Me one, Grim Reaper zero. Booyah.
Cottonwoods along the Yellowstone on the day in question I made a lot of memories during my recent sojourn in Montana. I climbed a couple of mountains, had a couple of longish alpine hikes, enjoyed a few sunlit days on the shore of Flathead Lake. I also canoed a stretch of the Yellowstone River near Springdale, which is where I almost drowned. I’m not kidding. On August 31, I came pretty close to shuffling off to Buffalo. They say close only counts in horseshoes, but weeks later I still think about it at night. I still look at the clothes I was wearing that day and imagine them as the clothes of a dead man. It’s the only time in my life where I really thought it was over. The long version: Near the end of the float, my brother Ed and I encountered a bit of rough water. As a result of some miscommunication on the paddling, the canoe turned sideways in some standing waves and swamped. At the moment, I wasn’t that worried about it. I’ve tipped over canoes quite a few times, and the worst ...