The summer of 2020 is waning. This season, with its pandemic stress and extraordinary anxieties, has pushed us all out into nature like never before, hiking, picnicking, camping and such. Our farm property in mid-Ohio is close to one of the area’s most beautiful and popular refuges, Mohican State Park. It boasts gorgeous stands of towering pine trees, stretches of hiking and horseback riding trails and miles of winding creeks and rivers, the most popular of which is the Black Fork River, home to Mohican Adventures in Loudonville, Ohio.

Several years ago, during one of our first summers with the farm in our lives, my husband, Daniel Boone and I booked a river rafting adventure. This is a spot popular for school and scouting field trips. I had not been there since a 3.2 beer-soaked afternoon in high school back in 1982; I was excited to go back. Our youngest daughter, Merriweather, came with us - under duress. Her high school classmates who were supposed to come out to the farm for the weekend cancelled on her at the last minute and we forced her to accompany us anyway because, you know, we are awful parents.

“This will be fun!” I cajoled her as I packed our things. “It’s a nice hot day, and the river will be quiet and cool. It will be so relaxing to be out in nature.”

I just didn’t count on all the people who were thinking the same thing.

The canoe livery was a bustling place that smelled like a water ride at an amusement park and was populated with the same caliber of large-ish, t-shirted, sweaty patrons. These were in the days before Covid concerns, so we pushed our way into the crowd, trying on life jackets that smelled like dirty jockstraps, and plunked ourselves into the mud-smeared canoes. “See! Isn’t this fun?” I cooed. Silence from Merriweather.

As we pushed out into the river, the slow current pulled us in. Boats full of young families and rowdy teenagers surrounded us, so we paddled away to find the serenity I was seeking. I had flashes of scenes from Disney’s Pocahontas in my head as I stroked the water with my oar. My girls and I loved that movie when they were all young, with its soaring soundtrack and strong, beautiful hereon. I was imagining myself – a white, middle aged, decidedly non-Native American woman -- with cartoon, raven-colored hair, a winsome profile and that enviable Disney princess 20” waistline, as I belted out,

What I love most about rivers is
You can't step in the same river twice
The water's always changing, always flowing ...

What's around the river bend
Waiting just around the river bend

I look once more just around the river bend
Beyond the shore where the gulls fly free
Don't know what for what I dream the day might send
Just around the river bend for me, coming for me

But after the first bend in the river, I didn’t find gulls flying free, but miles of RV and trailer park campgrounds, bustling with weekend partiers. It was 10:30 a.m. and I heard that familiar sound of a Natty Lite being cracked open riverside. A shirtless man sitting on a lawn chair rested the can on his generous girth as scores of children ran amok ... And I do mean muck. The riverbed was pretty low from the dry spring, giving the water the muddy look of a parking lot puddle. I waved a tepid hello. “Good morning!” He raised his beer to toast me.

“Can I squirt you, lady?” yelled a kid, crocodile-swimming towards our canoe through the shallow water. Other kids were running and swimming around, through and above the river as well. It was a Lost Boys-meets-Lord of the Flies kind of vibe.

“Oh, no, thanks,” I replied as his less polite friend drenched my daughter with a bazooka power soaker. We both were sticky with river mud already, so what did it matter, honestly? Except that Merriweather kept up her steely silence.

We continued on, meandering past more campgrounds full of volleyball nets, smoking grills, and homes that ranged from modest to extravagant. Some houses had folded lawn chairs; others were festooned with party lights. Some had painstakingly manicured landscaping, other a couple of lonely flower pots. It was all very sweet, very mid-Ohio Americana. I felt like a voyeur, floating by a diorama of “Life in the Midwest, USA, summer 2000’s.”

“Woo hoo! Show us your tits!” We had just turned another river bend and were greeted by a raucous group of young men. And more Natty Lite. My daughter was repulsed and starting stroking her oar faster. “Oh, no, not happening!” I yelled. “Not today! Just passing through!”

We were roughly midway through our journey, and the Darwinian playground we just navigated through had made us hungry. Luckily, the Mohican river is peppered with weird little float up eateries serving burgers, fish and chips, chicken skewers, hot dogs, beverages…the works. There’s even beer to-go. None of it felt very regulated or legal, but we had come this far. “To hell with it. Let’s do this.” I said as I stroked towards “Captain Weenie” and ordered us all some hot dogs and beer. Merriweather broke her silence to declare she “would rather starve to death.”

She did have a point. There’s something just not right about buying food made in a ramshackle houseboat, eating it in a filthy canoe whilst having swamp ass, and floating in muddy river water. We ate and drank just the same. But I can check that off my to do list. Don’t need to do that again. Ever.

After our visit to mid-Ohio’s version of the “wet market,” we floated on to find what we came for: an open stretch of quiet woods. The revelers and beer swillers were left behind, the canoes spread apart and all there was to hear was the wind, the birds, and the splash of the oars. Dappled sunlight scattered in front of us, shining through leafy branches as the towering trees swayed in the breeze. And all of the sudden, it was smooth sailing.

It really was a lovely day. All of it. Even the amphibious float-through, marginally sanitary dining options. Humans of all sizes, races and backgrounds finding a variety of ways to be out in nature and enjoy themselves. And patches of gorgeous nature.

Our trip was 7 miles; there is a 14-mile version, which I hear is calmer, more nature centered. You do have to make it through that same first 7-mile gauntlet, but I want to give it a try. Maybe sooner than later. I look back on that day and feel like maybe it’s a metaphor for these times. This year has felt very much like we all are paddling against the current, losing our oars, getting super soaked with wretched, muddy river water, and putting up with unseemly behavior by way too many people. But I’m hanging on to the hope that there is smooth water with quiet breezes ahead.

Just around the river bend.