All Rise

By Matt McNair

Pointing out that “spring has sprung” is among the most droopy-eyed of tired cliches, a particularly hacky way to announce one’s hackery to the world (or readership, as the case may be). But here I am, doing that very thing anyway, because everybody needs to take a break now and again, and right this second I’m as tired of trying to be original and oh-so-clever as I am tired of dadgum winter. And besides, even though cliches are overused and to be avoided at (nearly) all costs, they got that way for a reason, and that reason is that they express a sentiment or describe some little bit of the human condition that most anybody across that particular culture can understand, and on which they can agree. I’d argue that the end of winter — or, in a truer sense, the coming of spring — fits the bill.

I mean, one of my very best friends is a dyed-in-the-wool contrarian, an elite-level disagreement artist able to leap overwhelming popular sentiment in a single bound, and I doubt even he would give me the old “uhhhh, actually” treatment here. (We’ll see though, and if I suddenly get an earful of spring-hate from him we’ll also see if he reads my little columns ever.) So anyway, let the cliched love-fest begin.

Everything’s coming up roses in springtime, because everything’s coming up in general: shoots and buds, leaves and blossoms, the temperature and everybody’s spirits all around. As to the latter, the hedgerow-rustling shot through the entirety of the out-of-doors tugs at the primal strings of modern man’s caveman heart; we feel compelled to shake off the gloom and gunk of a cold season spent between the walls and under the roof and get a hankering to roll back the stone and see what’s going on outside our hidey-hole, what’s all astir in the big wide world. And one of the ways this communal coming-out manifests itself — and, for my money, the best one — is the outdoor festival (dedicated to the outdoors, not just held there), the likes of which start cropping up everywhere about this time of year like out-of-nowhere clusters of daffodils, which seems an apt comparison inasmuch I can think of two Arkansas springtime festivals wholly dedicated to daffodils right off the top of my head.

Another thing that comes up in springtime is the water, as in the rivers and the creeks, which means that springtime is primetime for another class of outdoor festival: the canoe race.

Well sure, a “race” is not a “festival,” but in my not-inconsiderable experience races are just an excuse to get out of the house, pitch a tent and have a party with your fellow travelers. There are always going to be some try-hards out there looking to etch their names into creek lore (I’ve been guilty myself a time or two), but for most so-called racers, victory just means getting to the finish line without tumping, and fast enough to not get bawled out in front of everybody else by the long-suffering (and, without exception, volunteer) timekeeper.

“Victory just means getting to the finish line without tumping.”

I’ll happily go to any canoe race anytime, anywhere, but the one I’ll unequivocally and eternally brave the slings and arrows of outrageous inconvenience to attend is the Jungle Boater, a longstanding to-do on the Mulberry River and the Platonic ideal of an Arkansas canoe race.

Starting at Byrd’s Adventure Center and ending at Turner Bend Outfitter (where Highway 23 spans the river), the race itself is an eight-mile run that is by turns languid and lightning-quick, and depending on the water level can put you either on a pedestal or in your place.

The first time I went to the Jungle Boater I was absolutely besotted with the entire enterprise, and the race (in which I performed poorly) was pretty low on my list of priorities. This was the 17th iteration of the Jungle Boater, and it had already established itself as a tradition — an event that transcended the race at the center of it all (again, the excuse), a huge gathering of folks from all over that got there days earlier (Turner Bend is also a big campground) and might well stay a few days late. It was a general-issue party for some, family reunion (blood kin and otherwise) for others, and an instinctual celebration of the coming spring for the lot of us, regardless of it being said out loud.

I didn’t think very deeply about most of that stuff back then — the multiple meanings of family, the importance of marking time with something other than a calendar, the importance of showing up and checking in, of being grateful you’re going to get at least one more run down the river — because I was that insufferable age when a person thinks that they’re going to live forever, and anybody that’s done anything for 17 whole years can’t have much gas left in the tank. But I knew bone-deep that I was going to do my best to show up every March until they called it quits.

All this to say that this year’s Jungle Boater — the 45th — was the best one I’ve ever been to, just like the previous 27 I showed up at. Lots of folks still have gas in the tank up there, and I still have a little in mine, and it’s good to use a little of it to ease down the creek.

And I sure am happy it’s springtime, and that I get to see it again.