A weekend of many spirits yields a moment of substance

This past Fourth of July, I began a new tradition. I went on a three-day canoe trip down the Saco River with some friends. From what I had heard, I expected craziness, tipped canoes, partying and burgers covered in soot. It was a thankfulness and pride in being an American, found in a random moment around a fire, that took me by surprise.

For those who don’t know, the Saco starts in the White Mountains and empties into the Atlantic Ocean, south of Portland, 135 miles from its head. On a busy week in the summer, around 3,000 people will roll or paddle their way down the Saco, meaning – and here’s a fun fact to impress your friends – the river is comprised of 40 percent domestic lager and 25 percent urine.

With all of that moving liquid (up to 45,000 cubic feet per second in some spots) you might think the Saco is populated with woodsy camping enthusiasts, rafters and kayakers taking class four and five rapids, speeding six miles per hour over swells and tows. You would be mistaken. For those who’ve never enjoyed a long summer weekend on the Saco, let me run down a typical day:

6 a.m.: The sun is rising, the birds are singing, the air is heavy with the scent of pine. The sun is too bright, the birds are giving you a headache. What is that smell? You go back to bed.

9 a.m.: Shouting on the beach. You roll out of your tent. Someone more prepared than yourself has already made a fire and is cooking eggs and bacon. You, however, have run out of most of your provisions. Your breakfast of champions is a beer and a granola bar.

9:30 a.m.: You wash yourself in the river, leaving you dirtier than before. Also, you’ve now got ticks.

10 a.m.: You launch your canoe and are off for the day. You and your partner both quit paddling after 8 minutes.

You get the point. The Saco can accommodate real rafters and frat boys equally well. And you might be hard-pressed to discover a reason for the season amongst the hundreds of rambunctious, tipsy canoers. But I was hoping for some realization about American pride, an explanation for the barbecues and fireworks.

Perhaps we take pride in our liberality. Watching a drunk man try (in vain) to split a three-foot-wide tree trunk in half with a hatchet as his friends chant, “Split it!” into the night is, to say the least, a reminder of how much personal freedom we have as Americans.

I don’t know if I really found the insight I was looking for. But a solemn exchange got me reflecting and, ultimately, ended my search. It was late into our second night. I sat around a dying fire with a dozen other trip members.

Paul spoke. “A friend of mine is doing his sixth tour in Iraq.”

Everyone was quiet.

“He’s killed, I think … 36 people. Yeah, 36.”

There was a pause, and then someone said, “Sweet.”

“No, it’s not sweet,” someone replied.

Paul ended the conversation. “It’s not sweet at all. No one should have to kill anyone.”

I take too much for granted and I’m sure I’m no special case. For me, this poignant interaction was a reminder of how lucky I am. And of how much luckier I am than a number of Americans serving half-a-world away.

This year, I won’t just be proud.

I’ll be thankful.

Max Mogensen is a staff writer for the Sun Journal.