouse for permission to camp. John has a way of talking through sticky situations鈥攍ike trespassing鈥攁nd he returned half an hour later bearing six beers. 鈥淎fter I told them we鈥檙e retracing the Arnold expedition, Brian and Judy threw out the welcome mat,鈥� he said. 鈥淭hey鈥檙e bringing down fresh tomatoes and a crock of baked beans. Boys, following Benedict Arnold鈥檚 trail is definitely going to have its benefits!鈥�

A cool fog had lifted by the time we set out the next day, and when a southerly breeze kicked in, we rigged a light nylon tarp as a sail by tying its corners to a pair of ten-foot poles. Instantly, we doubled our speed to two knots! The river was wide and quiet and the sailing an unexpected bonus. By early afternoon, we鈥檇 left the tidal section and come into some small rapids under a trestle at the northern end of Augusta. Unable to see directly in front, on account of the sail-tarp, we immediately ran aground and had to spend the next two hours alternately sailing and dragging the boat. The current beat at our legs, knocking us off our feet. This was just as it had been for Arnold. One of his soldiers wrote in a journal, 鈥淧roceeded up the river and found the water shoal, which caused a rapid current, and we were obliged often to get out and wade, pulling the boat after us.鈥�

We were looking for a place to camp when we saw a man in a cowboy hat standing upriver, staring in our direction.

鈥淒onna, come on down. It鈥檚 them,鈥� he yelled out to his wife. 鈥淚鈥檓 Orland Bean,鈥� he called down to us when we were close enough to talk. 鈥淵ou and I corresponded by e-mail. Donna and I stopped here thinking this might be a good place for you to camp tonight. Not much else around, and it鈥檚 good high ground. We know the landowner, and he鈥檚 said no problem.鈥�

We鈥檇 find this kind of help again and again on our journey. People who lived along Arnold鈥檚 route were deeply invested in its history and would become an integral part of our adventure, saving our butts numerous times. It was Orland, for example, who followed our progress up the river for the first week, magically appearing on the banks at dusk to guide us into a campsite he鈥檇 scouted as we spent our days laboring at the oars and trudging through the water.

More disconcerting than the shoals or the current was how effortlessly Wilder steered. When John manned the stern oar, it looked like he was suffering from hemorrhoids. Every muscle straining, he鈥檇 turn purply red and sputter for minutes at a time until I doubled over in laughter. I wasn鈥檛 much better.

鈥淒on鈥檛 you just want to kill him?鈥� I asked as Wilder sat smiling in the stern, holding the oar with only his thumb and index finger.

鈥淚鈥檓 in awe,鈥� John responded. Wilder was like the bald eagles we kept seeing soaring low over us鈥攇race in motion. They were in command of this waterway.

We were not, which was made obvious when we encountered Ticonic Falls on September 30, day five. As we pulled ashore below the remnants of Fort Halifax鈥攁 colonial outpost already in disuse when Arnold passed through鈥攚e could see a wall of water pouring over a 40-foot drop. There was no way the three of us鈥�oh, ye deserters!鈥攃ould get Batty, as we now called her, up that. But after scouting the steep portage from a nearby bridge, Wilder turned positively giddy. 鈥淚 really think we should go for it! We can do it!鈥�

We unloaded our gear and started carrying the bateau up the dry side of the fall. We made it two feet. Maybe. Our next strategy worked better: by setting a log under the bow and lifting the stern, we rolled the boat up another ten feet. Whoa! After three hours, we鈥檇 made it two-thirds of the way. As we stood gasping for breath, two guys named Tony and Mike clambered down the rocks to have a beer and watch the falls.

鈥淛ust needed to get out of the house,鈥� one explained. But then he asked, 鈥淣eed some help?鈥�

With their assistance, we finished in under 30 minutes. Sadly, there were two more dams upstream. Without going into details, let鈥檚 just say we may have had my wife bring up some 21st-century assistance, possibly a trailer.

After that our numbers dwindled to two, as Wilder left for a couple weeks for a film shoot. John and I struggled upstream as signs of civilization dropped away. Besides the sound of nearby highways and the occasional sawmill, we could have been 200 years back in time. Beavers slapped their tails at us, and giant sturgeon, recently revived in the Kennebec, leaped high in the air. Day by day, we caught up with the pace of the Arnold expedition, and when we reached the end of the Kennebec, on October 7, we were ahead of all but one of the divisions.

So, after unloading just yards from where the Arnold expedition had also left the Kennebec, we were onto the next phase of our journey: the Great Carrying Place, the 13-mile uphill portage.

The Great听Carrying Place: such a sweet, unassuming name, I almost forgot we鈥檇 have to lug our bateau up the height of the Empire State Building. Almost. This had been a soul-crushing leg for the Arnold fellows. The first five miles included a 1,000-foot elevation gain up faint singletrack used by Wabanaki traders. An advance party spent days cutting trees to widen the trail for the bateaux; the portage itself took a week. 鈥淭he army was now much fatigued,鈥� recorded the expedition surgeon, Isaac Senter, on October 14, 鈥渂eing obliged to carry all the batteaus, barrels of provisions, warlike stores, &c., over their backs through a most terrible piece of woods conceivable. Sometimes in the mud knee deep, then over ledgy hills鈥︹��

In our planning, Ben and John and I had often declared that the Great Carry would be impossible. However, with it now upon us, I determined that we should do it the right way, under our own power. This was one of the areas that had claimed the Arnold campaign鈥檚 place in history鈥攚e couldn鈥檛 give up without trying!

Thankfully, Rob had returned, and while Ben and John discussed our obvious need for a trailer, I whispered to Rob that he had to help convince them otherwise.

鈥淵es sir, Mr. Carter. Right away, sir,鈥� Rob responded. 鈥淥f course we can do it. They鈥檙e just being big babies.鈥� Rob is a big believer in brute force.

I gently began the pep talk. 鈥淟isten, we鈥檙e going to portage the entire 13 miles without using a fucking trailer and that鈥檚 that. No more whining.鈥�

鈥淕uys, this is nothing,鈥� Rob jumped in. 鈥淩emember, the Viet Cong carried half a ton down treacherous, impossible mountain-jungle trails on their tiny bicycles! And when their tires went flat,鈥� he said, clearly improvising now, 鈥渢hey repaired the inner tubes with frog skins that they had to go out and catch themselves.鈥�

Ben, recovering first, rose to the bait: 鈥淚 guess they were more badass than us.鈥�

鈥淣o,鈥� Rob said, beaming. 鈥淭hey were a lot more badass!鈥�

We started lugging the boat uphill, rolling it on birch logs that Ben had cut from a standing dead tree. Luckily, we had arranged for some help through this stretch from our spouses. With Rob鈥檚 wife, Allison, and Lisa and another friend, we were able to move the boat up a one-lane dirt road. As we pushed, a log would roll out behind the stern and a runner would grab it and hurry to set it at the front. After six hours, 500 vertical feet, and 1.4 miles in the rain and mud, we left the boat on the side of the road and trudged back to our camp.

The portage was five days of pain and misery, but it was also simple. Yes, you got covered in bruises. Your muscles and joints ached like the heart of a lovesick teen. Hands turned raw and swollen. But you had one clear mission: keep moving forward. That鈥檚 all that mattered. When is life so beautifully simple? Strain. Push. Pull. Lift. Run. Moan. Again and again.

In an October 13 letter to George Washington, Arnold praised his soldiers鈥� conduct while explaining their slow pace. 鈥淲e have been obliged to force up against a very rapid stream, where you would have taken the men for amphibious animals, as they were [a] great part of the time under water; add to this the great fatigue in portage, you will think I have pushed the men as fast as could possibly have been. The officers, volunteers and privates have in general acted with the greatest spirit and industry.鈥�

Midafternoon on October 13, we reached Flagstaff Lake. Back in Arnold鈥檚 day, the portage trail met the shallow, slow-moving Dead River at this spot. But now, thanks to a massive dam built in 1949, this section is a large, clear body of water surrounded by mountains. Every bit of shorefront was tastefully decorated with driftwood and red foliage.

Despite the late hour, we shoved off from the southeast coastline, mostly protected from a 20-knot southerly wind. But within minutes we were awash in a whitecapping torrent. Water poured into Batty like she was the SS Minnow, so I steered for the leeward side of a nearby peninsula. The shore was studded with big rocks, but it was too late and dangerous to find another spot.

鈥淕uess we won鈥檛 be doing much sleeping tonight,鈥� Ben said. Rob had planned to leave us again here, and he immediately tromped through the woods to rendezvous with Allison at a nearby road. Attempting to make the best of our situation, I suggested we try the Ziploc of pecan-pie-flavored martinis that a family had given us during the Great Carry. Maybe the booze would help make things a little less miserable.

The martinis ended up working a bit too well, and we made the unanimous (sort of) decision to cross the thing at night. We folded the tarp into a triangular shape to improve our angle of sail and shoved off after sunset for a moonlit crossing.

The bateau flew through the cresting swell. Ben, constantly attempting to pump the bilge dry, would yell, 鈥淚鈥檓 pumping. Still pumping!鈥� Every few minutes, I鈥檇 have to remind him that the end of the bilge hose actually needed to be overboard, and he鈥檇 add, 鈥淚鈥檓 really drunk!鈥� The wind repeatedly landed the sail in the water. Even so, we covered seven miles by midnight. It was only in the morning light, when we saw how strewn the lake was with tiny rock islands, ledges, and unseen obstacles, that we realized what a miracle it had been.

Now we were on the Dead proper, and the river was initially slow and deep, meaning we could make decent time upstream. Even better, we found Mr. Arnold Trail himself, Kenny Wing. He and his dad, who started the Arnold Expedition Historical Society with friends, had found nearly every Arnold artifact between Flagstaff and the Canadian border: hundreds of musket balls, ax heads, knives, utensils, and clinched bateau nails. Kenny let us camp on his land, hauled our gear, bushwhacked trails, and dragooned volunteers. I can still picture his 89-year-old mother running beside us carrying a log on one of our many portages.

The Dead was the same as it had always been: serpentine and narrow, with endless shallows followed by startling dark depths created by the river鈥檚 many industrious beavers. At times it was less than 20 feet across and only a few inches deep. We bashed both ourselves and Batty on the rocky bottom as we pushed and pulled endlessly.

This 30-mile segment made everything that had come before seem like a guided, store-bought adventure. When the sun dropped behind the trees, we felt the cold deep inside our shivering bodies. Our wet clothing would freeze solid during the night, and in the morning we鈥檇 pour boiling water into our neoprene boots before we put them on. Our hands swelled and our joints were so abused that they ache now, months later.

Arnold鈥檚 men were hit by a hurricane on this stretch. The river rose eight feet, destroying most of the bateaux and their provisions. Almost immediately afterward, some 300 to 450 men (accounts vary), including sick and injured soldiers and an entire division led by Lieutenant Colonel Roger Enos, deserted and turned back for civilization, taking a majority of the expedition鈥檚 remaining food supplies. Enos鈥檚 division had trailed far behind and, in retrospect, their quitting seems almost inevitable.

We kept going, however, and on our fifth day on the Dead we reached its end, at the Chain of Ponds Dam. Rob was standing on the dam yelling, 鈥淚 don鈥檛 like you guys! You sent all my stuff back!鈥� (This was true. His stuff weighed at least 60 pounds.) But seeing him was good timing, since John would be going home in a couple of days. He had told his wife that he鈥檇 be gone a month, and time was up.

Through the 12-mile Chain of Ponds, Kenny led us on portages over unbroken wooded ground that followed Arnold鈥檚 route exactly. We even carried Batty right over a spot where Kenny and his dad had discovered a series of nails laid out in the shape of a bateau. Arnold, out in front and already on the banks of the raging Chaudi猫re, had ordered all the bateaux left behind. 鈥淭he oppression of carrying them was becoming absolutely intolerable,鈥� one soldier wrote. 鈥淲ith inexpressible joy we dropt those grievous burthens.鈥�

We crossed Arnold Pond, the last in the chain, on October 23. The remaining mile to the Canadian border, over the Height of Land, was fairly easy work: Orland Bean had brought a canoe trailer for us to push-pull Batty to the Arnold River, a few miles into Quebec. People stopped. Cheered. One man gave us three cans of Coors.

Arnold and his men had a much rougher time here, on account of groups getting lost, much boggier land, tattered clothing, snow and ice, and starvation. By now the troops had resorted to eating hair grease, shoe leather, candle wicks, and, eventually, the remaining camp dogs.

鈥淭hey ate every bit of him,鈥� the owner of one reported, 鈥渘ot excepting his entrails.鈥� They collected the bones and carried them to be pounded up, and to make broth for another meal.鈥� But, like us, the party was eventually assisted by friendly Quebecois. Arnold had sped down the Chaudi猫re in a canoe in search of a settlement and finally found one near present-day Saint-Georges. Eighteen Quebecois, sympathetic to the rebel cause and paid by Arnold, delivered five oxen, two horses, two sheep, and eleven barrels of flour to the hungry men.

After slogging through the shallow Arnold River for two days, crossing Lake M茅gantic, and then rolling Batty on logs through the town of Lac-M茅gantic, we reached the Chaudi猫re, the penultimate leg of our adventure, on October 25. Heavy rains had swollen the river overnight, covering rocks and ledges with just enough milky-brown water to make avoiding them difficult. Ben steered while I took to the bow, and Rob stayed in the middle. It didn鈥檛 go well. We鈥檇 avoid a shallow boulder, I鈥檇 scream, 鈥淟ooks good now!鈥� and then we鈥檇 slam to a halt. The boat would heel to one side, swamp, and then submerge and float free. We鈥檇 scramble to an eddy, unload our gear, drain the boat, and head off again.

We were waiting for a break in the rapids to cross to the other side, where we had agreed to meet Wilder after his two weeks away. At some point, Rob yelled over the roar of the water, 鈥淲hat are we doing, Hodding? A half-hour ago you said we鈥檇 cross the river and stop, but you still aren鈥檛 doing it!鈥� We ferried across right after that, swamping on the way, and made camp in the rain on the side of a hill. There was no level ground, and by this point neither Ben nor Rob was really speaking to me. But at least Wilder found us hours later, in the dark.

Our time on the Chaudi猫re was filled with running rapids, lining the boat past rapid-choked narrows, or paddling in rapidly moving flatwater. The river rose another six feet, and as we sped past rolling hills of farmland, one would have called it bucolic if not for the smothering odor of cattle dung.

