River trip was simply Finn-tastic

River trip was simply Finn-tastic The best journeys always have a touch of Huck Finn in them.

This first occurred to me as I watched Tim Buffkin standing in the back of a canoe reading the coming rapids in the Staunton River, his straw hat set at a jaunty angle.

That was earlier in the day, but it seems a distant memory. Much has happened since then.

The Huck Finn comparison comes back to me now sitting next to the campfire. Old Huck would love this trip: Put everything you've got in a boat; launch into a river that just might be too high to navigate safely; when darkness approaches, find the nearest island to make camp; spend the next couple of days doing a boatload of nothing.

Buffkin and a few friends - Shawn Torian, Greg Owens, Brad Simpson - have been doing this annual float through Southside Virginia for over a decade. Put in on a Friday at the boat ramp in Long Island. Take out Sunday in Brookneal.

Every year the cast of characters changes. This time Simpson, my brother-in-law, invited me along, and Buffkin invited his neighbor, Doug Lemons. Two other locals - Jay and Brandon - joined us just for the day. One year former NASCAR driver Ward Burton made the trip (Torian seems to know every Halifax County resident, including Burton). Like with Huck and his journey down the Mississippi, the weekend offers an escape from society's civilizing effects.

We're camped on an island in a washthrough carved when the river was much higher. It's just a sandy path between the north and south banks. This is camping the way it used to be before state parks, Airstream trailers, pre-fab fire rings, picnic tables and crushed-gravel tent sites.

The Huck Finn analogy isn't perfect, of course. This is no knapsack-on-the-end-of-a-stick operation. We've brought more worldly possessions than Twain's young rebel could have amassed in a lifetime. Huge tents, air mattresses, propane grills, firestarter logs, and folding chairs are deployed. Then there's the huge quantity of food and drink - coolers and coolers of it.

Huck had to live by nature's rules; this trip is an attempt to overwhelm them. But Mother Nature isn't afraid to flash a mean streak when her rules are flaunted. Sitting here staring into the fire, I'm thinking about how we just learned that the hard way.

About half an hour into the float, we encountered our first rapids, and Torian and Owens promptly flipped their boat. A few minutes later, Simpson and I took on water navigating a hairy stretch. We made it through, but with the added weight of the water in the boat, the river poured in over the gunwales and we swamped.

Neither episode caused us to lose anything, but they illustrated a point: With this much stuff, our canoes were more like barges. The margin for error was near zero.

Besides our swamping, which could hardly be helped, Simpson piloted us beautifully through a half-dozen more sections of white water. Then came the final challenge: a series of rapids right at the island where we planned to camp. We had to steer it through safely, turn the boat back upstream and then paddle hard into the current to make the beach.

Simpson and I went first and nailed it. Then we watched as the other two boats lost control and tipped over. People and coolers, drybags and gear were dumped into the torrent. It looked like a yard sale in the middle of the river. Simpson swam after some loose articles. The others corralled what they could while swimming for the nearest bank.

Back on the island, Jay, Brandon and I tried to figure out what to do. A thunderstorm was now on top of us, and we weren't sure what the others were able to salvage or how far downstream they were.

We emptied our canoe and went looking for them. There they were standing at the bottom tip of the island. They'd saved most of the stuff and fought their way back upstream along the bank.

Eventually everyone made it to camp two hours after first passing the island. The thunderstorms had stopped, and we found some dry wood to build a fire with.

That's where we are now, sitting around the fire taking stock. The horseshoes are gone. So are the playing cards. Owens lost a duffel bag with clothes, coffee and other sundries. The food and drink coolers - and thus the trip - were rescued.

We spend the next day drying out and recounting yesterday's survival tales. It's clear and sunny, a good day to lay on rocks and relax. The regulars tell stories about previous trips. We throw stones at stumps, shoot the bull and watch daytrippers wreck on their way through the rapids.

Tomorrow, with lighter coolers, higher-riding boats and lower water, we'll take on more rapids without incident and make it home in one piece.

I'd like to say we learned our lesson about bringing too much stuff and respecting the awesome power of a swollen river, but something tells me we'll be back next year, no matter the conditions. If anything, the events only served to remind us that sometimes a little unplanned drama is exactly what we need to spice up our planned adventures.

Huck Finn would surely be on board with that.