A little poem about cool stuff

Oyacachi

You always start with a good piss.

Move to gear:

Fo-denim NRS top,

Sieved out Snap Dragon skirt,

Black Kokatat vest,

Tattered old WRSI helmet,

 Check.

My stomach churns: Ruevelto Americano and anxious nerves.

Have to have nerves.

But what of the Americano?

It’s a short walk out of the pebble strewn cul de sac.

All that remains is a final far well to the yellow taxi,

a listen to the rivers deafening madness,

a crossing of the old wooden bridge,

and a steady descent down the wet, mossy slope.

Don't slip dammit! 

My NIKE’s wage war with the christened brown rocks lining the bank.

Each step calculated and precise.

This is the Andes,

a fortress of mountain and Jungle.

A place where an eight-dollar Machete is sole alley.

Piss again.

Always again.

The torrent madly sprints only a paddles length away.

Fast,

Loud,

Careless.

It’s a Fucking runaway train.

Settle in,

Sit high,

Ratchet tight,

Quick stretch.

Push off.

The current pulls like an angry father.

I fight back.

Right stroke,

Left stroke,

Left edge up,

I am in no problem.

Ready and strong.

It's high today.

Left edge up again,

Right stroke.

Peel out.