One perfect June weekend Troop 102 took itself down the Manistee River from a launch near Manton to a bridge over M-37 near Mesick. The river was wide, deep, and flowed quickly enough to be challenging. High rollaways bearing the sand-smoothed skeletons of long-passed trees greeted us at one bend. Most of the route contained only trees, wildflowers and tall grass. We were in Hemingway country, and I planned to enjoy every minute of the trip.

Our group consisted of an odd lot of energetic teenaged boys, eight canoes, and just enough carefully-prepared adults to prevent complete anarchy. We made camp on Friday night in a state forest campground. For those unschooled in Michigan's camping facilities, let me explain the differences between state forest campgrounds and state parks. If you camp at a state park, you will have running water, electricity, paved roads, noise and nearby shopping. State forest campgrounds are carved out of the woods in a state forest and are completely lacking in creature comforts. Unless you're an actual creature; then they're loaded with desirable features...Large, uninterrupted patches of sky for birds, trees and bushes for squirrels, and grassy fields for chipmunks, foxes and bears.

One other item unmistakeably indicates that you are in a state forest campground: Pit toilets. A sign on the one where we camped specifically forbade the dumping of camp garbage. The fact that the prohibition didn't extend to rendering plants and paper mills became obvious within about ten feet of the thing. From the number of times I heard footsteps passing my tent in the night, I think that the tall grass proved to be a valuable asset.

At breakfast Saturday morning I gave my usual Scoutmaster's lecture on safe canoeing. Have a "buddy boat" so that someone's around to help you if you get in trouble, I reminded my fresh-faced charges. No horseplay, I said, and stay with the group. I was absolutely confident that all the boys lived by "A Scout Is Obedient" and that we'd arrive at our lunch destination more or less together.

The last bit of breakfast trash hit the trash barrel at the same time the first canoe hit the river. I looked around to see that the new boys who'd never canoed before were with adults and that everyone wore a life vest. It was also the last time I saw the whole group for several hours.

I shared a canoe with my friend Mark. Mark is the father of two Eagle Scouts and is a terrific friend. He's also experienced with canoes and outweighs me by a lot more than I thought he did. "Do you want me to take the back?" he asked as I seated myself in the stern. I replied no, that I didn't think there was that much difference. I should have reconsidered when I could only get about three inches of my paddle blade in the river, but my Irish stubbornness wouldn't allow it. Instead, I figured I could simply lean out a bit and do a drag stroke to correct our course. We pushed off, full of the confidence that accompanies not knowing what lay ahead.

Once we launched, the river bounced our canoe from bank to bank like a bumper car! Mark and I saw both sides of our route that morning, sometimes with me going down the river first, even though we hadn't actually changed seats. I was utterly appalled at the way Mark whooped and hollered. Mostly he hollered at me to steer! What he couldn't see was that I was stretched over the side of the canoe like a crewman on a racing yacht in the America's Cup race, straining with all my might to touch that stupid paddle onto the ripples on the surface! If he could have seen the Herculean effort I made to save us, I'm sure he would have felt at least a twinge of regret.

We caught the troop on a sandy bank just in time to get the last two sandwiches and a can of pop. I gave in and let Mark take the back of the canoe for the second half, just so I wouldn't have to listen to any more of his front-seat driving. I must admit that we steered a much straighter course once we got the weight properly distributed. And I enjoyed seeing the broad expanse of the river before us, uninterrupted by the back of somebody's head. The forward seat also made it easier to spot the other canoes, which not only reassured me that the boys were all safe but made it much easier to spot some unsuspecting Scout who needed a good splashing. We glided up behind a couple of the older boys, humming the theme from Jaws: da-dump, da-dump, da-dump, and then I chopped the water hard with my paddle wham-wham-wham, sending a cold refreshing tidal wave down the backs of my prey!

"Oh, sorry guys!" I shouted as they gasped and recoiled. "Did I get you?" The response was swift and heartfelt: "GET MR. C!!!" And the war was on! Mark and I strained to outrun them and we did pull away for a very brief time; I never knew canoes could hydroplane. Unfortunately, Fifteen And Ferocious beats Forty And Flabby every time. Eventually Josh and Ryan caught us. The rest of the boys, aroused by all the noise, joined the battle. When the froth cleared, our canoe rode very low in the water, with the help of about four inches of ballast we took on in the fray.

Now, some may wonder if the scene I just described consitiutes "horseplay," a practice I strictly forbade just a few paragraphs earlier. My wizened, considered answer is no, it doesn't. And here's why: To me, horseplay is something reckless or dangerous. My sneak attack was carefully thought out and safely executed. Now, if those same Scouts had snuck up and got me by surprise, that would have been horseplay, because I could have had a heart attack.