Many, many swampings later, on October 31, we left the Chaudi猫re for good, only a few miles from where the Arnold expedition started marching the 25 miles to the Saint Lawrence. We were a week ahead of their pace, after our brisk descent of the Chaudi猫re. Wanting Batty to make the entire trip, and down to only three able-bodied men, we opted to rent a U-Haul to reach L茅vis, a town on the south side of the Saint Lawrence, just downstream from Quebec City. Arnold spent almost a week at Point L茅vis, then a small community with a mill owner who was sympathetic to the Americans, gathering canoes and waiting for a night that they might slip past British forces.

On the night of November 13, Arnold gave the go-ahead to cross. To transport 500 soldiers, however, they had to make three trips and sneak past two warships. One of the canoes broke apart midstream, and the swamped soldiers had to be dragged, holding onto other canoes, to shore.

Arnold had accomplished the impossible simply in reaching the city鈥檚 walls. Afterward, Washington wrote to him, 鈥淚t is not the power of any man to command success, but you have done more鈥攜ou have deserved it.鈥�

It was Washington鈥檚 fondness for Arnold, in fact, that made his eventual betrayal cut so deep鈥攖hat, plus his outrageous successes after the failed attack. Arnold went on to lay siege to Quebec (forcing the British to divert thousands of soldiers to the Saint Lawrence), whip the British on Lake Champlain, and ensure the American victory at the Battle of Saratoga, which convinced France to side with the colonies. Where he didn鈥檛 fare so well was politically. In 1780, feeling (correctly) besmirched by cunning fellow officers and politicians, and under the spell of his Tory wife, he hatched a plan to hand the Hudson River fort of West Point over to the Brits. Due only to a few last-minute mishaps did his plan fail, and he slipped away moments before being caught by Washington himself. Arnold went on to fight for the British and eventually retired to England, somewhat of an outcast. He died of edema in London on June 14, 1801.

Like Arnold, we had to wait in L茅vis for clear weather and reinforcements鈥攊n our case, John and our families. Wilder occupied himself by making a full-size wool flag like the one New England flew during the revolution, and I bought a five-foot-long toy wooden musket. Forty days after we left Pittston, on November 4, we were at last ready to conquer the city.

The tide, ebbing from the west, was supposed to turn at 1:30 p.m., but by 2:45 the water was still rushing downstream. We were southeast of the city ramparts, but we decided to try to ferry across anyway, spurred on by celebratory shots of rum. We rowed for nearly an hour just to stay in place right by the L茅vis ferry terminal, putting our lackluster performance on full display. After the tide finally slackened, we crossed over and tucked into a cove, just below the cliffs that housed the citadel.

We were in Quebec City at last! On shore, we hugged each other and then marched up the citadel鈥檚 back steps to raise our flag. Of course, since the steps rose hundreds of feet and we鈥檇 had more rum than we should have, we had to pause a time or two. However, before the sun set, we stood proudly on those storied walls in full Benedict Arnold expedition re-creation regalia. We took in our success and then turned around and mooned the Canadian barracks to spur the British (or at least any British-speaking soldiers) to come out and fight. None were brave enough to appear鈥攐r, more likely, they didn鈥檛 know we were there. Whatever. Unlike Arnold, we had won the day. A bateau had made it to Quebec.

Huzzah, huzzah, huzzah!

Contributing editor W. Hodding Carter (Instagram: ) is the author of 听and other books.

The post Retracing Benedict Arnold’s Foolhardy Upstream Voyage appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

Playing the Field: Be On the Lookout

Sparks fly in the strangest places

Whenever I tell the story of how Sara and I fell for each other, it sounds like a lie. Sometimes I rein in the details鈥攏ot because they鈥檙e false, but -because I know they appear to be. Like the part with the volcano. The part with the volcano always tips it from crazy to unbelievable.

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We鈥檇 been in the Amazon for a week, in northern Ecuador, dodging bullet ants, swimming with pink dolphins, fishing for piranhas. Friends, platonic, since childhood. On what was supposed to be the final day of our trip, we emerged from the jungle on the outskirts of Lago Agrio, a little oil town just south of the Colombian border, where we planned to drag our grimy backpacks onto a turboprop and fly to Quito. We already had two seats booked on a flight.

Walking the road toward town, we smel-led the burning tires before we saw them. There were several smoking piles and hundreds of protestors. As we got closer, a few of them started chanting that they should throw the gringos into the fire. Sara鈥檚 Spanish was rusty, and she asked me what they were saying. I told her I鈥檇 tell her later.

The airport was shut down, as were all major roads. Foreign oil companies had bled the area for decades, giving little in return, and the locals were fed up. Most of the nearby wells and pipelines had just been sabotaged, cutting into Ecuador鈥檚 oil output. We found a cheap hotel with a nervous desk clerk and an empty room and waited for the inevitable crackdown.

The military arrived. We watched the clashes from our window, saw Molotoved banks burn, inhaled lungfuls of tear gas. At some point we discovered what I imagine has always been true: when things fall apart, people fall together.

As chaos subsided, we tried to get out of town. We hitched a ride with a cop, then thought better of it when we saw a police car in flames. We called our embassies鈥攕he has Canadian citizenship鈥攂ut they couldn鈥檛 do anything. Eventually we found a television news crew that was determined to get its footage back to Quito, and we asked if we could tag along. They said we could. The protestors let them through. They wanted their message out.

The last hurdle was a partially dismantled bridge. We stopped and hauled just enough of its scattered pieces of steel back into place. As our vehicle inched across, I looked up the riverbed and saw that we were on the flanks of a volcano鈥擡l Reventador鈥攁nd that it was in the process of reven-tando, belching smoke and ash.

That was 11 years ago. The short-lived Lago Agrio uprising had only a modest effect on world oil prices, but it changed our worlds completely.

Our daughter just turned ten.

Luke Dittrich is the author of .

Getting Serious: Stay the Course

Relationships demand compromise. But always hold on to your dangerous habits.

When I started dating my wife, Katie, I ached for her from my knees to my throat. My desire to keep her close tempted me to cancel trips, tell my buddies to buzz off, and turn down jobs that I鈥檇 normally be thrilled to get.

A specific recollection has me climbing into the nosebleed section of a giant Sitka spruce that was leaning over my friend鈥檚 home in order to knock out the top with a chainsaw. I鈥檇 done this a bunch of times while working as an arborist during graduate school. I always loved the thrill of riding that bucking tree amid the rush of air created by the severed trunk racing toward a collision with the earth. But this time, as I inched my way up, I suffered a collection of worries about a climbing rope that suddenly seemed vulnerable and insufficient. One wrong move with my chainsaw or an errant placement of my climbing spurs and I might not live to touch Katie鈥檚 thigh again. The only sensible thing to do was rappel down and leave the tree to some sucker who was less in love.

But I kept climbing. I was driven by thoughts of many friends who had given up some vital part of themselves in the early stages of a relationship鈥攕olo climbs, annual fishing trips, plans to cross the continent on a bike鈥攁nd their girlfriends grew to love them in the absence of such things. Later, when my friends tried to resume their old behaviors, they realized that they had inadvertently placed them out of reach. A buddy of mine describes this phenomenon as 鈥渢he screwing you get for the screwing you got.鈥�

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That鈥檚 not good for anyone鈥攏ot for you, your girlfriend, or your relationship. When Katie and I were going through that love-drunk phase, I kept right on doing extended hunts in the mountains of Alaska and traveling to some of the remotest corners of the world for work. Instead of feeling threatened by these activities, she learned to take pride in my ability to navigate danger. 鈥淚 want my guy to be capable,鈥� she鈥檇 say, 鈥渁nd to remain dedicated to what he鈥檚 doing even in the face of big risks.鈥�

Just don鈥檛 push it to the point of selfishness. Katie knows that I鈥檓 not carousing in bars at night. She knows that she can count on me in tough times. She knows that our family is my top priority. Because of all that, she鈥檚 OK with me turning up in the top of a big tree, attached to life only by a thin rope. When I come down, it鈥檚 like our first date all over again.

Contributing editor Steven Rinella is the author of .

Making the Commitment: No Risk, No Reward

The best way to show your willingness to go the distance? Follow them anywhere.

It鈥檚 only three miles, I told him. You can swim three miles. I鈥檝e got some fins in your size, and the group stops every 500 yards. The water鈥檚 warm! Usually there isn鈥檛 much current. Right now the Southern Hemisphere is quiet, and the Northern Hemisphere hasn鈥檛 kicked in yet, so there won鈥檛 be any swell. We鈥檒l see turtles! Fish. Manta rays. Across the coral reefs it鈥檚 a kaleidoscopic trip, and in the deep water鈥� well, you can still see the bottom. You鈥檒l love it! You鈥檒l be fine.

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He was game. He was from Manhattan by way of northern Italy, in Hawaii for the first time, and he had flown to the middle of the Pacific Ocean to visit me. We were a new couple, feeling our way through early turbulence and geographic complications, and more than anything, I wanted him to stay for a while. In matters of the heart, I鈥檝e learned that it pays to address the heart directly, so I set out to share what I love most: Maui鈥檚 offshore waters.

Here鈥檚 what I didn鈥檛 share: that a thriving population of tiger and oceanic whitetip sharks love these waters as much as I do.

Two years earlier, in fact, while swimming the same course, three friends and I ran into a feeding 13-foot tiger. I鈥檝e seen my share of large marine life, and this was for sure the crankiest. A tattered sea turtle with a chunk out of its shell lay below us as we treaded helplessly, watching the shark roll its eyes back, tuck in its pectoral fins, and prepare to attack. But something gave the animal pause, and after a few long, menacing minutes, it snatched up the sea turtle, gave the carcass a warning shake, and swam slowly away.

Since then there have been other shark encounters around here, several bites and two fatalities. I didn鈥檛 see the upside in mentioning this. We waded out from the beach, adjusted our goggles. I was nervous. This was a moment of reckoning.

Until now we鈥檇 gotten along easily in our fledgling relationship, but reality would eventually descend鈥攁nd here was a dose of it. Could I love someone who didn鈥檛 handle himself well in the ocean? The short answer was no. But I also realized that it鈥檚 a pretty tall order to ask someone from New York City to plunge into 70-foot-deep salt water and stay there for two hours comfortably.

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My worries were wasted. He swam well; if anything, he鈥檇 understated his skill. The ocean was crystalline that day, everything glowing and luminous. But when we arrived at the turnaround point, a rocky cliff studded with sea caves, the water abruptly turned oily and murky. Looking down, I saw a severed ahi head lying on the seafloor and realized, with a jolt, that the fishermen on the rocks above had been chumming. A lot.

Before I could suggest that we get out of there, another swimmer yelled: 鈥淪hark!鈥� We ducked our heads in time to see a ten-foot oceanic whitetip, sleek as a fighter jet, swim past us right below the surface. The shark鈥檚 mouth was open, teeth clearly visible, and it was heading out to sea as if spooked. 鈥淚 think we鈥檇 better go,鈥� I said. He agreed, and in that moment I saw that he hadn鈥檛 panicked, hadn鈥檛 freaked out, and that, if anything, he was awed by the whitetip鈥攚hich, by the way, is one of the more aggressive models. We got engaged six months later. Now when he tells the story of his first open-water swim in Hawaii, there鈥檚 pride in his voice, and happiness. A man who loves the wildest fish in the sea? That鈥檚 what I call a keeper.

Susan Casey is the author of .

Going Long: Lean On Me

Whatever the trail throws at you, you can handle it step by step

The first date that my wife, Lisa, and I went on was a bug safari in Central Park in the summer of 1992. Dressed in khakis and penny loafers, we wandered the woods and hillsides with magnifying glasses and entomology books in hand. Two weeks later, we pitched a tent for three nights in Adirondack Park. Soon afterward, we camped in New York鈥檚 High Peaks Wilderness Area and hiked 5,344-foot Mount Marcy.

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As our relationship grew, our outings got more ambitious. Later that year, we strapped a canoe on top of Lisa鈥檚 Saturn and drove from Boston to Everglades National Park to paddle the 99-mile Wilderness Waterway. We conceived our first children鈥攖win girls鈥攚hile backpacking in Great Smoky Mountains National Park and eloped in the summer of 鈥�95, with Lisa gathering a bouquet of wildflowers and vegetables on the way to the courthouse in Lewisburg, West Virginia.

Some couples hike hand in hand. Not us. Lisa kicked my ass. She walked faster. She was never out of breath. And she always鈥攁nd I mean always鈥攑repared and packed better than I did. She was the quintessential adventure partner.

And then her body started falling apart. First to go was her shoulder. So we stopped doing triathlons together. A few years later, around 1998, she broke her right big toe. For some reason it never healed, and so while she could still hike glaciers in Greenland faster than me, each of us carrying a twin on our back, she was hurting every other step. Yet she soldiered on because it was our thing. We were the outdoors couple.

And then it got worse. By 2007, she started to experience excruciating pain in her hips on simple walks on our neighborhood nature trail. We didn鈥檛 know it, but she had a hered颅itary condition, shared with her brother and two sisters, in which the tissues that held her joints together were simply no longer strong enough for the job. Between the four siblings, they鈥檝e now had four hips, five shoulders, and three knees replaced.

Watching Lisa hobble around our house, first on a cane and then on a walker, I assumed our outdoor life together was over. But about two years back鈥攁nd I remember the exact look, words, and location鈥攕he turned to me and said, 鈥淚 miss being in the outdoors with you and the kids too much. I want to go on hikes with you until the day we die.鈥�

We learned that her 鈥済ood鈥� hip had end-stage osteoarthritis, and her bad hip was far worse. Her doctor couldn鈥檛 believe the destruction鈥攂one had been grinding on bone for quite a while. Last winter she got dual hip-replacement surgery. Then, in the spring, a reconstructed big toe. Her right second toe was so disfigured by arthritis that she chose to have it amputated.

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A few months into her recovery, it鈥檚 a relief just to be able to walk with her to the end of the driveway to get the paper. Or to arrive hand in hand, out of breath, at an outdoor wedding. We have a tough climb ahead, but as long as there鈥檚 a trail before us, we鈥檙e 颅going to follow it, together.

Correspondent W. Hodding Carter is the author of and .

听

My husband, Steve, and I have been living and skiing in northern New Mexico for 16 years. We鈥檝e had epic powder season, when we skied Taos nearly every weekend and drought seasons when we had to settle for skinning up our local ski area and carving wide wale. Steve scored some great backcountry seasons, with hut trips to British Columbia. Then I had pregnant seasons (hiking Kachina Peak at 5 months along鈥攎aybe not the wisest idea?) and newborn seasons, when my ski days were curtailed by ravenous infants and, when I did venture farther afield, my pump was part of the package. I鈥檝e expressed milk in ski area parking lots, cafeteria bathrooms, and SnoCats, but never鈥攖hank God鈥攐n a chairlift.

