Hunter Mann, My Man

Below is a wonderfully crafted, kind and warm-hearted salute to my recent fore-shortened journey, a gift of my dear friend Hunter Mann. Hunter is a very private man, especially with his words. He hasn't given me permission to print it. I'm just hoping this is one of those cases where asking forgiveness will be easier than asking permission:-> He's such a great wordsmith. I just can't resist. The trip down the Hudson to which he refers happened concurrently with my AT hike in 2004. He was part of film crew filming a man who swam the whole length of the river. In all likelihood, Hunter probably passed right under me as I crossed the Hudson high on some bridge in New York somewhere. Hunter and I, as with many of friends, are so "on the same wave length," or better said, we are riding the same blanket of clouds to some new, unnamed and far more interesting Heaven on Earth, together if often apart. - RSM

Written September 24, 2006

Hi Rick,
  I've enjoyed the photos and river tales, your pen
dipped in muddy water this time instead of ink,
well... better muddy water than blood. Your blog seems 
such a valuable use of the computer medium, not to
mention the hi-tech ease the Blackberry and other
tools have provided you a link to your readers.
Whether you're on the trail of dirt or the trail of
river water, you bring an intimate window to many of 
us who are mostly rafting upstream, out here in the
badlands, the hinterlands, the wastelands, the
Hollywoodlands.
  As I felt the whole two months I was along the
Hudson River, rivers are such a metaphor, as though 
they are more poetic than actual physical, tangible
bodies of H2O. Stream of water, stream of
consciousness, streaming video, unspooling in real
time with the naked eye watching it all flow.
  I salute your success that has been the river trip, 
some things like this take longer than the scheduled
and press-released two month duration we promise the
world and ourselves. Well, do what you need to do,
which is obviously to stop being a slave to the
 paddle, to ask the river for a break, so you can heal,
recondition and maybe return to where you last dipped
wood into water, or not, maybe just start a new
adventure, a new dream collection service, perhaps
even a cross country trip from Atlantic to Pacific to 
then toss the bottle of dreams to the sea, for her to
swallow then regurgitate on a beach in Tahiti at
sunrise, where an old fisherman finds it, and takes it
to his great-grand daughter to translate into Tahitian 
French. 
  I know this sounds nearly Hallmark Card-ish, but you
gotta remember that it's about the journey, not the
destination. Whether you return to muddy waters to
continue the trip someday or just let it flow away 
from you, the paddle trip is/was/will be what it was
to be, etc, etc, as they/I say.  
  I'm reminded of dear amigo Aaron Makinen, who rode
bikes with me from Seattle to Helena, MT. From their
he continued riding solo, zig-zagging the map. He was 
29, and as he rode he wrote, giving ink to his
non-fiction road story he was calling Turning Thirty
Across America. He was nearly 33 by the time he
finished that continental crossing, since he had to do
it in hop, skips and stumbles to compete. Now he's 
turning 43 and still editing his manuscript, so
Turning Thirty was just a poetic thought really, a new
title I guess he'll be fishing for along the river or
seashore.
  Be well, let the river flow where it does, life will 
keep rolling, the waters will be muddy, clear, calm
and rough...that's why they call if "life."
  Love and admiration,
   Hunter