On the Fine Sport of Fjording
Some who have never participated in the sport have remarked on the apparent irony of going fjording in southwestern Georgia. “There are no fjords in southwest Georgia,” they might protest, or “you hillbilly, the word is ‘ford,’ not ‘fjord.’” To these misguided people I suggest a moment’s imaginative contemplation guided by the beacon lights of luminaries John Steinbeck and John McPhee.
Steinbeck, in Travels with Charley, understands that a journey’s need for a destination is purely formal. He writes,
In Spanish there is a word for which I can’t find a counterword in English. It is the verb vacilar, present participle vacilando. It does not mean vacillating at all. If one is vacilando, he is going somewhere but doesn’t greatly care if he gets there, although he has direction. My friend Jack Wagner has often, in Mexico, assumed this state of being. Let us say we wanted to walk in the streets of Mexico City but not at random. We would choose some article almost certain not to exist there and then diligently try to find it.
Where you’re going may not matter nearly so much as how you fail to get there. The word “destination” should be read with care, or at least an open mind.
John McPhee imparts similar wisdom about the futility of semantic formalism to the reader of Coming into the Country, a book about McPhee’s canoe trip in Alaska. I cannot quote McPhee exactly, but when describing his packlist, McPhee mentions his snakebite kit. He writes, approximately, “Of course, there are no snakes in Alaska. But what if one should suddenly appear? One would not want to be unprepared. My snakebite kit comes from Lynchburg, Tennessee.”
A destination may not mark the end of a journey and a snakebit kit may be wholly unrelated to reptilian venom. Language is not so simple. Language is a Miss to be studied, understood and revered. A speaker should learn her rules, although she is complex and ever-changing, and master them as best he can. But although language requires attentiveness, she demands interpretation. Sometimes the rules of language change and what were once canonized boundaries may be disregarded and the speaker may reach delicately, or boldly, beyond etched lines so long as the result is mutually pleasurable to speaker and listener. Sometimes ford may become fjord. Invention is as important as lawfulness. A speaker using only the sequences and techniques of his predecessors leaves an unsatisfied partner.
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
January 3, 2006 (1)
I brought four pairs of pants for the weekend. I thought that would be enough. I was wrong.
Ben and I brought 25 people down to Kolomoki on New Year’s Eve. On the first day, I took nine people horseback riding while the others went Jeep riding with Ben. My crew rode down past the lake, past the dog cemetery, through the woods and along Jack Slayton Road, which bounds Kolomoki on the south, then back to the barn. My horse sweated through my jeans. One pair of pants down.
Earlier that day, Ben had built a tepee of split pine in the fire pit. The tepee was as tall as I am. After nightfall and a few rounds of whiskey, we doused it with five gallons of gasoline and diesel then lit the incendiary stack with roman candles. The flickering tongue that erupted reached twenty feet above the rocks and its orange reflection shone off the lake next to it. Then we brought the fireworks out from the kitchen. Some of the rockets were very pretty. Appreciatively, we watched them explode. Then whiskey was produced. Our contented contemplation was short-lived. The boys and I started shooting fireworks at each other. The epidemic spread and the girls joined in, mayhem ensued and the illuminated circle around the bonfire was thick with layers of firecracker smoke and the acrid scent of burnt gunpowder. I was standing beside the lake lighting a bottle rocket when Ben tackled me into the water, boots, hat and all. Including pants. Two pairs down.
On New Year’s Day we took a group of eight riding. It was an adventure. I confused “Green,” a big red horse with a white spot on his head who can be ridden by any guest, with “Bentley,” a big red horse with a white blaze who requires an experienced rider. Ed Adams, one of our guests, was not an experienced rider. I told Ed he was riding Green. I was wrong – Bentley ran off with Ed, crow-footed with Ed and eventually fell down and threw Ed, who tumbled into the clay. Ed got up and brushed off his pants. He shook the dirt out of his hair. “I’m alright,” he said. He started to mount Bentley again. Then he looked at me. “Is this horse okay to ride?” We put Ed on “Black” and rode well past dusk. We rode through the woods and then through the swamp, thick with mist where the bare trees stood starkly against a dimming sky, then up into the fields of South Lane and back along Arlington Road. When we got back I unsaddled Preacher and rode him bareback into the pasture. His sweat soaked through my Carhartts. Three pairs down.