Now that our two daughters are emerging from babyhood and are learning to ski, we鈥檙e having kid seasons. We鈥檙e enormously lucky to have a decent resort just 25 minutes up the road, but it鈥檚 still a schlep to get girls and gear to the lifts, and on the best days, we only manage to sneak in few runs ourselves. So all winter we鈥檝e been fantasizing about getting out of the area and into the backcountry, where鈥攁way from the vacationing crowds, the lure of hot chocolate in the lodge, the occasional parking lot tantrum鈥攕kiing as a family would be simpler, more relaxing. Or so we thought.

听

Choosing the right spot was key. There are plenty of backcountry huts and yurts throughout the Rockies, but with a one-year-old and three-year-old, we had very specific criteria: We needed something within a few miles of a road, as our range would be limited by how far we could carry them and all our gear. The terrain had to be low-angle, with low or no risk of avalanche. Ideally, the hut would be big enough to accommodate another family. And we didn鈥檛 want to have to spend a ridiculous amount of time driving to get there. All told, our requirements were a little daunting, and I was starting to think we鈥檇 be better off waiting until the kids were older.

Then by chance I found it: a lone yurt at , deep in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, about an hour northeast of Taos. The yurt鈥攁 circular, wood-and-canvas shelter, in only its second season鈥攊s only a mile from the base area, accessible by groomed and rolling cross-country ski trails. EFXC鈥檚 website describes it as having woodstove for heat, a propane stove for cooking, all the necessary cooking gear, an outhouse, and bunks for six (BYO sleeping bags). It sounded ideal for us and another family, who also have two girls under four. I figured we鈥檇 put the babies in portable, backcountry cribs, and the rest of us would crash on the bunks. Best of all, EFXC rents ski pulks specifically designed for carrying kids, and we could pay an extra $25 to have our gear transported via snowmobile to the yurt and back. I checked the calendar: Not surprisingly, only a couple weekend nights were still available, so I booked one on the spot.

It had all the makings of a perfect starter yurt trip.

Last Saturday morning, we left Santa Fe at the tail end of a storm, with fog obscuring the mountains and three inches of wet snow on the ground, but by the time we reached the Rio Grande Gorge, the roads were dry and the skies were clearing. It was turning out to be a classic March day in New Mexico: snow one moment, sun the next, all the more beautiful for how moody and unpredictable it was. After a two-and-a-half hour drive, we arrived at Enchanted Forest around lunchtime and spent the better part of an hour unloading and repacking our sizeable pile of gear and food. As we鈥檝e learned from summer river trips, it鈥檚 almost impossible to travel light in the backcountry with toddlers and babies鈥攅ven more so in the winter, when they need lots of warm layers, bulky boots, and for our three year old Pippa, a last-minute pair of borrowed XC skis.

Mush! photo: Blair Beakley

We debated using the snowmobile鈥攖he purists (e.g., fathers) among us argued it would be just as easy to haul the kids and then come back for the gear鈥攂ut eventually, practical minds prevailed, and Mike, the head ski patroller, backed the sled behind our car and we started piling it full of stuff. Good thing, because putting four wiggly toddlers into two small ski pulks鈥攑icture a bike trailer, only smaller and with two plastic grooves instead of wheels鈥攖urned out to be trickier than we thought. One-year-old Maisy was delighted to play in the pulk, but when we stuck her sister in beside her and zipped up the clear plastic cover, it turned into an instant mosh pit. Ditto for our friends Stewart and Blair, whose 11-month-old baby Grace began wailing loudly beside three-year-old Franny. Time for Plan B: our .

We鈥檇 strapped the little girls on our backs and the bigger girls in the pulks and were finally ready to shove off, when Geoff, EFXC鈥檚 owner, ambled out of the homey base lodge to assess our rigs. 鈥淥h we don鈥檛 usually allow people to ski with kids on their backs,鈥� he told us. The casual way he said this belied the bomb he dropped next. 鈥淚t鈥檚 too dangerous. There have been eight fatalities in the last decade.鈥� He paused meaningfully to let the horror set in. 鈥淚 was a first responder on one of them.鈥� I looked at Blair, who has been my partner on numerous ski outings with babies in tow, and I could tell she was thinking what I was thinking: All those times I鈥檝e skied pregnant or with a baby strapped to my back鈥攈ow could I be such terrible, careless mother?!

But Geoff wasn鈥檛 done yet. 鈥淭hink about it: a baby鈥檚 head is like a watermelon,鈥� he went on, 鈥渁nd if your skis slide out from under you, bam.鈥� He made a slapping motion with one hand, and in one frenzied contortion, Blair shrugged the baby pack off her pack and put Grace into the safety of the pulk. Maisy was still protesting, so I decided to keep her on my back, at least for the long gradual climb to the yurt. After all, Mike had just told me my backcountry skis鈥攚ider than typical XC skis, with metal edges鈥攚ere 鈥渁 little overkill鈥� for the groomed trails. 鈥淚f you get nervous,鈥� Steve said pragmatically, 鈥測ou can put her in the sled.鈥�

Setting off, Powderpuff Trail climbs gently from the lodge, and pretty soon Geoff鈥檚 message of doom was drowned out by Gracie鈥檚 desperate screeching. Behind me, I could feel Maisy鈥檚 head slump on my shoulder and all 23 pounds of her turn to dead weight. She was asleep. I could just make out Pippa鈥檚 bright eyes and huge grin through the fogged-up plastic cover of her pulk. With the help of the trail map, we navigated half a dozen junctions along EFXC鈥檚 more than 30k of trails. The website was reporting a 30-inch base, but in some sunny places, it skied more like five, with rocks and patches of grass peeking through along the edges. Still, it was undeniably gorgeous, and liberating, to be out there in the fresh air and stillness of the afternoon, pulling the girls under our own power, free from our mountain of stuff and life鈥檚 constant yammering distractions, at least for a little while.

The yurt, when we arrived after half an hour, sat in a picturesque clearing beside the trail; to the south, you could make out the high snowy ridge of Wheeler Peak, the highest in New Mexico. Even from some distance, I could tell it was going to be the smallest yurt I鈥檇 ever seen (never mind that it was the only yurt I鈥檇 ever seen, up close). Inside, our neatly stacked gear took up half the place; the rest consisted of two bunk beds, a tiny folding table, four chairs piled in the corner, a small wooden counter with a two-burner camping stove, a lantern dangling from the ceiling, a miniature wood stove, and a narrow shelf stacked with Sorry! and Yahtzee. It wasn鈥檛 immediately clear to me how we鈥檇 all fit inside, or where we would sleep, but we crammed in anyway, nervously admiring the view through the skylight and trying not to step on each other, especially baby Grace, who would more or less live on the floor all weekend.

We laid out lunch of hummus and wraps on the table and shooed the girls outside to take advantage of the daylight hours and build a snow cave. Then Blair and I ducked out to ski a lap around the south end of the trail system to an overlook called Piece de Resistance, with views south towards Wheeler Peak and Gold Hill, above Taos Ski Valley. Afterwards, we all went out for a walk, strapping Pippa into a pair of kiddy XC skis for the first time. I was expecting a spastic, wobbly-ankle debacle, but Pippa was surprisingly surefooted, herringboning up the steeper slopes and evening getting some glide.

Back at the yurt, Steve lit a fire, gave me explicit instructions to not let it go out, and skied off with Stewart into the late afternoon. Soon it would be dark, and suddenly the yurt felt very cold. It was hard to decide which was more urgent: get the kids into warm clothes or put dinner鈥攙egetarian chili Blair made ahead鈥攐n the stove. We scrambled to do both at once, layering the girls up in wool leggings and fleece while trying to light the burners, cajoling them to eat chili and cornbread cross-legged on the floor, jamming too-long logs into the woodstove, and taming the crazy mess of gear spilling onto every inch of yurt. Yeah, we were backcountry nesting. By the time the guys came back, the yurt had a vague air of order about it, the kids were fed, and hot chili for the rest of us was simmering on the stove鈥攁 fleeting moment of calm before the storm. Literally.

Trying to put four kids to bed in a space roughly the size of a bathroom isn鈥檛 something I鈥檇 wish upon my worst enemy, and even though the adults among us were far too preoccupied trying to settle squalling girls to say anything aloud, I know we were all thinking the same thing, and not for the first time that day: How could this possibly be worth it? Nearly two hours of musical kids and bunks and countless false alarm trips to the malodorous outhouse later, the kids were more or less asleep. And since there was nothing much for us to do but sit and whisper in the dark鈥擨 was most certainly not going to catch up on my New Yorker reading as I鈥檇 imagined鈥攚e all retreated to our bunks in various stages of emotional and physical disrepair.

Trust me when I say that the most essential piece of gear on a family yurt trip is a pair of earplugs. They鈥檒l take the edge off when your husband gets up repeatedly to shove wood in the stove and when the kid (yours) in the top bunk wails with a night terror (thankfully, Franny and Grace, model yurt citizens, slept through the hysteria). The only thing stranger than my inconsolable, half-asleep daughter thrashing on the top bunk was the flash of snow lightning that lit up the skylight and the clap of thunder that followed. Oh great, I thought, imagining our tiny canvas shelter being vaporized by the next strike, this is just what we need.

Next thing I knew, though, the faint light of dawn was streaking through the plastic windows and the children were beginning to chirp softly, like tree frogs in a Costa Rican dawn. All I could think was, thank God, we鈥檇 survived. 国产吃瓜黑料, the rogue midnight storm had dropped at half a foot of fresh snow, and the ponderosas glittered in white. There was the answer to our question: Yes, in the blinding light of a backcountry powder day, this was most certainly all worth it.

After breakfast, we went out for a family ski and got first tracks on fluffy, just-groomed trails. The older girls stood in the back of the pulks, musher-style, and Pippa broke out the XC skis for a bit, their peals of laughter breaking the powdery quiet. No one was out yet, and as we glided along through the silent, shining forest, I was struck by how, despite the obvious hassles, sleeping out in the backcountry is the only true way I know to slow time. Away from the over-stimulation of everyday routines, life really is so much simpler. In a 16-foot yurt, your only job of consequence is to keep the kids from killing each other or freezing to death. That, and fly through the trees on fast skis with fresh air in your lungs and sun on your face and people you love all around. Really, is there anything more important?

Top Ten Tips for Surviving Your First Yurt Trip with Kids

1. If you can, stay at least two nights, preferably three. It takes the same amount of prep as one, and the first night you鈥檒l be too busy working out the kinks to really relax. By the second, you鈥檒l have your system down and can focus on checking out.

2. Don鈥檛 forget earplugs.

3. Suck up your pride and take snow mobile assist if there is one. Definitely.

4. Bring more warm layers than you think you need, especially socks. Even with woodstoves, yurts can be chilly.

5. Pack slippers for all.

6. Borrow, rent, or BYO ski pulk. Chariot makes ski kits that will turn your bike trailer into a kiddy pulk. Otherwise, check out ($475), the classic, made-in-Utah sled that we used at EFXC.

7. Snowshoes are a great alternative to XC skiing if you鈥檙e worried about carrying kids on your back.

8. Bring or rent equipment for the kids, even if they鈥檝e never tried Nordic skiing. A backcountry base camp is the perfect low-pressure place to explore the feeling of gliding on edgeless skis. If they鈥檙e not into it, they can always play musher in the pulk or build snow caves.

9. Double check the size of the shelter before you book. Your gear will take up more floor space than you think, and a 16-foot diameter hut isn鈥檛 big enough for eight. A hut with a separate sleeping space will make for a more restful night for all.

10. Homemade banana bread from Alice Water鈥檚 Art of Simple Food is an instant tantrum tamer and easy no-cook breakfast when you want to feed the kids fast and get out for a ski.

Enchanted Forest Cross Country Ski Area, ; yurt rental, from $75 per night.

鈥擪atie Arnold

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Earlier this month I went on a hike through the woods in northern Maine with , a 38-year-old outdoorsman leading a monumental effort to establish a new national park on an 87,500-acre parcel of private land in the state. The area features听hikeable mountains, surging streams, trails littered with droppings from lynx, moose, and coyotes, and stunning views of Mount听Katahdin to the west, in Baxter State Park. It鈥檚 the place that made Henry David Thoreau exclaim, 鈥淚n wildness is the preservation of the world.鈥� It would make a spectacular 59th national park鈥攊f only St. Clair could find a way forward.

St. Clair, a bearded man standing six听feet five听inches听tall, is the perfect salesperson for the proposal: not only is he an avid environmentalist but he鈥檚 also a dedicated fisherman and hunter. Having grown up in nearby Guilford and earned a degree in culinary arts from Le Cordon Bleu in in Paris, he appeals to both snot-nosed college-grads and backwoods rednecks alike, having learned how to work just about any group thanks to ten years of working as a sommelier in Seattle.听

St. Clair inherited the battle to build a park four years ago from his mother, Roxanne Quimby, co-founder and owner of Burt鈥檚 Bees, who owns the land and had alienated many locals. One of her听early proposals, put forward in 2000 in cooperation with a group called听, proposed dedicating a much larger section鈥�3.2 million acres, a chunk of land larger than Yellowstone and Yosemite combined.听The ginormous park, as it was proposed, would have absorbed the last 100 miles of the Appalachian Trail and Baxter State Park in the process, in addition to eliminating hunting, fishing, snowmobiling, and logging, a traditional cornerstone of the local economy. The area has supported hundreds, if not thousands, of lumber mills over the years and, at its peak in the early 1900s, more than 100 paper mills.

Quimby cut ties with RESTORE in 2004鈥攖he group wasn鈥檛 moving quickly enough for her liking鈥攁nd ditched the mega-park plan, while continuing to buy up property from the ailing timber industry. But by then she had provoked strong resentment from many locals who felt the park plan would jeopardize their lifestyle and livelihoods. They attacked her plan, as well as her being a woman and an outsider鈥攐r in local parlance, 鈥渇rom away.鈥� (Quimby also undermined her own efforts with in which she blasted rural Mainers for their obesity and addiction to oxycontin, and said they were hooked on welfare.)

Over the past 20 years, Quimby has sunk $74 million of her own money into the project. In 2006, she even added a sweetener: a $40 million endowment. And since St. Clair has inherited the project, he's worked (mostly successfully)听to mend fences with locals that felt ignored by听Quimby.听Setting the land aside, you鈥檇 think, would be a no-brainer.

