The Raft Saga, Part 1: I'm Your Huckleberry

Despite all my attempts to foil it, life continued to go on.  After the debacle with the airplane, a nice, relaxing, leisurely float down the length of the continental United States on a home made raft seemed like exactly what we needed.  We knew that no amount of meeting at recess would actually cause a raft to burst into existence, but we met every recess anyway, with our customary flurry of brain-lightening and the subsequent sketches.  

Our raft would be a fairly complicated construct, complete with a shelter and benches, a place for a cooler full of sandwiches and even little hooks to hang our sleeping bags and various other supplies.  The blueprint was a living document, and any time a better steering mechanism was envisioned, or measurement re-thought, the sound of erasers tearing through notebook paper would frighten the wildlife for miles around.

My hair eventually had overcome its fear of burdock bushes and slowly grew back.  Chips eagerness to get to Florida was rivaled only by my excitement to work on a project that wouldn't leave my head looking like a potato, so the project started to come together pretty quickly.  Chip had in his possession a map of the US, so once we got to the river we'd know which forks to take.

Pieces fell into place.  The plan was solid.  What remained was the construction of the raft.

Chip also had access to a bow-saw, which I imagine over the years has been responsible for thousands of acres of Vermont deforestation thanks to his prowess and enthusiasm in wielding it.  I had a hatchet, which I had never sharpened.  The handle was covered in pine-pitch, so I had a marketable grip advantage.

I invited Chip to the house with the stipulation that he bring the bow-saw, and when his mom pulled their blue van up into the driveway I was ready to rock and roll.  Chip got out of the van.  No bow saw.

"Where's the bow-saw?"
"What?"
"The bow-saw."
"I left it at home."
"I got a hatchet."
"Cool."

We headed for the woods.  Running with a hatchet is not advisable, but I did it anyway.  We chose our first victim and proceeded to whack at it unmercifully.  That tree had probably been standing there since before the Civil War, and was about as big around as a grain silo. 

I chopped until my arm was sore, switched arms and chopped until that one was sore, then let Chip have a go at it.  At first, bits of bark flew off in encouragingly large chunks, but just under the bark, that tree had no intention of letting the hatchet make much more than a frayed looking dent.

Since laziness is the mother of invention, we set our brains to work on figuring out a better way to get that tree down.  Neither of us considered how we'd move it once it was down, much less the fact that we were in the middle of nowhere, at least a mile from the nearest road.  What we did consider was that the smart thing to do would be to light the base of the tree on fire. 

Next: Part II: Maiden Voyage