That night we took everyone out in the Jeeps to find the ford across Spring Creek. The ford is tough to find, especially at night, and the attempt to locate it is one of our most cherished, and raucous, sports. The sport is called “fjording.” That night, after much yelling, cavorting and many wrong turns, we crossed the ford, but the fjording continued. We stopped in the fields of South Lane for high-fives and a beer break for the passengers. I was standing in front of my Jeep flirting with someone much cuter than I am when Ed form tackled me into a mud puddle. I skidded through the wet Georgia clay, mud in my hair, mouth and ears. Ed was laughing at me, and I was grinning muddily, when someone jumped on Ed. ‘Twas not long until everyone, boys and girls, were gleefully involved in the most enthusiastic mudwrestling melee Kolomoki has ever hosted. Not a single white shirt returned to the Lodge. Four pairs of my pants headed for the washer.
Ben and I brought 25 people down to Kolomoki on New Year’s Eve. On the first day, I took nine people horseback riding while the others went Jeep riding with Ben. My crew rode down past the lake, past the dog cemetery, through the woods and along Jack Slayton Road, which bounds Kolomoki on the south, then back to the barn. My horse sweated through my jeans. One pair of pants down.
Earlier that day, Ben had built a tepee of split pine in the fire pit. The tepee was as tall as I am. After nightfall and a few rounds of whiskey, we doused it with five gallons of gasoline and diesel then lit the incendiary stack with roman candles. The flickering tongue that erupted reached twenty feet above the rocks and its orange reflection shone off the lake next to it. Then we brought the fireworks out from the kitchen. Some of the rockets were very pretty. Appreciatively, we watched them explode. Then whiskey was produced. Our contented contemplation was short-lived. The boys and I started shooting fireworks at each other. The epidemic spread and the girls joined in, mayhem ensued and the illuminated circle around the bonfire was thick with layers of firecracker smoke and the acrid scent of burnt gunpowder. I was standing beside the lake lighting a bottle rocket when Ben tackled me into the water, boots, hat and all. Including pants. Two pairs down.
On New Year’s Day we took a group of eight riding. It was an adventure. I confused “Green,” a big red horse with a white spot on his head who can be ridden by any guest, with “Bentley,” a big red horse with a white blaze who requires an experienced rider. Ed Adams, one of our guests, was not an experienced rider. I told Ed he was riding Green. I was wrong – Bentley ran off with Ed, crow-footed with Ed and eventually fell down and threw Ed, who tumbled into the clay. Ed got up and brushed off his pants. He shook the dirt out of his hair. “I’m alright,” he said. He started to mount Bentley again. Then he looked at me. “Is this horse okay to ride?” We put Ed on “Black” and rode well past dusk. We rode through the woods and then through the swamp, thick with mist where the bare trees stood starkly against a dimming sky, then up into the fields of South Lane and back along Arlington Road. When we got back I unsaddled Preacher and rode him bareback into the pasture. His sweat soaked through my Carhartts. Three pairs down.
That night we took everyone out in the Jeeps to find the ford across Spring Creek. The ford is tough to find, especially at night, and the attempt to locate it is one of our most cherished, and raucous, sports. The sport is called “fjording.” That night, after much yelling, cavorting and many wrong turns, we crossed the ford, but the fjording continued. We stopped in the fields of South Lane for high-fives and a beer break for the passengers. I was standing in front of my Jeep flirting with someone much cuter than I am when Ed form tackled me into a mud puddle. I skidded through the wet Georgia clay, mud in my hair, mouth and ears. Ed was laughing at me, and I was grinning muddily, when someone jumped on Ed. ‘Twas not long until everyone, boys and girls, were gleefully involved in the most enthusiastic mudwrestling melee Kolomoki has ever hosted. Not a single white shirt returned to the Lodge. Four pairs of my pants headed for the washer.
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