鈥淭he land in the North Woods area proposed for donation absolutely fits the National Park Service鈥檚 criteria for national park sites, including suitability, feasibility, and national significance,鈥� Park Service director Jonathan Jarvis declared during a visit to East Millinocket in May. 鈥淭here is no other representative landscape like the North Woods in the national park system.鈥�

And yet, in many ways, the plan to hand over this land to the federal government has been a case study in how seemingly impossible it is to create a new national park.

The process of converting government or privately owned land into a national park is long and tedious鈥攊t听makes Sisyphus鈥檚 task seem manageable by comparison. For example, it took John D. Rockefeller to his proposal to donate a key piece of the听land for what we now call Grand Teton National Park. The听first step to becoming an NPS Unit鈥攖he categorical term for the more than 400 national rivers, lakes, structures, monuments, historic parks, and parks that the Park Service oversees鈥攔equires an act of Congress.听

Federal lawmakers must first enact a law requiring the Park Service to perform a feasibility study looking at the site鈥檚 cultural, historical, and environmental significance, as well as management options. (There's a three-year deadline for completing the study, though it is听almost always pushed back.) Generally, the areas being evaluated come at the recommendation of the president via the Department of the Interior. Since there are so many areas that have been nominated to be studied over the years鈥攁nd there is a backlog鈥攖he Park Service prioritizes them using a points system, and submits only the highest ranking areas to the House and Senate in the form of a bill. Only when it passes through both houses can a new national park鈥攐r river, battlefield, trail, or the like鈥攂e born.

Since 2000, the White House has submitted dozens of areas for study鈥攁ll under the Obama administration. Former President George W. Bush, unwavering on land protection, did not submit any study areas, although he did create three national marine monuments covering 125 million acres of the Pacific at the tail end of his tenure. During Obama鈥檚 tenure, dozens of units have been created, including 23 monuments and two parks: Pinnacles, a mountainous area in Northern California鈥檚 Central Valley, in 2013, and听Congaree, a large swath of old growth forest in South Carolina, in 2003.

The two parks are 2,500 miles apart, but they have one thing in common: both were initially national monuments. Quimby and St. Clair hope to follow that same path to parkhood鈥攊t may be听the only way around the Byzantine system.

鈥淚t is the perfect solution: less than a park, but still protected, 鈥� Quimby explained in Eco Barons: The New Heroes of Environmental Activism. 鈥淎nd once it鈥檚 there and people find they can live with it, enjoy it and prosper because of it, then turning it into a park becomes no big deal. That鈥檚 what I鈥檓 gunning for. And that鈥檚 what will save the Maine Woods.鈥�

During my recent hike with St. Clair to the proposed monument site, we followed a leafy, switchback trail up the 1,600-foot Mount Barnard, one of the property鈥檚 many small mountains. St. Clair and Quimby spend around $100,000 a year maintaining the land, and had the trail built in part to help show the land鈥檚 potential.

St. Clair hovered curiously over animal signs and, about halfway up the 30-minute hike, he halted to point out the change in environmental zones, evidenced by a nearly straight-line switch from hardwoods to pines. 鈥淭his is what it鈥檚 all about,鈥� he said over his shoulder, returning to his fast-paced hike. 鈥淣ot all those meetings down in town.鈥澨�

St. Clair has spent the last few years attempting to win over more locals while also running operations to make the land look more Park-worthy. He鈥檚 commissioned stylish maps of the attractions, put up road signs that mimic NPS signage, and erected lean-tos for Appalachian Trail thru-hikers. 鈥淲e figured if it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, then…鈥� St. Clair explained with a shrug.

At the top of Mt. Barnard, a wide area strewn with tall boulders and low-lying trees, we sat at a new picnic bench built on the summit鈥檚 western edge, marveling at yet another breath-taking view of Katahdin. We could easily see the entire 100-Mile Wilderness series of mountains, but Katahdin, and the valley before it, stole the show.听

St. Clair only recently has begun making headway, but support has been swift: polls show 67 percent of Mainers now听favor a national park designation. Democratic Congresswoman Chellie Pingree听penned a note to Obama in May 2016 asking him to grant the area monument status. 鈥淚t鈥檚 beautiful land, the majority of Mainers are for it, and Acadia has shown that a national park is financially beneficial for Maine,鈥� Pingree says. The endowment is another selling听point and, 鈥渢o my knowledge hasn鈥檛 happened in the history of the Park Service,鈥� she adds.

But some of the locals鈥� initial concerns have carried over to the monument proposal,听and not all conservative lawmakers are excited. Republican U.S.听Senator Susan Collins, of Maine, has听.*听Maine鈥檚 Tea Party Republican Governor Paul LePage听says the presidential ability to award monument status is an abuse of power. 鈥淚 don鈥檛 think it鈥檚 right for this president or any president to come up to our state or any other state in the country and say this is now federal land,鈥� LePage recently declared in reaction to Jarvis鈥檚 comments. Republican Congressman Bruce Poliquin, who represents the district where the monument would be located, is opposed as well.听

LePage also argues that the designation would bar off valuable resources and undercut the wellbeing of people dependent on the timber trade. But the fact is that all of the paper mills in the Katahdin area have closed, their sulking metallic hulks a sad reminder of more financially prosperous times. But the land in question is, of course, private and already off limits to consumptive uses. Furthermore, economic impact studies commissioned by Quimby and St. Clair show that a monument could create at least 450 private-sector听jobs鈥攁 much-needed boost in a severely depressed regional economy.

As we head back down the wending trail from Mount Barnard鈥檚 summit, St. Clair seems more than a bit dismayed. I ask why he bothers, and he pauses. 鈥淚 think so many people are losing the essential contact with nature,鈥� St. Clair says. 鈥淲e need to create as many opportunities for them to get outside as possible. And I think National Parks sites are the best and safest way to do that.鈥�

The North Woods is beautiful land, worthy of becoming a monument and even a park. Whether it will ever happen is anyone's guess. To gaze out across the forested valley between Mount Barnard and听Mount Katahdin听is to ponder a mystifying question: We love our national parks; why don't we love creating new ones?

听

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Experiencing the great outdoors with your family can be endlessly rewarding: time slows down, discoveries are made, everyone leaves with a sense of well-being. Or you take your kid sailing and accidentally let the boom knock him overboard. Either way, your children will remember all the times you spent outside – and they will thank you for it. We asked three accomplished outdoors writers to share their own stories of raising adventurous kids, traumatizing accidents and all.

How to Raise an Outdoorsy Kid – Without Traumatizing Him by W. Hodding Carter
Learning to Cook the Whole Hog by Jack Hitt
Turning the Outdoors Into a Playground by Anthony Doerr

How to Raise an Outdoorsy Kid鈥擶ithout Traumatizing Him

I managed to raise a great outdoorsman, despite doing everything wrong

If there was one thing I knew when he was born, it was that I would be the one to guide my son, Angus Kane Carter鈥攏amed for both the Yeats poem 鈥溾�� and the 19th-century Arctic explorer Elisha Kent Kane鈥攖o be the confident young outdoorsman I never was.

Unlike my own father, who absently set me adrift in the sea of manhood, I had a plan. I would artfully lead Angus to his competent destiny through repeated outings, carefully orchestrated 鈥渓earning鈥� moments, and even the occasional confidence-building 鈥渢est.鈥�

Looking back, the first misstep occurred when Angus, now ten, was a toddling two. He could swim as well as a six-year-old as long as he was beside the wall, but I decided to nudge him forward, to reveal to him his obvious skill. Holding him in the middle of the pool, splashing and blowing bubbles like we鈥檇 done countless times before, I let go with little warning. Tears flowing, he easily made it back to the water鈥檚 edge in a few seconds. And then refused to swim for the next two years.

When he was three, he could tie a number of sailor鈥檚 knots and knew how and when to haul in a sheet while tacking our 23-foot sloop across Penobscot Bay, Maine. All was good, until the day my wife and I went out for a short sail, and I let Angus scamper, against Lisa鈥檚 advice, untethered on deck while we were anchored in a tossing sea. I didn鈥檛 see it coming, only a blur in the corner of my eye, as the careening boom batted him overboard. His mom fetched him back aboard even before the sickening plop! had faded away. The result: he wouldn鈥檛 sail until just recently.

Last summer I did it again. Proud of Angus鈥檚 precocious canoeing skills鈥攚hat other nine-year-old so easily performed a cross-bow draw?鈥擨 suddenly turtled our Old Town Discovery. Just as I鈥檇 predicted, Angus popped above the surface, paddle in hand, and immediately instructed his friend and me to work the boat to the nearest rock so we could flip it safely. Despite all our previous setbacks, he was that sure, brave boy I never was. Best of all, he鈥檇 clearly learned from my years of meddling鈥攁lthough it wasn鈥檛 quite the lesson I had in mind. Angus hasn鈥檛 set foot in a canoe with me since.

Learning to Cook the Whole Hog

The joy of cooking pig, for a new generation of campfire girls

Two or three times a year, I slow-cook a whole 150-pound hog, and not just because there鈥檚 no good way to cheat your way to that exquisite flavor. Those 18 to 24 hours of fireside work can鈥檛 be done alone, which might be the best part. I learned how to cook a pig from my elders, and they learned the way we all do: getting conscripted to work overnight, staying up until dawn to keep the coals smoking, drinking liquor, and wailing on a guitar, torturing the most maudlin lyrics of the time (then, Leonard Cohen鈥檚). That graveyard shift is practically a rite of passage.

Real barbecue slows down time and gets you back to the very origins of cooking. I鈥檓 always shocked by how many people come over in the morning to 鈥渉elp out,鈥� a full six hours before the invite says: because there is no siren call quite like spending a whole day kicking embers in a fire pit while the air coils with pecan smoke.

Over the years, I鈥檝e taught my two daughters my secret of pig prep鈥攕imple dry rub鈥攁nd how to keep the temperature beneath the covered pig running around 210 to 220 degrees. The girls are heading toward college now, and they take the graveyard shift so I can fall asleep listening to far-off, maudlin lyrics (now, Bon Iver鈥檚). I hear them laughing and carrying on, sitting beneath blankets in the dead chill after midnight, a snuck cigarette or beer here and there. I drift off, happy to transmit this tiny body of knowledge to a new generation that has been learning it just the way I did, and on back to long before the last Ice Age, when our deep ancestors worried that their kids might run off with a Neanderthal or hang out with those airhead cave painters in Lascaux. Maybe that鈥檚 why it鈥檚 impossible not to give thanks when cooking a whole animal鈥攊t鈥檚 an acknowledgement of gratitude for some really good turn that happened long before we could even put it into words, because those hadn鈥檛 been invented yet.

Correspondent Jack Hitt is the author of and .

Turning the Outdoors Into a Playground

Far from Mario Bros. and Minecraft, the real gaming begins

July in Idaho, and my eight-year-old twin sons and I are sleeping in a yurt in the middle of Boise National Forest. We are鈥擨鈥檓 guessing鈥�100 miles from home, 30 miles out of cell-phone range, and ten miles from the nearest human. It is deeply, amazingly, unsettlingly quiet here. The hour before dawn comes on so still, so windless, that the sound of my heartbeat, shifting hairs in my inner ear, keeps waking me up.

Many environmental scientists write about scarcity. We鈥檙e running out of silence, amphibians, genetic diversity, fresh water. Yet one of the largest challenges my children face is too much access to too much stuff. Together my sons own approximately 47 trillion Legos; they play organized football and soccer and go to lacrosse camp; they have Mario Bros., , Monopoly; and their iPads allow them to do most of these things鈥攂uild Legos, kick a soccer ball鈥攙irtually. Out here at the yurt we have two books, a package of Oreos, and some beef jerky. But rather than get bored, my boys seem only to get happier with every hour. They collect 鈥淕andalf sticks鈥� and yell 鈥淵ou shall not pass!鈥� They ask, 鈥淚f we catch a chipmunk, can we keep it?鈥�

When the sun finally heaves up above the ridge to our east, we take our Batman fishing poles and go tramping down to the Crooked River, a gorgeous creek with deep trout-filled holes every half-mile or so. Before noon I help my son Henry release his fourth trout: spotted and brilliant and jackknifing in his palms as he lowers it into the water. 鈥淭hank you for letting me catch you,鈥� he says. I am reminded: the world is always there, if I can only remember to take them out into it.

Anthony Doerr is the author of , a book of short stories. His second novel, All the Light We Cannot See, will be released in 2014.

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鈥淲hat’s wrong?鈥� I asked John Ruskey. He slowly closed his cell phone. Glancing toward photographer Chris LaMarca to see if he was in earshot, he gazed at the churning Mississippi.

It was our second day canoeing the , and the river was hurling us southward at a rate of almost 100 miles a day.

鈥淢y wife,鈥� John finally answered, shaking his head. 鈥淪omebody told her there鈥檚 a shoot-to-kill order for anyone on the water.鈥�

This was bad news. On May 16, we had sneaked a canoe into the river in Memphis, Tennessee, setting off to paddle 300 miles downstream to Vicksburg, Mississippi. We knew, of course, that what we were doing was illegal. On May 13, Mississippi governor Haley Barbour had issued an executive order banning all nonofficial watercraft from the flooded areas. But we couldn鈥檛 resist. Since 1998, John has worked as the only paddling outfitter on the Lower Mississippi, and I grew up in the Delta, exploring its rivers and bayous since elementary school. This was our chance to see the Old Man the way he鈥檇 been in his prime, before levees channeled the river in a controlled path around New Orleans and out to sea. Now, however, with the water raging at two million cubic feet per second鈥攃hurning up football-field-size boils, countless whirlpools, and other dangers鈥攇etting shot was just one of our concerns.

Water levels like this hadn鈥檛 been in the forecast for the spring of 2011. Unlike the , the previous high-water event, this one had literally dropped out of the sky鈥攋ust weeks after southern farmers had planted heavily to cash in on rising commodity prices for everything from corn to soybeans. Although there had been an impressive amount of snowmelt bulging the river in early spring, that had pretty much run its course by planting time. Then, from April 14 to 16, the storm system responsible for one of the largest tornado outbreaks in U.S. history dumped record amounts of rain in the middle and lower Mississippi River Valley, engorging the river almost overnight.

Four more systems hit in the weeks that followed, quickly producing some of the highest water levels ever recorded on the Mississippi. The river rose to 61.5 feet at Cairo, Illinois, to 47.7 in Caruthersville, Missouri, and to 47.8 in Memphis鈥攅ach mark near or above local flood stages. All along the lower half of the river, in Tennessee, 颅Arkansas, Louisiana, and Mississippi, the water was cresting at or near levee-topping heights, threatening 6.8 million acres of farmland and town after town after town.

