Shake your jowels - D19

Went up to camp again.  I can't seem to stay away.  There was a cabin crawl, and my station included making a fake moustache on your finger with a sharpie, speaking in a jowel-thundering posh accent and making outrageous claims while challenging each other to hot air balloon races around the world.  The drink at my station (consumed to the light notes of Pachelbel's canon in 'D') was Gin and Tonic.  Why?  Because that is the drink of choice of the British Empire, and the sun never sets on the british empire.  My whole costume consisted of a fake moustache, fake monocle, and genuine tweed formal long-cut vest from India,  the heart of Bombay Sapphire.  At least something about it was genuine.  Me and Kilmer hung out and I got a hangover.  I forgot about it while getting lit up in paintball the next morning, and then finally last night, while drinking once more.  Deb, it was fun to hang out again.  That's all the typing I can muster for right now. 

 I will post day 19.  This one is worth the read cause the end of it connects wonderfully to 

day 20.  That's all I'll say about it right now.  Keep it real.  If I'm lucky this week I will book something for somewhere.  That'd be great.

D19

                Helicopters buzz back and forth, pilots waving, all morning.  Could be the same guy we keep seeing.  The rock also changes character to curved, polished granite today.  It looks like mini versions of Stawamus Chief in BC.  It’s the day of minis.  We come to a portage that goes just behind a mini mountain.  It’s marked as being 50m long.    I know instantly what’s in store.  A mini salmon ladder.  Straight up, straight down.  Awesome.  It ends in a rock field where we make our home.  We decide to try out our fishing lures, and as per advice of Richard and Dénis, I cut a trunk of young silver birch and tie my line to it.  I paddle out to the nearby falls and test the eddies boil lines with no luck.  I decide to ferry over to a nearby shingle bank with some beach chairs (what?) on it, and I notice some people on a rocky point with the same set up.  Finally one of the people putters over to me with a motor 

boat.  I become aware of someone standing behind me, and turn to see an old toothless Quebecer rattling off reasons in French why I can’t fish here.  He’s trying to tell me this shingle bank is private.  Really asshole?  I paddled 18 days from Lab city, I look haggard and hungry, and I’m fishing with a birch stick, and you have the nerve to tell me this section of the wild untamed Moisie is private?  I left without argument, after all, the only thing I could say that he’d understand is the middle finger.  All night this eats away at me.