Mike and I planned to camp in the desert next to Lake Powell. We bought an inflatable canoe so that we could go out on the lake. But like the "best laid plans of mice and men," things went astray.
Unfortunately, there wad a seven-year drought. Lake Powell is now four miles past the end of the road, down a trackless canyon. Even if we could have gotten there, we (I) forgot the paddles. Oops? they're sitting back in Tucson.
We made paddles out of driftwood and string, and carried the canoe an hour down the canyon. The photograph above is of us at the end of the canyon, next to the lake, ready to paddle. (That's me on the right)
On a trip such as this, as in life, there are always failures; things forgotten, things gone wrong. There is always a reason to give up, but there is always a choice to decide to use what is available and to roll with "what is" rather than lament "what I wanted."
In the end, I prefer the "Huck Finn" paddles.