The big question was whether the levee system would hold. After the devastating flood of 1927 submerged 27,000 square miles, killed more than 200 people, displaced 700,000, and wrought property damage estimated even then at $347 million, Congress ordered the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers to construct or improve the world鈥檚 largest system of levees, dams, and floodways鈥攊ncluding 2,300 miles of mainline levees extending from Missouri through Louisiana. The still-unfinished project was largely completed in the 1980s, but the Corps鈥檚 work had never been tested like this before, and officials were doing everything possible to shore up the levees: piling on additional riprap, sheathing entire structures in plastic, and stacking up sandbags.

Since even the tiniest damage to levees can lead to river water pouring through, state and federal officials had stationed armed personnel along them to discourage anybody鈥攖errorist or sightseer鈥攆rom coming close. Back in 1927, similar armed patrols guarded the levees for hundreds of miles on both sides of the river. In Rising Tide, John Barry鈥檚 definitive 1997 book about the 鈥�27 flood, Barry quotes an anonymous telegram sent to the governor of Louisiana and published in the press that warned river captains, 鈥淭he next boat that comes down at such high speed will need two pilots, as we intend to kill the first one. Our guards are armed with Winchesters and they have orders to shoot to kill.鈥�

Now 47, he first arrived in Mississippi in 1983 by riding down from Winona, Minnesota, on a raft constructed from scrap lumber and old steel oil drums; he stayed to play the blues and set up a guiding operation, the Quapaw Canoe Company in Clarksdale, in the heart of the 11,240-square-mile alluvial crescent known as the Mississippi Delta. John鈥檚 canoe trips are unparalleled, but even so, people there think he鈥檚 a little nuts for wanting to be out on the big river.

I know the feeling. As I learned growing up along the riverside town of Greenville, Mississippi, 鈥済ood鈥� people just don鈥檛 mess around with the river. Local author David L. Cohn, who wrote about the area from the 1930s through the 1950s, once claimed that folks in the Delta fear only two things: 鈥渢he wrath of God and the Mississippi River.鈥� Most people I know down there might occasionally tempt the former鈥攂ut never the latter.

That鈥檚 why I nearly soiled my trunks the second we saw two stubby aluminum motor颅boats鈥攖he regional vessels of choice for law enforcement鈥攔acing at full speed to inter颅cept us after they鈥檇 appeared out of nowhere 100 yards downriver. By the time we could make out that they were Bolivar County Search and Rescue, John quietly announced from the stern that a third boat was approaching from upriver.

John ever-so-casually ruddered the canoe away from them, out toward the main channel. Ignoring my pounding heart and a lifelong commitment to avoiding the law, I thwarted his escape plan, performing a hard cross-draw and aiming the bow 颅directly 颅toward the posse. Once we were close enough, I went into full-on good ol鈥� boy.

鈥淲hat y鈥檃ll doing out here?鈥� I asked nonchalantly. 鈥淕reat day to be out on the water, idn鈥檛 it?鈥� The five men to our right didn鈥檛 even blink, but the big guy driving the downriver boat barked, 鈥淲here鈥檚 y鈥檃ll鈥檚 license?鈥�

鈥淢y license? In my drybag. We鈥檙e out here working for 国产吃瓜黑料 magazine, but with weather like this it sure doesn鈥檛 feel like work!鈥� Not even a smirk. Chris, with his northern accent and hipster facial hair, had wisely stayed silent, but maybe John鈥檚 instinct had been wiser. The big guy asked for my license again. Stalling, I asked if he meant my driver鈥檚 license.

鈥淣aw, boy,鈥� he answered, with an exploding grin. 鈥淵our insanity licenses鈥斺�檆ause you boys are crazy!鈥� Then, as if this had been their plan all along, all 15 guys started laughing and telling us we better get our asses over to the Arkansas side, where it wasn鈥檛 illegal to be on the water. After I told them my mama would never forgive me if I drowned in Arkansas, they laughed even more, took our pictures, and sped off. Now, at least, we knew one thing: since only a fool would be paddling this out-of-control river鈥攁nd fools aren鈥檛 worth shooting鈥攚e were safe. Blessed be the insane.

I’d come to this听misadventure honestly. I鈥檝e spent much of my adult life paddling in far-flung waters鈥攆rom guiding the Class V rivers of West Virginia to sailing a replica Viking ship in the Arctic Circle. But when the 2011 flood hit, I was still working on my long-term project of traveling, in broken stages, the Delta鈥檚 circumference by boat. I had already paddled the Big Sunflower and Yazoo rivers, which form the region鈥檚 eastern and southern boundaries. The Mississippi would just about bring me full circle to where I grew up.

It was my grandfather, the second W. Hodding Carter, who taught me to love the Delta,听and in particular Greenville, which for decades was its most prominent city. He was owner and editor of the Delta Democrat Times, and he always called things as he saw them鈥攚hich, in the immediate post鈥揥orld War II era, meant arguing in favor of equal education for 鈥淣egroes.鈥� His outspoken editorials won him a Pulitzer Prize, as well as lifelong enemies like the White Citizens鈥� Council, a bastion of militant resistance to desegregation that assailed him during the 1950s and 鈥�60s with threatening anonymous phone calls and advertiser boycotts.

His escape? The river, including Lake Ferguson, which had formed between the Mississippi and the rebuilt town of Greenville when the Corps cut off an oxbow from the main channel in the 1930s. Big, as we called my grandfather, went there to fish, once hauling up a five-foot blue catfish; to hunt deer with each of his three sons; and to net the delicate river shrimp (now in severe 颅decline due to channelization and pollution) that were once common fare for steamboat lunches. He wrote many books about the area, but two specifically concerned the river: one, Lower Mississippi, a natural and human history for Farrar and Rinehart鈥檚 Rivers of America series, the other a hyperbolic coffee-table book called Man and the River. 颅Every page extols the river鈥檚 beauty and virtues.

Although Big moved to the Delta well after the flood, he knew that his adopted town, and the entire area, owed its continued existence to the new and improved levees, especially given that, old-timers say, some of Greenville鈥檚 downtown buildings were buried under Lake Ferguson. To his way of thinking, and to many in the Delta even now, the engineers and officers of the Corps could do no wrong as they turned bayous into drainage ditches, connected backwater levees to mainline levees, constructed hundreds upon hundreds of stone dikes (鈥渨ing dams鈥�) to deepen and maintain the main channel, and sliced out听countless cutoffs to drain floodwaters. Every颅thing the Corps did was OK because its ultimate goal was to protect the Delta鈥檚 towns, farms, and livelihood.

But today the Delta is mostly a depleted, depressed region with a shrinking population. In Greenville, a painful number of businesses are boarded up downtown, and one-third of the population falls below the federal poverty level. Bad as these facts may sound, the river has fared even worse. As far back as I can remember, its definable features have been its muddied water and the irrepressible Mississippi funk, a suffo颅cating m茅lange of rotting mud, decaying fish, fertilizer, and some unidentifiable industrial by-product that is probably best not dwelled upon, at least when you鈥檙e swimming in it. Each spring the bloated river, choked with nutrient-laden agricultural runoff and channeled by levees, races straight into the Gulf of Mexico in unnatural volumes, setting off such dizzyingly fast-paced algae growth later in the summer that the plants use up all the surrounding 颅oxygen. This process creates oxygen-free dead zones, huge swaths of lifeless ocean that first appeared in the 1970s. The record dead zone, in the summer of 2002, covered 8,500 square miles, larger than the state of New Jersey. This year鈥檚 is predicted to be at least 5 to 10 percent larger.

Yet, in mid-May, as the river was predicted to crest at 65 feet and urged citizens to stock up on water and fill up their gas tanks, we couldn鈥檛 help but be excited. The same force that led others to fight or flee the river was the same force drawing us (in Faulkner-speak) inexorably toward it. Rising dozens of feet higher than its normal level, the river simply swept over the confining wing dams and, gathering swollen tributaries under its arms, spread itself far and wide.

Two mornings earlier, our crew of three had been skulking around downtown Memphis in John鈥檚 massive Suburban, trailing a huge wooden canoe. John was circling the same eight-block area of upscale residences on Mud Island鈥攖he tourist-friendly peninsula that juts into the Mississippi River鈥攂ut failing to find the semi-secluded launching area that had been suggested by a friend. His worried look made me realize that his most recent high-water adventure, in 2008, was still bothering him.

鈥淚 guess I should tell y鈥檃ll, I almost got arrested before when we tried this,鈥� he鈥檇 said on the drive up from north Mississippi. We鈥檇 met the previous night at John鈥檚 headquarters in high-and-dry Clarksdale, but we didn鈥檛 hit the road until around midnight. Now we were still playing catch-up at 5 A.M.

鈥淎 bunch of do-gooders tried to get us for endangering minors,鈥� John went on. 鈥淭hey couldn鈥檛 believe we were taking my friend鈥檚 two kids out on the Mississippi in a boat without a motor. As if the canoe hadn鈥檛 been the preferred method of travel on the Missi颅ssippi for thousands of years! The second we backed onto the grass, this old guy, the park superintendent or some颅thing, hops out and calls the cops, saying, 鈥楧on鈥檛 you see the stay-off-the-grass signs?鈥欌��

John shoved off minutes later; 鈥淏rother鈥� Ellis Coleman, 55, a friend of his who serves as a part-time shuttle driver, was left standing in the water, holding the trailer, when the police arrived.

鈥淛ohn, these policemen have some questions for you!鈥� he shouted across the 颅growing distance, but John just 颅pad颅dled on. With Brother Ellis鈥檚 permanently calm demeanor, it was little surprise that no one got arrested. The lanky, implacable Delta native is brother鈥攐ne of 13 siblings, thus his nickname鈥攖o popular blues musician James 鈥淪uper Chikan鈥� Johnson and the living embodiment of cool.

As John pondered where to launch this time, Ellis, again the designated shuttler, said, 鈥淲hat鈥檚 the matter? You don鈥檛 want to get arrested?鈥�

We finally settled on an over颅grown field at the 颅pen颅insula鈥檚 northern tip, which had been left alone thanks to its proximity to a sewage-treatment plant. We unloaded Cricket鈥攁 24-foot bald cypress canoe, modeled after the classic Great Lakes voyageur boats, that a friend had made for John. Then we pulled on lightweight wetsuits (鈥淛ust in case!鈥� John suggested, smiling), ate a handful of dewberries, and headed for the Mississippi.

鈥淗ope you get arrested!鈥� Brother E. yelled again and again, waving his straw hat as we entered the wide current.

鈥淎re we going to see Ellis later?鈥� Chris asked. 鈥淚鈥檇 love to go hit a juke joint or something with him.鈥�

John, who had already begun banging on the Cherokee tom-tom he plays at the start of most paddling trips, paused to say, 鈥淣ot a bad idea. Ellis is known as a lady-killer on the dance floor.鈥�

It had been my idea to start in Memphis. I鈥檇 hoped to launch as close as possible to the Peabody Hotel, the folkloric northern terminus of the Delta. (Long ago, David Cohn wrote that it 鈥渂egins in the lobby of the Peabody Hotel and ends on Catfish Row in Vicksburg.鈥�) But the floodwaters hadn鈥檛 reached that far, so Mud Island it was. 颅After pushing off, we paddled south, halting briefly to admire a flooded diorama of the Lower Mississippi. It had been cordoned off and pumped free of the real Mississippi River water so that clear, fresh water could be reinstalled. A little farther below Mud Island, work crews were clearing huge fields literally carpeted with garbage.

Although we were starting six days after the river had crested in Memphis at almost 48 feet, the current hadn鈥檛 let up much. Judging by roadside mile markers that poked above the floodwaters, we were moving along at ten knots鈥�11.5 miles per hour鈥攁nd we weren鈥檛 even paddling in sync yet.

I鈥檝e ridden fast canoes, but never for more than 100 yards at a time. Consistently clocking between ten and twelve knots that first morning was a thrill, but as the day wore on, my muscles wore down. Although the river鈥檚 famous counterclockwise-moving boils鈥攆ormed by the powerful bottom current that spins out boat-swallowing whirlpools as it hits the surface current鈥攈ad not been drama颅tically multiplied by the increased volume, every stroke seemed like a tug-of-war, almost as if the river didn鈥檛 want us going faster than it. Chris, new to paddling, sat in the middle a few feet behind me. I could make out his every stroke and, and though I鈥檇 expected ever-increasing lily dipping, he remained solid, even keeping pace with John when I started to nod off at the end of the day. I was tempted to smack him when he said how good he felt.

鈥淲hat is it about paddling a canoe, John, that seems to massage away any soreness?鈥� he said. 鈥淚 was hurting a couple of hours ago, but the repetitive motion has worked the pain right out of me. Isn鈥檛 it amazing, Hodding? This is why you like it so much, right?鈥�

鈥淥h yeah,鈥� I scoffed. 鈥淚ncredible. I haven鈥檛 gone on a 100-mile-a-day paddle in ages, but I feel better now than when we started.鈥�

Around 8 P.M., we were already far to the south鈥攏ear where the river passes Clarksdale鈥攈eaded for a clump of willows peeking above the water鈥檚 surface.

鈥淐amp!鈥� John hollered out cheerfully. He had to be kidding. We鈥檇 brought hammocks for tree stringing鈥攖here鈥檇 be no land to camp on鈥攂ut even I could have found better trees than these battered sticks.

鈥淐an you camp on driftwood?鈥� Chris asked, pointing to a 40-by-20-foot mat of woody, junky debris we鈥檇 tied up next to.

鈥淚鈥檓 not sure,鈥� John said. 鈥淪ometimes the current packs it in tight enough to walk on, but I鈥檝e never camped. I guess it will hold.鈥�

As I tied us off, John hopped 鈥渁shore,鈥� quickly walking toward the upstream edge. 鈥淚鈥檒l get a fire going so we can at least have hot coffee,鈥� he said.

Chris and I helped each other onto the nearest log and inched forward. The debris was solid, several feet thick, and littered with trash鈥攑lastic soda bottles being the most prevalent item. There was a lot of dry wood in the middle, so we started a fire on 鈥� an island of wood. I wolfed down a quinoa salad John鈥檚 wife had made and then stumbled toward my bed鈥攖he bow of the canoe. I was deeply shimmied into a bivy sack when I suddenly bolted upright.

鈥淕uys!鈥� I yelled. 鈥淐an you believe this? We鈥檙e camping on an island of driftwood, floating 40 feet over the nearest land!鈥�

That wasn鈥檛 the only great thing. Once we鈥檇 put the first 50 miles or so between us and Memphis, that old Mississippi River funk had vanished. In its place, a sandy, willow-sweet aroma had silently risen from the surface. Even the river鈥檚 color had morphed: from ag-runoff, milk-coffee brown to a confident and glistening gray.

