I spotted a carload of college kids the other day, headed for spring break in some climate warmer than ours.

They helped me remember how I almost died on my first spring break cruise.

Whilst my classmates headed for Florida and the Bahamas and Mexico, I grabbed my canoe and headed for a place with no name.

Several days later, with the feeling returning to my extremities, I realized that one should never start a trip from any place that has no name.

I was as admirably prepared for a three-day canoe trip as any young man could be-I had warm clothes, fishing gear, firemaking supplies, and waterproof containers of food for both myself and my dogs. I had fishing gear and a rifle to augment my tiny food supply with wild game and fish.

I carefully marked the route I'd take on a map which I left with my folks. I even got the friend who was dropping me off to drive past my planned landing spot on our way to the launching point.

On a lovely, sunny Sunday, a day which was far too pretty for the end of February, I waved goodbye to everyone, twirled my little yellow boat into the current, and headed downstream on the Coharie. My dogs, Dixie and Dudley, were perfectly content running, swimming and playing along the path beside the stream.

I knew I was on my way to a far more memorable spring break than any of my friends who were slugging pastel-colored drinks and getting sunburned.

I had no idea how memorable it would be.

The first logjam wasn't that big of a deal; it was comparatively small, and I just stepped out of the canoe into ankle-deep, frigid water, up the muddy bank, and dragged my canoe around.

The second obstruction, just a hundred yards from the first, wasn't a big deal either.

Neither was the third, fourth, fifth, or sixth.

By the seventh or eighth, though, I was getting a little concerned.

And cold.

I had failed to notice that the temperature was dropping, and the wind picking up. That wind pushed the canoe from under me once while portaging around another logjam, and I discovered, quickly, that the river wasn't at swimming temperature.

If you have never been wet and cold in the woods while the sun is going down, you have yet to know true misery.

Problem was, I hadn't seen anything yet.

I made a simple little camp maybe halfway to my original first night's destination. The river was widening with every logjam, beaverdam and downed tree I passed. I figured I could make up for lost time after a warm meal and a good night's sleep.

Of course, that was assuming I could get a good night's sleep, cook a hot meal, and that the logjams would not increase in size at a rate disproportional to the faster flow of the river.

My meal was cold, my fire weak, sleep non-existent, and the next day, I would encounter logjams that could have blocked the Mississippi.

It was full dark by the time I got my fire going strong enough to cook something-I disremember what-that hadn't been destroyed by the river water that disregarded my waterproof packaging. Dixie and Dudley's food, however, was still dry, and they snored happily away on either side of my sopping blanket roll after a hearty meal. I wondered how to warm up Purina Dog Chow on a campfire.

Still, I endeavored to persevere; I reminded myself how my discomforts were nothing compared to those stalwart souls who first floated this river, carved homes from the forests, and made a new country for them themselves and their descendants.

And in the back of my mind, I was wondering if maybe my own ancestors should have stayed in Europe.

I doubt sincerely that any of those British, Welsh, Scots, Bretons or Spaniards in my bloodline ever shivered in a wet blanket and hugged a wet Labrador to keep from freezing. If they did, I hope that said Lab had not recently rolled in something that was not just merely dead, but really, most sincerely dead.

You see, my fat, warm, affectionate Dixie-Dog had found something delightfully, disgustingly dead, and had rolled in the carcass.

Naturally, she had no desire to go swimming after such a good roll.

Dudley was generally above such things, but the brief warm spell the day before meant a rejuvenation of his fleas. He kindly shared with me.

By the afternoon of the second day, I was wet, cold, hungry, fleabitten, and even though all I had to do was stay on the river, I felt like I was lost. Dudley had become tired of running on the river bank, so he lay in the bow of the canoe, staring at me accusingly with sad puppy eyes.

Dixie found something else dead to roll in, and when I beached the canoe to have a lunch of instant coffee, my last remaining (somewhat soggy) crackers and a candy bar (utterly sopping), she bounced into camp carrying the back half of a freshly-killed rabbit.

It was the only game animal I saw on the trip. I never saw a single fish.

The next morning, the canoe's bowline came undone as I was stepping aboard. The boat drifted, and I missed.

I went through a thin layer of ice into the mud on the bottom of the river, while the water flowed over my head.

Knowing when I was licked, I retrieved my canoe, tied it up, and started walking.

For an hour or so, I fought my way uphill through a thorn-filled cutover that opened every hundred yards or so into a wide, clear space like a farm road. Finally I realized it was a farm road, which led me to a nice little brick home with smoke coming out of the chimney.

After frightening some children waiting for the school bus ("It's Bigfoot!" one of them screamed) I politely asked their mother if I could use the phone. She demurred, but told me her mother down the road apiece would let me call for help.

"What have you been doing?" she asked, politely handing me a cup of coffee through the screen door.

I scratched a flea, shivered, and smelled Dixie's Eau de Roadkill cologne where it had saturated my soaking, freezing clothes.

"I'm on spring break from college," I told her. "I'm having some fun."

--30-