Peace River
My friend TeaJay (also if you look carefully, her husband, Clay and myself). 
Tony Landa enjoying a mid-river lunch break.
It seems like a lifetime ago, but there was a time when I was not able to travel for a living. During those dark, dull days, I had to rely on cheap, accessible ways to feed my ever-hungrier travel monkey. One frequently relied upon solution was camping. I would gather a group of friends, pack a cooler, grab a tent and be practically assured of a great time. Or if I was really lucky, I would have the chance to join the annual pilgrimage of South Florida’s artists, musicians and assorted creative types who, led by the lovable Cuban imp, Conga Rey, would spend a weekend joyfully destroying the tranquility implied in the name, Peace River. These legendary outings would generally involve groups of 50 or more people driving up to the small western Florida town of Arcadia to rent canoes, pitch tents and ingest enough substances to put down a medium-sized mammal. Throughout the years, the trips have continued, but due to my frequently unpredictable and capricious schedule, I have not been able to join them for the past 13 years.
This year, I learned of the planned trip with enough notice to get the necessary days off. I also learned that, seeing as none of us are getting any younger, some much-appreciated modifications have been made to the Conga Rey bacchanalia. Now instead of the punishing endurance marathon of the 26 mile trip we used to do, it was now whittled down to a much more civilized 12 mile trip. Instead of precariously trying to balance all one’s possessions on a frequently water-logged canoe for the duration of the ride, there was now a drop-off service that delivered all the gear directly to the campsite. There was now a 2 night option, which allowed you to set up camp, kick-back and keep kicking back for an extra day. And, heaven of heavens, instead of squatting in the woods and burying toilet paper, we now had porta-potties at our disposal. Seriously, if there is a more beautiful word in the English language than porta-potty, I am not aware of it. This is not to say that my weekend would not suffer from a glitch or two. Hours before setting off for Arcadia, my canoe partner called to complain of anxiety-related intestinal difficulties. This seemingly overcome, we drove up, rented a canoe and in my eagerness to get the festivities started, got off at the wrong drop-off point and after a mere 8 miles of paddling wound up at the finish line a full two days early. We had missed the turn-off for the new campsite entirely. This must not be an uncommon occurrence, since the fine folks at Canoe Outpost did not bat an eye about driving us out to the site, where only moments before they had dropped off all our gear. Within an hour, our tents were erected, gear unpacked and I was having a cold beer with some old friends. Within ten minutes of that, my canoe partner had suffered a bout of discombobulation so severe that he chose to abscond with the canoe back to the Canoe Outpost offices. From there, we assume he somehow made the 3 hour journey back to Miami since we never did see him or my canoe again, but now, the first story of the ’09 Conga Rey trip had been born. The rest of the weekend was as I remembered. Once the sun set, guitars, drums, both real and makeshift, and even a harmonica materialized and we were treated to impromptu concerts late into the night. There was much catching up with people I had not seen in far too long, including, most distressingly, with my friend’s daughter, who was 4 years the last time I saw her and was now heading off to college. There were wildlife sightings, this time in the form of wild pigs, deer and an armadillo, all of them too swift for a beer-addled photographer to even think of capturing. There was the traditional group photo, and the eventual emergence, an hour later, of a guy who had been wandering in the woods and was now loudly wondering when we would be posing for the group photo. There was the sheer pleasure of lounging in a canoe, this time as a hitch hiker with my friends, Tony and Joe who agreed to give my canoe-less self a ride back, watching the sun shine off the water. There was Conga Rey being Conga Rey. But best of all, there was an old tried and true adventure feeling wonderfully fresh and new.
This year, I learned of the planned trip with enough notice to get the necessary days off. I also learned that, seeing as none of us are getting any younger, some much-appreciated modifications have been made to the Conga Rey bacchanalia. Now instead of the punishing endurance marathon of the 26 mile trip we used to do, it was now whittled down to a much more civilized 12 mile trip. Instead of precariously trying to balance all one’s possessions on a frequently water-logged canoe for the duration of the ride, there was now a drop-off service that delivered all the gear directly to the campsite. There was now a 2 night option, which allowed you to set up camp, kick-back and keep kicking back for an extra day. And, heaven of heavens, instead of squatting in the woods and burying toilet paper, we now had porta-potties at our disposal. Seriously, if there is a more beautiful word in the English language than porta-potty, I am not aware of it. This is not to say that my weekend would not suffer from a glitch or two. Hours before setting off for Arcadia, my canoe partner called to complain of anxiety-related intestinal difficulties. This seemingly overcome, we drove up, rented a canoe and in my eagerness to get the festivities started, got off at the wrong drop-off point and after a mere 8 miles of paddling wound up at the finish line a full two days early. We had missed the turn-off for the new campsite entirely. This must not be an uncommon occurrence, since the fine folks at Canoe Outpost did not bat an eye about driving us out to the site, where only moments before they had dropped off all our gear. Within an hour, our tents were erected, gear unpacked and I was having a cold beer with some old friends. Within ten minutes of that, my canoe partner had suffered a bout of discombobulation so severe that he chose to abscond with the canoe back to the Canoe Outpost offices. From there, we assume he somehow made the 3 hour journey back to Miami since we never did see him or my canoe again, but now, the first story of the ’09 Conga Rey trip had been born. The rest of the weekend was as I remembered. Once the sun set, guitars, drums, both real and makeshift, and even a harmonica materialized and we were treated to impromptu concerts late into the night. There was much catching up with people I had not seen in far too long, including, most distressingly, with my friend’s daughter, who was 4 years the last time I saw her and was now heading off to college. There were wildlife sightings, this time in the form of wild pigs, deer and an armadillo, all of them too swift for a beer-addled photographer to even think of capturing. There was the traditional group photo, and the eventual emergence, an hour later, of a guy who had been wandering in the woods and was now loudly wondering when we would be posing for the group photo. There was the sheer pleasure of lounging in a canoe, this time as a hitch hiker with my friends, Tony and Joe who agreed to give my canoe-less self a ride back, watching the sun shine off the water. There was Conga Rey being Conga Rey. But best of all, there was an old tried and true adventure feeling wonderfully fresh and new.
I can truly sympathize with your discombobulated friend :) He probably felt like Danny Glover in Lethal Weapon when he said "I'm getting too old for this shit". Some would say, "hay que tener ganas de joderse". Glad you enjoyed it though.
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