“Only one tugboat听passed us last night. Did y鈥檃ll see it?鈥� John asked eight hours later, moments after banging a metal cup against a plate to wake me up. John had been awake since three, thanks to his unshakable sense that Driftwood Island was falling to pieces鈥攏ot a big surprise given that he鈥檇 slept a mere yard from the edge. By morning鈥檚 light, though, it looked a few logs bigger.

鈥淚t was the strangest thing,鈥� he continued. 鈥淣ever seen a river pilot act this way. When I couldn鈥檛 go back to sleep鈥攜our snoring didn鈥檛 help, Hodding鈥擨 relit the fire, and it was glowing brightly when he pushed by, headed upstream. Unmissable. But he didn鈥檛 shine his spotlight on us.鈥�

Having once traveled the length of the Missouri in an inflatable boat, I knew exactly what he was talking about. River pilots always soak a campsite in blinding light鈥攆or safety reasons, or amusement, or maybe just in hopes of spotting skinny-dipping women. 鈥淚 think he was afraid of what he might see,鈥� John said. 鈥溾�楢 raft of driftwood with a fire on it? Has to be some sort of apparition!鈥� These pilots are very superstitious.鈥�

Some of them could also be a little hostile. We鈥檇 passed one headed upstream and another headed down, and neither liked sharing the river with the likes of us. We had a radio, so we could hear the downstream guy warning the upstream guy that we were in the way. He said he鈥檇 called the Coast Guard to arrest us. The other pilot signed off by hoping we鈥檇 get washed against a stand of cottonwoods and flip beneath them.

Nice. For the record, though, most of the pilots we encountered were respectful if not friendly. We would pass a dozen more tugs, and no other pilots wanted to crush us. One went so far as to call us 鈥渂rave souls.鈥�

The river continued to expand in width and power throughout the second day. With each passing hour, we crept closer to the highest water鈥攎eaning we were riding the largest freshwater wave ever. In Rising Tide, Barry recalls a study in which a Mississippi flood crest was clocked traveling at almost twice the speed of the average current. 鈥淭he crest, in effect, was a separate layer of water that skidded down the top of the river,鈥� he explained. Miles wide and more than 100 feet deep, these crests have been shown to move at nine miles per hour for sustained periods.

That鈥檚 an incredible amount of watery momentum, and we were seeing this force live as it swept us alongside, and sometimes over, weekend homes that were flooded to the rooftops. These were hunting camps, in local parlance, but more similar in size and value to summer cottages in Maine than to bedraggled backwoods shacks. We passed one 3,000-square-foot camp with a screen porch decked out with a 36-inch flatscreen TV that faced a six-person hot tub, now three feet under颅water鈥攁 fitting punishment, perhaps, for soaking with your back to the river.

As we moved downstream, we aimed west, toward the Razorback side. John measured the swollen expanse of water at 19, 22, then 35 miles wide near its confluence with the Arkansas. This was the Mississippi unbound. Gone鈥攕ubmerged far below and in many instances torn apart鈥攚ere the wing dams, the telltale islands beloved by John and used for navigation by tug pilots, and the lowland farms cashing in on the rich alluvial听plains. Other than the tugs and those three law-enforcement boats, we had the entire river to ourselves.

Well, except for the doe swimming frantically toward the shoreline. By the time we noticed her, we were blocking her crossing. We paddled downstream, angling slightly to the east, so we could get below her and herd her back on course. But not knowing our good intentions, she decided not only to hold her ground in the 15-knot current but also to head upstream. We left her alone; the 鈥渟tranded鈥� deer was probably better equipped than we were to handle the raging current.

Libby Hartfield, director of the Mississippi Museum of Natural Science, would later explain to me that, despite frenzied media stories to the contrary, the creatures indigenous to the Mississippi River鈥檚 floodplains do just fine in high-water events. Fish, for example, from gar to catfish to the endangered Mississippi sturgeon, move into the calm, warm floodwaters and explode in size and number. It鈥檚 true that some animals don鈥檛 adapt well: individual deer, wild hogs, and nesting 颅turkeys forced to higher ground sometimes die, along with abandoned 颅domesticated animals, if the waters take too long to 颅recede. But most populations thrive in the end, thanks to the regenerative effects of the flood颅waters. Biologist Brad Young, who leads the Mississippi Wildlife, Fisheries and Parks Depart颅ment鈥檚 black bear program, told me he鈥檇 checked on radio-collared bears from the air and they were all accounted for, feasting on trapped bugs and snakes. 鈥淏ears love to swim, and they love to climb trees,鈥� Brad explained. 鈥淲hat鈥檚 not to like about a little flooding?鈥�

It was about then that John announced, 鈥淭ime for the afternoon swim.鈥� He swims 颅every day he鈥檚 on the river, but this was the first time I actually wanted to join him. The water was cold, somewhere around 60 degrees, and refreshing. When I looked toward shore鈥攎arked by a line of half-submerged trees鈥擨 realized we were still racing onward, us three bathers and the bobbing, headless canoe, at one with the approaching crest.

It was a great but melancholy sensation鈥攆eeling a part of this river that was now 颅wilder than it had been in decades. It鈥檚 not that we didn鈥檛 lament the destruction around us. Mississippi鈥檚 farms alone would suffer $250 million in damage, and it would be weeks before people in low-lying communities, like the upper Delta鈥檚 Tunica Cutoff, could visit their homes, let alone begin to face the heartbreaking decision to restore, rebuild, or move on. That decision would be played out up and down the river in the coming weeks: early estimates showed close to 10,000 people displaced by the flood and $4 billion in damage to homes, businesses, infrastructure, and farms.

Clearly, given the devastation of 鈥�27, Ameri颅ca鈥檚 engineers had done right to try and make life along the Mississippi safer. But the current system鈥檚 complete reliance on containing and draining had too many draw颅backs. 颅Besides the 颅expanding dead zone in the Gulf, there were far too many natural flood basins 颅being protected by floodgates, pumps, and 颅levees that, at great expense to tax颅payers, kept land open to only a handful of farmers. These flood basins exist all along the river, and 颅environmental organizations like American Rivers, in 颅con颅junction with federal and state officials, Gulf of Mexico fisheries representatives, and 颅fishing and hunting conservation groups, are promoting policies that would restore them.

Under this alternative vision, reclaimed floodplains would again support plants and animals indigenous to the area鈥檚 bottomland hardwood forests, only slowly releasing runoff downstream. This would also alleviate pressure on the swamps of the Atchafalaya Basin, which were inundated by the deluge of water released in May through the Morganza Spillway northwest of New Orleans. In strategic areas, levees would be moved back or notched to reconnect the river with its floodplain.

鈥淲e need to give the river more room to move,鈥� says Andrew Fahlund, vice president of conservation for American Rivers. 鈥淯nless we restore our natural defenses, we will burden future generations with increasingly disastrous floods.鈥�

While I鈥檇 always agreed with the idea of controlling the Mississippi naturally, that was in the hopes of helping the Gulf of Mexico and the wetlands up and down its banks. Now, after experiencing the Mississippi when it was clean-smelling and free, I felt like the river itself deserved a change.

That night we camped听at a place on the Mississippi that I knew from childhood鈥攐ne that had taught me a lifelong lesson. It was a steep, 30-foot-tall set of sandy bluffs at Leland Neck, on the Arkansas side. 颅Always a natural beacon in the flattened Delta landscape, it was also, on the night of May 17, the only piece of dry land for miles.

In 1972, my grandfather Big died when he was only 65, worn down, perhaps, by the years of fighting his enemies鈥攁nd most definitely from drinking. Who could blame him for turning to alcohol, though, when an entire state reviled him? To pay the bills and prepare the way for selling the Delta Democrat Times, my family and their business partner sold off some of the paper鈥檚 more extraneous, high-end items. The 40-foot cabin cruiser Mistuh Charley went in June of 鈥�76, the year I turned 14鈥攂ut not before I, in a fit of anger, 颅liberated the 12-foot lifeboat strapped to its roof. The little dinghy was a covetable example of craftsmanship, with its sleek lines, wave-slicing V hull, and dashing teak rail. But all I cared about was that it had a temperamental little 12-and-a-half-horsepower outboard.

My parents were splitting up that summer, and my dad, who鈥檇 taken over editing the 颅paper, was out on the campaign trail with Jimmy Carter. Back home, there were only a minimal number of rules governing our lives. Two family statutes, however, remained 颅absolute: (1) Hodding shalt not swim anywhere near the river, and (2) Hodding shalt not be so dumb as to even think about taking that damned lifeboat onto the river. 鈥淵es, ma鈥檃m,鈥� I told my mother in all honesty. 鈥淣ot a problem. I鈥檓 not that crazy!鈥�

The next day, my friend Martin Outzen and I motored the boat across the river to Arkansas, hauling onto the sandy beach at Leland Neck. After swimming along the shore and throwing mud at each other, one of us had the bright idea to slide down the steep bluffs. The third or fourth time we鈥檇 trudged back to the top, Martin asked, 鈥淗ey, Hodding, doesn鈥檛 the boat look like it鈥檚 floating away?鈥� The scorching heat had made the air thick and wavy, but even so, I could just make out a widening patch of 颅water between the boat and shore.

We were potentially screwed. The bridge back to Mississippi was miles away, through impenetrable woods, and even if we somehow managed to get out to the road, there was still the matter of a 20-mile walk back to Greenville, where my mother鈥檚 wrath would await. 鈥淕o, go, go, go, go!鈥� I yelled, and we slid down the hot sand as fast as possible.

It took me a few desperate seconds to mount the courage to dive in. By the time I did, the boat had drifted an eighth of a mile and was slipping into the main current. I took off and, swimming the fastest 220 yards of my life, caught up to it, scrambling over the gunwale like some gigantic marauding water bug and pulling the tiny outboard to life in a single frantic motion. I drove back to shore with the proudest grin. I didn鈥檛 know it at the time, but that rule-breaking swim set me free.

I鈥檇 been telling this story to Chris and John鈥攔aving for an hour about the Neck鈥檚 life-affirming, perhaps even mystical, qualities鈥攚hen John announced, 鈥淚t鈥檚 just around this bend.鈥� The sun hung about a foot above the trees as if ordered up by Hollywood to highlight the beauty of my steep, sandy hills. Seconds later, there they stood鈥攊n all their two-foot majesty.

鈥淥h right, the flood,鈥� I muttered.

Nonetheless, the former cliffs, now short, tiny islands, were awash in sunset glow, producing an immediate 鈥淎wesome鈥� from Chris. 鈥淚 can鈥檛 believe we have the only bit of land all to ourselves,鈥� he sighed. 鈥淣ow if I can just get far enough away from your snoring.鈥�

As we soon saw, the islands were already occupied, by a raccoon and a feral pig. The raccoon waddled into the river and swam to a stand of cottonwoods 100 feet from shore that were loudly popping and rippling like a small set of rapids. The pig, a brown, scraggly specimen, stood his ground, at least briefly, squealing at us before snorting and skipping across the shallows to the adjacent bluff 颅island 15 feet away.

We ate cold potato soup, then sat around another driftwood fire, lingering for hours.

鈥淛ohn, I鈥檓 totally getting you and this 颅river,鈥� Chris said enthusiastically. 鈥淚t鈥檚 definitely gotten inside my head. Making me 颅rethink my priorities. I want more of it.鈥︹��

鈥淵eah,鈥� John replied, 鈥淚t鈥檒l do that to you. I have to get out here. Alone, if possible.鈥� Then he invited Chris to come back and apprentice himself as a guide.

I slept like a stone, until, hours later, the scruffy pig returned. Perhaps attracted by my ripening river essence, he skittered over my sleeping bag, back to reclaim his turf.

The followind day was just as grand, with the river thundering along at two million 颅cubic feet per second, a volume capable of filling the Louisiana Superdome in 50 seconds. Fifteen miles south of Greenville, we tied off to a floating 40-foot willow tree fluttering with spring leaves and ended up covering ten miles during lunch. We were now less than 15 miles from Vicksburg, where the river, nearing its crest, was washing onto city streets and forcing residents to flee their homes. The main levee was holding, but what about the backwater levees and floodplains they protected? With that in mind, we went canoeing the Mississippi through its woods late that afternoon.

We were following an old river passage called Forest Home Chute. As we paddled through flooded stands of hardwoods, the trees formed a single intertwined canopy stocked with thousands upon thousands of songbirds. At times we had to repeat ourselves to override their mesmerizing, almost deafening, calls. Paul Hartfield, a local biologist with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, had told me years earlier, as we canoed very near this area, that these woods depend on periodic flooding to thrive. Thick with sycamores, oaks, and sweet pecans, bottomland forests like these can then support migratory birds, from the endangered Bachman鈥檚 warbler to the recovering bald eagle. Maybe the birds were celebrating the crest.

Around 6 P.M., we came upon two southern hackberry trees, their smooth white bark lit by the setting sun. They were bare of limbs for a good 15 feet above the river鈥檚 surface, shielded from the main channel by hundreds of yards of swell-dampening trees and spaced a perfect ten feet apart. We strung two hammocks, one about eight feet up and another about four feet lower. John had decided to stay in the canoe, no matter how many times we pointed out the abundance of space. Once I was safely tucked in, I wanted the night to last forever. How often do you sleep with only a thin sheet of nylon and two feet of willow-scented air separating you from our largest river at its most powerful state in a century?

If canoeing the Mississippi was a little bit of heaven, then our destination six miles inland, the Yazoo Backwater Area, was surely a taste of hell. The Yazoo used to be beautiful and clear, but these days it鈥檚 a muddy drainage ditch loaded with agricultural chemicals. It鈥檚 also a pawn in a high-stakes battle between entrenched foes fighting over the lower Delta. For years, the Corps and its 颅local supporters have been trying to install the world鈥檚 second-largest drainage pumps in this sparsely populated 4,000-square-mile basin, even as U.S. Fish and Wildlife has been restoring tens of thousands of previously farmed acreage to wetlands. Simply put, this place is a mess.

We鈥檇 have to zigzag in, following Forest Home Chute to Paw Paw Chute and crossing a small oxbow lake to reach the Yazoo River, its flow now reversed by the surging waters of the Mississippi. From there it was just down a short canal to the backwater levees and the Steele Bayou floodgates, the last line of defense protecting these lowest of lands.

