CHARLIE HAWKS

We left Brooklyn in a gold Ford Crown Vic that Fielding bought off of an old man in Sheepshead Bay for fifteen hundred dollars. Our goal was to rendezvous with eight others in Mexican Hat, Utah to ride the San Juan River for five days and four nights over sixty miles through the arid, red, utterly sweltering desert. We made good time across the heartlands, mostly just staring into space across the corn fields and feed lots while munching on unhealthy gas station food and playing music really really loud. Nights of cavorting with friends in various towns across the West sleeping in cheap motels and on couches and air mattresses wore us out while also preparing us for our time on the river. After a surprisingly smooth meet up with our eight other travel companions coming in from NYC, Wyoming, and the Bay Area, some of us old pals, some new acquaintances, we inflated our rafts and put in to the river on a hot blue August morning. What ensued was complete leisure and entire beauty, pure enjoyment all around (save for one flipped raft and a rolled ankle.) Never has the idea of leaving everything behind to become a full time traveler and hedonist been more enticing. But these trips wouldn't be so damn satisfying if we didn't all have to go back to some reality that is at least slightly more grounded and has four bars and LTE service.

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