The Mystic Finger by J.T. Valentine

Author:J.T. Valentine
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Nextone Inc
Published: 2023-09-19T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 11

Water Supply

The rest of the afternoon on our first full day was uneventful, and I was more than OK with that. We had a few more Class I and maybe II rapids, but as we got more and more comfortable, those became a greatly anticipated break from what can be a monotonous few hours on the river. My headache subsided as the ibuprofen took hold and I continued to consume large quantities of very cold ice water from my Nalgene. The odd taste was still quite evident, perhaps maybe more.

That evening’s campsite was also nothing short of spectacular. The river widened a bunch, creating almost a small reservoir type of environment, and on the far side of this widening sat a small peninsula on the right side of the river. When looking past this peninsula, the river again narrowed, which meant we were likely to start off tomorrow with some white water. There were a few large pines on the end of this peninsula right near the water’s edge and a wonderful flat clearing in the middle. Beyond this clearing, the woods appeared dark and dense. We were happy to pull the canoe up on shore and get out. Our hands were beginning to blister, our shoulders ached, and our butts were looking for cushions.

We unpacked the canoe yet again. This time, we simply started with the large cooler, putting it up on a larger rock that acted like a small, lopsided tabletop. We removed the drain plug, filled our bottles, and sat down. The rest of the gear and scrummaging for firewood would have to wait. Our massive physiques were tired from the day’s events.

I finally had to say something; my last long pull from my water bottle put me over the edge. Something was off, but I could not tell what. If it were merely my own bottle’s funky lining and plastic, I could deal with it as I did not appear to be getting sick. These Nalgene water bottles, however, were not supposed to have that weak plastic that you could taste. They were supposed to be tough, be able to handle both boiling water and ice-cold water, handle hanging off a backpack (or bottom of a canoe) and be bumped and thrown around. So far, mine appeared to be holding up well—it was just the taste of the water.

So I brought it up to Dan, simply saying, “Hey man, your water taste weird? Plastic-y or just off?” His eyes widened and he nodded enthusiastically. He too had noted something over the last twenty-four hours, but couldn’t quite pin the exact taste down either. We agreed that whatever “it” was, was getting worse, somehow getting stronger. As if we suddenly became Wolfgang Puck, we sipped our waters, smacking our lips, letting the water swill a little on different sections of our tongue, all to no avail, still unable to pinpoint the source of what exactly we were tasting.

We ruled out bad ice; it was bagged, and when we tried some individual pieces that lay on top, they were clean and pure-tasting.

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