The chutes were a cinch to navigate. Telltale cottonwoods marked the submerged embank颅ments on either side, and any culverts were way below us. Our troubles began when, after paddling down a six-foot-wide alley between trees that marked a submerged deer trail, we made it to the mainline levee only to find a shiny white SUV parked in a lookout position. This sent us sneaking back into the woods but, regrettably, not to the same deer trail. We had to resort to pulling and prying our way through dense forest. That鈥檚 when the trickling current suddenly went into flash-flood mode, forced through tighter forest as it spilled over a small abandoned levee. We found ourselves immediately running a high-stakes slalom course through tightly packed, sharp-limbed trees.

鈥淟eft, left!鈥� I called鈥攐ur only option if we were going to avoid smacking into a tree and instantly turtling. I pulled hard toward our port bow, and John turned her quickly. Dead ahead there was another tree ready to take us down, then another and another: Class II鈥揑II rapids mined with trees instead of rocks. Not a good scene, especially since Chris was still standing up, taking pictures. That鈥檚 when I missed a draw; we bashed sideways into two trees and started taking on water.

鈥淏ack-paddle! Back-paddle!鈥� screamed John. Chris dropped his camera and, together, all three of us鈥攁fter about ten minutes of frantic upstream ferrying, backwards鈥攇ot to slower water and onto the Yazoo.

鈥淭hese gates better be worth it,鈥� Chris 颅remarked. 鈥淚鈥檝e never seen John actually lose his composure.鈥�

After a short paddle on the backward-flowing Yazoo, we finally reached the Steele Bayou floodgate. Built in 1969 both to drain storm water and to keep floodwaters out, it creates an unnatural confluence of the 颅Yazoo, the Big Sunflower, and Steele Bayou. Right now the gate was closed, holding back the 颅swollen 颅Yazoo from the lowlands that the other two waterways flow through. It was amazing to stand on the backwater levee and compare both sides. On the Yazoo side, the water had risen to the top of the levee, where work crews had piled dirt and rocks a foot high. On the Sunflower side, the water was more than 20 feet below us.

It was impressive, frightening, and maddening. Impressive because of the skill shown by the Corps. 鈥淵ou鈥檝e got to hand it to 鈥檈m,鈥� John admitted. 鈥淭hese structures are performing exactly as they were designed to.鈥� Frightening because countless vulnerable farms and nearby towns stood on ground well below us. And maddening because none of them should be there. This area was called a floodplain for a reason鈥攊t鈥檚 supposed to be flooded when the rivers are high. If we would just restore enough of these traditional floodplains, then so much of the mess we鈥檙e 颅facing鈥攊ncreasing dead zones, endangered cities, loss of habitat all along the Mississippi River corridor, and a polluted Atchafalaya Basin鈥攚ould be cleaned up naturally.

We took a shortcut back to Vicksburg, paddling across a large flooded farm and along the old flooded highway, and ended the trip near sunset, like we had the previous days. Only this time we were greeted by a crowd of onlookers鈥�20 or 30 tourists, friends, and little kids held behind a barricade by the cops. Paul Hartfield, the biologist, had argued to the police that our ride from Memphis had been an important natural-science investigation. He must have been convincing in his uniform cap, because the police and strangers alike clapped heartily when we waded up Old Highway 61. We鈥檇 originally invited Paul to join us on our journey, but he鈥檇 had to pass due to a family illness. It was easy to see how he felt鈥攕miling, but with a sad, wistful look in his eyes鈥攚hen he shook my hand.

“You’ve seen the river as close to what it once was as possible,” he told me a few days later. “If 1927 was the flood of the 20th century, then 2011 is the flood of the 21st. When you’re an old man and the grandkids are asking Papa where he was in the Great Flood of 2011, you’ll be able to tell them, “Well, kids, I was surfin’ the crest.'”

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Well, I thought the Man Who Swam the Amazon was stripping down to nothing. So despite the throngs of people strolling beside Lake Bled, in northwestern Slovenia, I followed suit, hurriedly ripping off shirt and jeans to catch up. It was only after he silently handed me a towel to finish my costume change more modestly that I realized my error. Ever prepared, the world's greatest endurance swimmer had been wearing a Speedo underneath his khakis all along.

Martin Strel

Emerging from the Serpentine, in London's Hyde Park: “Mind is power, believe me,” Strel says. “Fat is power too”

Martin Strel

Swimming in the rain: Day 41 of Strel's 2007 Amazon Expedition

听

I should have known. This was, after all, , the man who, at age 55, has never seen a body of water he didn't want to swim. In 2000, he established his first long-distance-swimming world record by descending the 1,867-mile Danube River in 58 days; in 2002, he swam all 2,350 miles of the mighty Mississippi in 68 days; in 2004, he slogged 2,487 miles down the vile Yangtze in 51 days; and in 2007, he conquered 3,274 miles of the 4,000-mile Amazon, the world's second-longest river, in 66. I'd naturally assumed that a guy who'd spent much of the past decade in a dripping banana hammock wouldn't think twice about disrobing in public. But apparently skinny-dipping in one of his country's most popular tourist sites was out of the question.

A quick glance confirmed that Strel was still the world's heaviest elite endurance swimmer, all barrel chest and belly. The proud, famous tummy jiggled and bounced聴one, two, three times聴as we jumped in together. The glacial lake's unexpectedly warm waters felt good, and I smiled with anticipation as we placed our first strokes together: Martin Strel and me, embarking on an epic journey! But moments later, as we stopped to adjust our goggles, he pointed out a not-so-distant float as our destination.

I had been hoping for something a bit longer. Strel usually trains five hours a day, and as a lifelong competitive swimmer I was expecting to understand the man by the way he swam. It turned out, though, he wasn't training. He was mostly swimming to promote the documentary of his Amazon swim, Big River Man, which wowed audiences at Sundance and the rest of the film-festival circuit, and premieres January 9 on Discovery's Planet Green. The week before I arrived, Strel was swimming and speaking in Norway; the day after I left, he was inspiring them on the Thames; and a week later, he was in Texas answering the age-old big-belly-man question: over or under the Speedo?

But Strel didn't disappoint me. O Homem Peixe (“the Fish Man”), as the Brazilians worshipfully call him, eventually emerged in full force. Strel has a natural, rolling stroke that recruits his entire body for each long pull through the water. It's the kind of stroke one might employ to be the first person to swim all the way from Africa to Europe聴which he was, in 1997. The farther we swam, the more his hips gracefully rolled from side to side, driving him forward with ease.

“You cannot do fancy high-elbow swimming for 50 miles, Hodding,” Strel said, in the way one might tell a five-year-old that, no, his umbrella wouldn't break the fall from a two-story roof. “Swimming the Amazon. It wasn't the hard part. Not about technique. It was about staying alive. You must be different when staying with the animals so long. You have to change your mind. You have to be part of jungle.”

This is the kind of unorthodox mind-set that allows one man to swim the earth's longest rivers while someone like me splashes around in a pool. A light wind rippled across Lake Bled, bringing with it a slight chill, so we headed back. As we neared the shore, gray-haired Strel sped ahead, ostensibly to be the first to touch land.

“I SWIM FOR PEACE, friendship, and clean water,” Strel likes to tell people, and, while that's not the entire story, it's all true. Strel wants to save the world, by swimming it.

In the beginning, though, he swam to escape his father. Young Martin was a normal child growing up in Mokronog, a small town 40 miles outside the Slovenian capital of Ljubljana, then part of Yugoslavia. He broke rules, things, and body parts (like his nose, when another kid sucker-punched him), and his father beat him for it. Strel would run away whenever he could; he slept in the family barn so frequently that his mother took to leaving food and clothes in it. One day, Strel says, his father was chasing him when a stream cut off his escape. He jumped in and, with Dad pursuing on foot, ended up swimming for miles. It was his first long-distance race. He also learned a very valuable lesson: Swim downstream.

Strel's childhood is full of fabulous tales like that. He learned to swim, he says, in a pool he made by damming the Mirna River, not far from his home. Evidently he did a good job, because when he was ten a troop of soldiers decided to race one another in his river-made pool. The winner got a crate of beer. Strel joined in and, although he was half their size and age, won the race, leaving with the beer. He's been swimming and drinking, the story goes, ever since.

Strel escaped to Ljubljana as a teen, working an assortment of odd jobs, including paper boy, mechanic, and bricklayer. It wasn't until he was 24, on vacation on the Adriatic after graduating from the music academy where he learned to teach flamenco guitar, that Strel began to fulfill his aquatic destiny. He was swimming long stretches along the crowded seawall, day after day, when one afternoon a man called him over. What followed was like a scene out of Hollywood, only one that would never happen in the U.S.

“You could be a good swimmer, maybe,” the man said. He was the Yugoslavian national long-distance-swimming coach. “You train every day?”

“No,” Strel responded.

“You want to be a professional marathon swimmer? Race in lakes and oceans around the world?”

“Yes.”

This was in 1978. Strel signed the requisite papers that day and, less than three months later, completed his first 20-mile race. From that day on, aside from a one-year stint in the Yugoslavian army聴from which he went AWOL 42 times but was usually let off, he says, thanks to his swimming and because he agreed to teach his superiors to solve a Rubik's Cube in less than a minute (Martin's best is 46 seconds)聴Strel has been a professional swimmer and guitar instructor, with a sideline in gambling on sleepless nights. He got married (he and his wife, Nusa, an architect, are now separated) and had two children: Borut, 28, who lives near his father in Ljubljana and serves as his project manager, publicist, and head cheerleader, and Nina, 24, a student in Monte Carlo.

Strel performed well enough on the race circuit to maintain a comfortable lifestyle. But open-water swimming is an invisible sport, and Strel wasn't the best. So in 1992, a year after Slovenia seceded from Yugoslavia, Strel left racing behind and swam the 63-mile-long Krka River in 28 hours, nonstop. It was a cold, miserable ordeal, but he emerged with a mission: to swim the longest distances ever while saving the planet on the side. His M.O. has been the same ever since: Spot a river on the map, gather sponsors, plan the expedition, swim. Repeat.

LOOKING BACK, BORUT says that perhaps Martin had grown weary of his obscurity in an obscure sport. Strel himself cites the environmental concerns he'd developed over more than a decade of swimming in dirty water. Either way, he attacked his mission with relish. He tackled the Kupa, which forms part of Slovenia's boundary with Croatia, in 1993, and has since swum every river the young nation has to offer except one. His first foray outside his country's borders, his 1,867-mile descent of the Danube in 2000, set the world record for distance. The next year Strel went back to the Danube and set the record for nonstop swimming, covering 313 miles in 84 hours.

When I asked if he slept on his back during this swim, perhaps kicking to maintain his momentum, he laughed and explained, “No, no. Not possible. I slept only when doing the crawl聴only way. First night, no sleep. Second night, slept five, six times, less than ten minutes total. Third night聴again, ten minutes, maybe. This shows how strong mind is. Mind is power, believe me. Fat is power, too. You wouldn't last one week on the Amazon.”

It's hard to overestimate the physical toll Strel's swims take on his body. It's not just the actual swimming, which is plenty grueling, but the isolation and the environment. He celebrated the end of his swim down the Mississippi聴which flows so thick with agricultural runoff and heavy metals that it has created a more than 5,000-square-mile dead zone in the Gulf of Mexico聴with a three-day stay in the hospital. On the Yangtze, Strel told me, doctors gave him daily transfusions of new, clean blood for the last ten days. “The Yangtze almost killed me,” he said. “Too much dangers and chemicals. Almost destroyed liver. It was black by end of swim. I swim next to dead bodies聴human bodies聴every day. Men facedown, women breast up. Many dead bodies.”

The Amazon too claimed its pound of flesh聴42 pounds, actually. As the mileage piled up and momentum grew and thousands of fans in Slovenia, Brazil, and around the world tracked his daily progress, Strel lost both his strength and his mind. In the final weeks, Borut, in addition to running the expedition, dealing with the global media, and translating for his dad, had to feed Martin his meals and carry him to and from the water.

“It was like taking care of a baby,” Borut says in the film. “Except the baby is your father, swimming the Amazon.”

HANGING OUT with Strel, I could quickly feel in my bloated belly exactly how he puts that lost river weight back on. My wife, Lisa, and I were tagging along for a day in the life, which included the presence of ever-mindful Borut as we drove all over New Jersey聳size Slovenia in Martin's sponsored Mazda 6. Borut is Martin's Everything Man and, indicative of their close working relationship, calls his father by his first name. We ate and ate and ate聴and drank and drank and drank. Strel fervently believes not only in being overweight but also in the replenishing power of the vine. On his swims, he drinks two bottles of wine, made from his own grapes, every day聴and even more when he's home on dry land. Soon enough, I lost count.

First stop was a lakeside caf茅 for apr猫s-swim cappuccinos and hot chocolate. Strel is a star in his native Slovenia. Women of a certain age blush and giggle at the mere mention of his name. He is a heroic national treasure, sought after for endorsements and advice. He judges national beauty contests. Appears in Slovenian movies. Meets with heads of state. Basically he can do whatever he wants: Swim and sauna free at the country's biggest pool complex. Double-park in front of swanky hotels. And dine and dash聴as I discovered when he walked out on the tab. Not understanding Slovenian, I had assumed that either Martin or Borut had beaten me to the check when we abruptly left.

“They know me there,” Strel said later, explaining to his concerned son. “Not possible to pay. Besides, we swam. We put on a show. The people, they stopped to watch. Good for business.” I hadn't noticed anyone so entranced, but then, I'd been watching Strel.

This is the Strel that shows up in the first few minutes of Big River Man. Producer and director John Maringouin聴the director of Running Stumbled, a 2006 indie documentary about his drug-addicted father聴starts off with a feint: a funny intro painting Strel as a friendly Slovenian Borat. We see Strel flub his lines, drive drunk, steal bread from a U.S. embassy function, ride a kids' water slide, and strut around Hollywood in the ever-present Speedo聴until February 1, 2007, day one of the Amazon swim. Then the movie turns furiously dark and the real Martin Strel聴the man who sacrifices his entire being and sanity to win records and bring attention to the earth's filthiest rivers聴takes over.

It's a huge, choreographed undertaking, swimming the world's largest river. There was a mother ship that housed the cooks, guides, boat crew, guards (due to death threats, drug runners, and pirates), medical team, and assorted local reporters. Then there was the camera boat for Maringouin's film crew and the much smaller pilot boat that served as Strel's link to the world during his ten-hour, 50-mile daily swims. Strel's trusted guide was Matt Mohlke, a 35-year-old country-club bartender from Fountain City, Wisconsin, who was one of the safety boaters when Strel swam the Mississippi. Mohlke聴who wrote his own lively account of the expedition, The Man Who Swam the Amazon聴was the other half of Strel's psyche on the river, tasked with the job of feeding him, keeping the piranhas away, and, most important, finding the current. While previous swims might have included Borut, a river captain, and maybe somebody like Mohlke to help find the good water, the Amazon was a full-blown Fitzcarraldo-esque production, costing $1 million and powered by a crew of 20 or more.

