The salt stuck to my skin like Gulf War I camouflage. My shoulders were red. Later, my legs would be even more red as would my feet save a white calligraphic ‘V’, kept pasty white by my Haviana sandals. The problem was that we had no destination and an adventure is not an adventure without a destination.

Sparsh and I are in the business of adventures.

Just like the ridge hike the afternoon before, each new bend introduced us to another subsequent bend, which called out, tantalizingly, with sure promises of beautiful things beyond it. The tide was in our favor, pushing our kayaks along ever further, but this only added to the anxiety: turning back would be hell.

Finally, we came to a rocky beach that we christened “the end.” Littered on the rocks were half-inflated balloons that read Feliz Cumpleaños, a bald tennis ball, and, ironically, a black plastic bin that must have floated over from the California shoreline. Printed in white lettering: “Keep Your Beaches Clean.”

According to Sparsh, he arrived back to our point of departure exactly 363 paddles after I did. We were exhausted. We were famished. We felt fantastic.

Unfortunately, our apetites outperformed our preparations. The boat was coming to pick us up in three hours; in the meantime, we had half a box of plain couscous and enough salt and pepper to tempt us into cooking it. Heading back to the picnic tables to stuff ourselves with little dots of wheat, we passed a family of pigeons innocently walking along the trail.

Sparsh: I don’t get why France is the only country where they eat pigeons.
Oso: Yeah, I dunno.
Sparsh: I mean, pigeons are everywhere and people are hungry.
Oso: That’s a good point Sparshles. Maybe it’s not worth it - too much effort, too little meat.
Sparsh: Wha!!?? If you’re hungry, you’re hungry.

Five minutes go by. I had changed out of my wet boxers and was now going commando, as the saying goes. The denim of my jeans, though softer than most, still chafed against my sunburned thighs and my unmentionables.

Sparsh: One time I was walking in New York city and I saw all these homeless people and all these pigeons … why don’t they eat them?
Oso: Would you eat a pigeon Sparsh?
Sparsh: Sure, if I was hungry.

Another minute further down the trail, another minute closer to our couscous.

Oso: If you had to eat a dove or a pigeon, which one would you eat?
Sparsh: Wha?
Oso: Yeah, if you had to choose between eating a dove or a pigeon, which one?
Sparsh: I don’t know, I mean, I guess a pigeon.
Oso: Of course you would. Save the white bird. Self-hater. You know, pigeons and doves are the same bird, same species.(1)
Sparsh: No they’re not.
Oso: Yes they are.
Sparsh: No, they are not.
Oso: Whatever man, Google it.

Two days later, Sparsh and I were walking along Lake Merritt. He was getting to know my new neighborhood. Lake Merritt has a log of goose shit. A lot of goose shit and a lot of geese.

Sparsh: And geese … why don’t people eat geese?
Oso: I dunno Sparshles.
Sparsh: I mean, you figure there are hungry people in Oakland. And there are geese. Why don’t they eat them?
Oso: Would you eat a goose Sparsh?
Sparsh: Sure, if I was hungry.
Oso: Man, you are the strangest type of vegetarian I’ve ever come across.

Footnotes: 1.) I learned this fascinating fact from the highly recommended (and freely available) documentary Pigeons by blogging compadre Joshua Levy.