Roughing it, sorta; evolution and observation

Tuesday morning I was reminded why – at nearing 40 – I don’t camp as much as I used to. The tent and sleeping bag provided by the fine folks at Cabela’s notwithstanding, I woke up stiff and sore.

We boiled-up some fresh coffee, breakfasted on fruit and granola bars, and prepared to hit the watery trail. Tuesday was a fish hunt … that was the menu for the night’s dinner, and, well … how hard could it be to scratch up a redfish or two in the Laguna Madre?

On a low tide and on the heels of two quickfire cold fronts, pretty damned hard, as it turned out.

We saw three spooky reds and began considering the culinary possibilities inherent in the Atlantic stingray. They, at least, were plentiful.

Several times we turned to paddle toward working terns and white pelicans, only to find them gorging on fish too small to eat a plastic lure or provide much in the way of nourishment. The trout and redfish that feeding birds often signal seemed to be notably absent.

Finally, after making a bit more than 11 miles northing, we picked an island – with an apparently firmer beach – and set up camp for the night. Dean, a Scout leader for years, pulled a couple of surprises from his dry bag: dehydrated soups and stews and – wonder of wonders – apple cobbler.

One of the great joys of this leg of my journey was paddling with two friends whose skills and experience complimented my own. Each of us, I think, contributed materially to safely and enjoyably covering 45 miles of mostly remote water.

Even more than the practical contributions, I appreciated my paddling partners’ keen observations of the natural world, and their humor. In camp Tuesday night, I made the startling discovery that someone had left the cutlery behind.

That would be me, I guess. The oversight was accepted without comment, but later I looked up to see Ken whittling a water bottle into the fire.

“You’re too cool to just burn the bottle whole?” I asked him, somewhat archly. “Dude,” he replied. “I’m making a spoon.”

This led to a rather lengthy back-and-forth about evolutionary principles and how, perhaps, the monkeys that learned to use tools – the early adopters (or is it “adapters?”) were destined to reproduce more successfully and eventually became the dominant race ….It was all very unsound, scientifically, but amusing to three tired paddlers.

Ingeniously, I thought, I fashioned my own spoon out of a tortilla. After using it to mop my mug of soup, I popped my spoon into my mouth, chewed and swallowed. Dean and Ken broke into guffaws, exclaiming that the monkey ate his tool. And pointing out that we hadn’t made it to dessert yet.

Thus the moniker “Monkey-tool Island” was born, along with a nagging suspicion that my progeny are doomed.

Tuesday night, an hour or so after dark, a jet aircraft with no lights showing roared low and slow down the Intracoastal. We wondered whether it was the good guys or the bad guys. Smuggling – mostly of drugs, but also of illegal immigrants – is a somewhat common endeavor in this part of the world.

A couple of hours after that, we had our answer. In the channel, we heard a boat approach and could see starlight reflected on gleaming surfaces here and there. The boat, sans running lights, idled for a time just off our campsite.

Finally, wanting to know who was eyeballing our tents and campfire, we walked to the water’s edge and shined our lights on the boat. It was a Coast Guard patrol boat out of South Padre Island … the high-speed kind with a .50 caliber machine gun mount on the bow.

We could only guess at what had transpired, but a good bet is that the aircraft was also Uncle Sam’s and infrared had picked out our campfire and the three man-shapes and Big Brother sent a boat for further investigation. It’s nice to know someone’s keeping an eye on things, I guess.

On the other hand … if you can’t be truly alone halfway between Boca Chica and Port Mansfield, is there anyplace left where law-abiding citizens can recreate in peace?