This put even more pressure on Strel. Unable to land a solo sponsor, the Strels had cobbled together more than a dozen, many of which could be seen on his wetsuit. Half of the budget came in the form of material and technological support from outfits like the Peruvian navy and the Slovenian armed forces. Father and son have an undisclosed percentage in the film, but everybody's livelihood, to some degree, depended on Strel's swim聴the longer and farther he could go, the longer they'd be employed. The combined psychic and physical stress was enough that at one point Strel and Mohlke disappeared from a mid-expedition fete, only to be found more than a day later and dozens of miles downstream, naked, muttering to themselves, and staring into the roots of an overturned tree.

Unlike those of the Yangtze or the Mississippi, the Amazon's threats were of a more natural variety. The river is home to piranhas, electric eels, and candiru, those terrifying barbed fish that can swim up a urine trail into your penis. But the world's most dangerous river's critters left Strel alone. This was because, he believes, he paid them proper respect. Before he dipped a toe into the Amazon, Strel met with elders and shamans, asking for their permission to swim sacred sections of the river. For his animal diplomacy, he touched a crocodile and held a 100-pound anaconda. He talked aloud to the Amazon's animals throughout the swim and was escorted nearly every day by a cadre of the river's endangered pink dolphins.

But Strel didn't escape unscathed. The sun blistered his skin until he had to swim all day in a homemade mask that made him look like a drenched Klansman. The heat brought on dehydration (not helped by his insistence on maintaining his daily wine intake) that contributed to his life-threatening elevated blood pressure. Microscopic parasites attacked him subcutaneously, driving him to clamp jumper cables to his soaking-wet head in a misguided effort to zap them out of his brain. By then, his doctor had made him sign a waiver admitting that he'd continued to swim against her advice.

Why did he press on? Any normal person would have stopped a thousand miles back. Mohlke attributed Strel's dogged perseverance to unsettled issues with his abusive father. I鈥坵anted to ask Maringouin, but he never responded to my questions. For Borut, the answer was simple. “The rainforest was not the number-one reason for him to swim the Amazon,” he told me. “It was about Martin himself聴to prove who he is and what he can do. 'This is who I am. I did it first. I put my life on the edge.'”

DRIVING AROUND Slovenia, past the surprisingly metropolitan city of Ljubljana and into the nearby countryside, we continued to replenish body and soul. At a butcher shop/bar/restaurant near Strel's boyhood home in Mokronog, we downed heaping plates of roasted pork, vegetables, and bread. Two bottles of cvicek聴the light, vinegary local red wine聴helped wash it all down.

The feast then moved to the Strel family homestead, a scattering of Swiss-chalet-style buildings surrounded by rolling hills and small vineyards. It's here that Strel retreats to recover from his swims. The farm felt especially ancient to us Americans聴with a roughly 1,000-year-old shrine to a woman who gave birth on her pilgrimage to Rome聴and it was immediately clear why it restores him.

The surrounding quiet enveloped us, and we ate pears canned from Strel's own trees and drank bottles of his own cvicek, the label heralding Strel and his Amazon swim. He played his flamenco guitar and talked about previous swims. He stayed tight-lipped about any future conquests, only hinting with a broad smile that it was going to be big.

Lulled by the quiet, the wine, and our endlessly fascinating discussion of all things aquatic (those of us engaged in marginal sports love moments like these), I was under Strel's spell, pushing aside some nagging concerns, like the strange numbers he'd shown me beside Lake Bled. After our swim, he'd taped two white patches to his chest. They looked like hastily prepared bandages, and when I asked about them, Borut quickly looked away. Strel, however, excitedly peeled them from his chest and turned them over, revealing a series of digits. “These were given for me to wear by my doctor聴a very famous scientist,” he said. “He chooses these numbers for me. If you wear these numbers, you cannot get cancer. It is impossible.”

Strel had other health tips. The prodigious amounts of wine were necessary, he explained, since wine “helps diabetes, dissolves harmful substances in digestive tract, gallbladder, kidneys.” This I could buy: Hadn't many modern scientists toasted wine's cardiovascular benefits? But he lost me when, as we ate sliced tomatoes just picked from his garden, he brought out a special drinking glass embedded with “information and energy” that can both repel and cure cancer and other illnesses. When he kept insisting that “information” was built into the attractive blue glasses, even Borut raised an eyebrow.

We learned more about these special properties the next day, when we set off to meet Strel's physician, biotherapist Vili Poznik, at his home and clinic outside Ljubljana. Regrettably, we couldn't ask Poznik what a biotherapist is because, although the doctor's specialty is harnessing cosmic energy capable of warding off illnesses even modern medicine has failed to tame, he was in the hospital with an upset stomach. But his daughter, Mojca, gave us a quick tour.

The clinic's rooms overflowed with Seussian machines, all humming with comforting activity. These, I鈥坙ater learned, were inspired by earlier devices called orgone energy accumulators, invented by Wilhelm Reich, a colleague of Sigmund Freud. Before he went to jail in 1956 for disobeying a court order against the distribution of his machinery, Reich had allegedly discovered this cosmic energy, which he named orgone, and built machines to transmit it to his patients as they sat in specially built chambers, fighting cancer and improving their “orgiastic potency.”

When we returned to the car, my wife asked Strel again how it all worked. We had drunk some bottled water being sold by the Pozniks聴a product Strel is hoping to market in the U.S. It had tasted like chlorine and had special numbers stamped on its label.

“But how does the information get in the glass?” Lisa asked. “How is it captured?”

Strel had grown weary of our ignorance. “You are a simple woman, Lisa,” he said. “It would take days to explain this to you. It is not possible.”

SO, YES, MARTIN STREL can be an ass. And, yes, I found plenty of his countrymen, especially among the younger set, who were sick of seeing him touted as Mr. Slovenia and embarrassed by his drinking. The nation, after all, has one of the highest alcoholism rates in Europe. They even call him Plavni Les聴Slovenian for “Driftwood.”

And yet, when you really look at Strel's feats and the waters in which he's immersed himself, you're left with the fact that he alone has put himself in harm's way, again and again. The Yangtze, littered with rotting bodies and dying species, is one of the most polluted rivers in the world. He swam it for 51 days, ten hours a day. He did the same for the toxic Mississippi. And then we have the Amazon. I don't care how great a swimmer you are or how much of a jerk he might be; anybody has to look on those 66 days with awe and respect.

Somewhere thousands of miles downstream, thanks to Strel's real suffering and Maringouin's useful juxtaposition of his journey into despair with images of a destroyed rainforest, the Fish Man becomes King Lear, blind in the storm but finally able to see. He swims on聴despite all attempts to stop him聴to save the river. This is what he does, who he is, and his insistence on continuing despite being struck mute, unable to feed himself or even walk, is the only chance he and the river have.

It's difficult to gauge Strel's impact on the waters he's out to save. Raised awareness is not, after all, a measurable commodity. The Amazon swim didn't get a lot of mainstream coverage in the U.S., so we didn't see the adoring crowds cheering him down the Amazon, from village to town to city, for thousands of miles. We didn't see the swelling interest around the world when his attempt went from joke of the week to triumph of the spirit. We weren't constantly reminded that the rainforest needed our help by a solitary, ungainly man doing the impossible, living where all had bet that he would die, inching inexorably closer to the mouth of the Amazon.

But everyone in Slovenia was. And thanks to frequent updates on BBC TV and other media outlets, most of Europe knew about Martin Strel.

So when I heard that Norway had recently committed $500,000 a year to rainforest preservation, I had to wonder. A highly placed official in Norway's foreign ministry denies any connection, of course, saying that the swim “has had no effect on the Norwegian decision.” For many months, however, Strel was the rainforest zeitgeist. His swim was on Norwegian television, in their papers, and he's been front-page news there, swimming Norway's fjords. They saw what we in America missed: Martin suffered, the forest suffered. The forest suffered, Martin suffered.

Norway is helping save the rainforest. Martin Strel got them to do it.

The post Glorious Bastard: Martin Strel appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

You don’t know me, Lord of All Aquamen, but I’m a former NCAA Division III champion whose Olympic swimming record doesn’t quite rival yours. The closest I ever came to making it to the Trials was back in ’84聴you weren’t even a tadpole then聴and “close” might be stretching things a bit. I went on to make zero Olympic appearances and win zero medals, and this year I failed (nobly, of course) in my attempt to qualify for the Olympic Trials at age 45.

But enough about me. This is about you聴specifically, what you can do with your hard-earned, intergalactic fame to help boost the sport we both love so much. You’ve made it clear you care. “I want to raise the bar in the sport of swimming,” you’ve said, along with “I think people see swimming as an every-four-years sport. I know it’s tough with the NBA, NFL, NHL, and all the other sports around. But I would like swimming presented as an everyday, every-year sport.”

Instead of buying a Gulfstream or some other tacky bling, you took that $1 million bonus you got from Speedo聴for tying Mark Spitz’s record of seven Olympic golds聴and started a swimming foundation, putting your pile of cash where your mouth is. My understanding is that the money will be used not only to promote swimming but also to teach kids to live healthy, active lives.

That’s cool. I salute you. And I’m just writing to add one tiny thought: Please do more, and please hurry, because American swimming needs all the help it can get.

Aside from your eight wins, U.S. swimmers grabbed only four other individual golds in Beijing, continuing our sport’s steady spiral down to Davy Jones’s locker. This is happening because our farm system has been eroding for years, especially where boys are concerned. Compared with female swimmers, the number of males competing in amateur meets at every level has been dwindling for a while now. And since the seventies, at least 64 colleges have dropped male swim teams from their varsity lineups, claiming they don’t have enough money because of the funding demands of Title IX. (Meanwhile, some of these same broke universities can afford plenty of football scholarships for players who warm the bench on perennially losing teams.) Why would boys want to excel in a sport that can neither help them get into college nor even allow them to compete at the intercollegiate level?

This matters because, as you know, swimming is the greatest participatory sport in the world. Think about it. There’s hardly any other (somewhat) popular athletic activity in which boys and girls train together day in and day out, share the same lane, do the exact same sets, and work to exhaustion side by side, starting before they can read, even. Through proximity and repetition alone, swimming teaches gender blindness. And except in your case, Your Neptunitude, girls beat boys in practice on a daily basis. I can’t begin to count the number of times a female beat me in a distance set when I was a kid or in college. (It happens still.) Getting trounced creates respect for the opposite sex, making swimming a sport that, for the sake of gender relations alone, deserves to grow in popularity.

But please give up on the idea of making swimming as popular with “sports fans” as football, baseball, and basketball. Ain’t gonna happen. There’s no way you’re going to get the typical beer-guzzling, Slim Jim聳chomping yahoo to add swimming to his roster of obsessions.

That’s OK, because your job is much simpler: Make swimming more popular with people who actually want to jump into a pool and do it. Toward that end, your role model isn’t Jordan or Jeter or a Manning聴it’s Lance. Road racing was so far down the American athletic totem pole before he came along that pro badminton probably had more fans. He succeeded in boosting cycling’s profile and participant numbers, and he won only seven Tours聴not your lucky eight gold medals.

The good news is that, thanks to you, things are already looking up. Before your heroic splash in Beijing, only 285,000 swimmers were participating in events sanctioned by USA Swimming, the sport’s governing body, but teams across the country are already seeing a significant spike in enrollment, which may result in a 10 percent increase nationwide. That’s pretty good聴there was only a 7 percent jump after Athens, where you won six golds聴but we can do better. Say, 50 percent?

Michael, while you perform these sober duties, it’s cool for you to date actresses or rock stars and reap endorsement mon颅ey聴and everything else Lance did. Just don’t get too far away from the water. Remember: You race, you dominate, the whole country begins to swim. It’s that simple.

Your loyal subject,
Hodding

The Aftermath

You know about the eight gold medals. Here's what they added up to.

two: Miles swum in nine days of competition at the Olympic Games

36: Days after the Olympics Phelps did not work out in a pool

eleven: Number of blogs that had “Michael Phelps” in their URL at press time

26.6%: Olympics news stories focused on Phelps during the Games

16: Bids for a January 2008 issue of 国产吃瓜黑料, with Phelps on the cover, on eBay (it sold for $50)

1,1618,031: Number of “phans” on his Facebook page at press time, making him nearly as popular as Barack Obama (2,136,889 supporters)

one: Minutes it took for Phelps to gain ten more “phans” as we were researching this

SIX: Reported number of figures in Phelps’s mom’s endorsement deal with women’s-clothing company Chico’s

10,000,000: Number of boxes of Kellogg’s Frosted Flakes, Corn Flakes, Rice Krisples Treats, and Keebler Club Crackers his mug will appear on

$1.6 Million: The advance reportedly paid to Phelps by Free Press, a unit of Simon & Schuster, for his forthcoming bio

Let Me Put It This Way

Can mere words do justice to Michael's Olympic achievement? Apparently not.

“The way Michael slips through the water—it’s ghostlike.”
—U.S. OLYMPIC SWIMMING COACH CECIL COLWIN

“Phelps is Tiger in a Speedo.”
—NBC SPORTSCASTER DAN HICKS

“His physique is so perfectly suited for his sport, his dominance in the water so great, his focus so absolute that there are times when he does, indeed, seem to represent an aquatic turn in human evolution.”
—THE BALTIMORE SUN

“What he did today, and what he did this entire week, beats the Tour de France, beats the pressure putt in the U.S. Open. You know, it beats every part of what sport is.”
—U.S. RELAY SWIMMER BRENDAN HANSEN, WHO HELPED PHELPS WIN MEDAL NUMBER EIGHT

“Phelps tinkered with the idea of facial hair in the days before the competition began. But when the whistle blew, his face, like his technique, was as smooth as a baby’s rump… Outwardly Phelps looked as cool as a cucumber in Brad Pitt’s fridge. Inwardly the adrenaline was firing.”
—THE DAILY TELEGRAPH

“Someone told me about an hour ago that this week on Facebook you’ve gone by Michael Jordan, Manchester United, Rafael Nadal, and Roger Federer, but it doesn’t stop there. You’ve gone by the Jonas Brothers, you’ve gone by Miley Cyrus, you’ve gone by Justin Timberlake. You’ve swept the board.”
—BOB COSTAS, INTERVIEWING PHELPS

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