Afternoon waned as we beached our canoes at the midpoint of the trip. We made camp in an abandoned state forest campground. This one had two distinct advantages over the first one. After a few months of disuse, the pit toilet smelled a lot better. The new spot also had campsites on a bluff overlooking the river. We camped on a point where the river curved, allowing a beautiful view in both directions.

I put my tent up and made my bed. While the boys started dinner, I walked up the trail to the biffy. My peaceful contemplation of the day's events was shattered by the screams of a woman in peril! "Stop it!" she cried. "Help!!" I concluded my business and ran down the trail to the river. Two men and a lady, all of whom were in their mid-20s and thoroughly drunk, paddled past. The men rocked the canoe, much to the terror of the young lady, who wore a pink bikini made of almost enough material to stuff the top of a trial-size aspirin bottle.

The trio beached their canoe next to ours. Fearing the effects of a nearly-naked lady on my charges' moral straightness, I walked over to meet them. "Dude!" the man in the bow called out. "Have you seen my truck?" I said I hadn't and asked him where he parked it. He named a point about four miles upriver. I told him where they were. "Oh wow," he moaned. "I guess we'll keep on going." I felt relieved they didn't plan to stay, but I worried about them traveling in their condition. I was doubly glad that they wouldn't find their truck; putting that bunch in the cab of a pickup couldn't have come to anything good. He started to push off, and then he turned. "Are you guys Boy Scouts?" he asked. I told him we were. "Oh cool!" he replied. "Right On Boy Scouts!" he yelled, and they paddled on their somewhat wobbly way. I hoped someone would collect them before they got to Lake Michigan.

I truly believe you have to make an effort to ruin a meal you cook outdoors. The menu the boys planned, consisting of tinfoil dinners de campfire and chilled bug juice served in recyclable plastic cups, proved them to be master outdoor chefs. Nobody went hungry. After dinner I went back to my tent to retrieve a chair, in which I would relax and enjoy our campfire. I crawled inside, somehow I lost my balance and toppled over onto my sleeping bag! "OK, just for a minute," I thought. But a day spent trying to tame a wild canoe and evading Boy Scouts bent on revenge used all my available minutes. I awoke with the sun streaming in the opposite side of my tent.

Somewhat disappointed at missing the campfire, I changed my clothes and dragged my chair outside. Everyone else was still asleep. From the golden shade of the sunlight I reckoned the time at about 6 AM. I spread out my chair, an enormous folding rocker I saved specially for Scoutmastering duty, and sat on the bluff next to my tent. I watched for birds, otters, deer, or any other native wildlife. Fishermen occasionally rode by, trolling upstream or floating with the current.

Before long the tranquility evaporated like the mist on the river as one by one the boys peeked out of their tents. We ate a quick breakfast, packed our gear, and were on the river once more. Mark decided to finish the trip with his son. A new boy named Tim joined me. We paddled right along, actually keeping up with the rest of the group. As we approached Josh and Ryan's canoe, I heard Ryan hawking a spirited sales pitch to a wary Josh:

"Dude...we should flip our canoe over!  Come on, it'll be fun"

As Josh expressed his doubts, Ryan stopped pitching and started rolling! The boys plunked in the river, bobbing like apples alongside their now bottom-up canoe. At that point they discovered that the river was too deep to stand up in and the banks were too high to climb. In short, they couldn't right themselves! I asked if they needed help; Ryan said they'd figure it out. Tim and I paddled off, leaving them to sort out their predicament. We waited around a bend, just holding our position for a few minutes. There was no sign of Josh, Ryan, or their canoe. I figured if they'd drowned their bodies would have floated by, so I was reasonably certain they were fine.

After a few minutes I asked Tim, "Well, should we go look for them?" He agreed the idea was good, so we paddled upstream to their last known position. Ryan and Josh looked a bit adventure-weary as they held steadfastly to their capsized craft. Obviously even to them, no solution was on its way. They gladly accepted our second help offer. I lifted the bow of their boat onto ours, turned it over, and returned it to the river. Tim and I held it while they climbed aboard. In a moment Tim and I turned our canoe around and the four of us paddled together the rest of the way.

A kind couple with a soft spot for Boy Scouts allowed us to use their riverbank as a take-out point. The canoe livery across the river wanted $2 a person to take out at their landing. As far as we were concerned, they could keep on wanting it. Tim and I approached the sandy shore and I pulled off one more sneak attack, this time on two boys named Scott and Chris. The battle was heartily rejoined. Fortunately, we had a chance to dry while we loaded the canoes on the trailer for the ride home.

On the way home we stopped at a Burger King somewhere up north and ate lunch. One of the boys said it was the best part of the trip. I'd like to check back with him in a few years. As his life unfolds he won't remember one fast-food joint from another, but the gentle rocking of a canoe gliding down a calm river on a warm Saturday afternoon is a feeling he'll enjoy forever.