I have a new hero. His name is Walter J. Mastropietro, 61, of New Jersey.
My bucket list now includes sharing a very cold beer with Wally before I die. We have a lot to talk about.
In case you missed the news last week, Wally went over the Allagash Falls in a kayak … and lived. If you have never paddled the Allagash, the falls are Maine’s version of Niagara Falls. It is a miracle that Mastropietro lived.
Early reports were that Wally was paddling the wilderness river alone in a kayak. Let me tell you, mister man, it calls for some stones to take on that river alone. He had the great and good sense to wear a helmet, which probably saved his life.
I Googled, called and texted Mastropietro’s family over the weekend. He, apparently, did not want to talk. I would.
Many years ago, when Trump was just another New York millionaire, we took on the Allagash. The two-canoe crew was Jefferson Phil (our hero), another paddler who claimed to be chief justice of the state supreme court (we humored him), Treetop Tom and your faithful servant.
The trip started off with a disaster when JP told me to set up the tent at Long Lake Dam, while he made dinner. There was no tent. We took everything but the kitchen sink, but no tent. Everyone blamed me because it is my job to buy, supply and erect the tent. I didn’t cry, but I did sulk. There is no crying while wilderness camping.
We slept under the stars. It never rained that night, which might have saved my life. The next day, it poured like the end of the world. But we paddled on because we were mighty men and there was no subway. We stopped at the Michaud Farm ranger cabin, soaked and exhausted just before the falls. I always argue to take it easy, stay another day, relax and smell the fiddleheads. Let’s wait out the storm at the ranger station, I argued. But people go crazy on the Allagash. I call it Allagash Fever. Some people must paddle as long as they can, as hard as they can.
The alleged chief justice had Allagash Fever, bad. He demanded (he does that) that we continue into the storm. JP worked for him and agreed. I argued for the cabin. Treetop Tom argued that we had to stick together in the woods. Off we went into the storm, which got worse, naturally.
We were headed for the falls, in more ways than one.
We had been there before and I remembered a campground to the left and a sign to the right, warning of death. Plus you could hear the falls from a mile away. We somehow missed the campground and the sign had been destroyed by the winter ice. Through the rain, I saw JP’s canoe tied up at shore. We almost went by it. If he had taken the canoe farther to shore, we probably would have missed it, in the rain. We actually went by it then came back. When we checked later we were about 20-30 feet from the severe rapids, from which there was no return. The roar of the falls had been drowned out by the torrential rain.
It was close. Much too close. We easily could have died.
The next day, as we made the rugged portage around the falls, we could only imagine what it would have been like to go over those rapids. Certainly, no one could survive that churning, roaring water over the rocks.
But Walter J. Mastropietro did. And lived to tell the tale.
Before I die, I want to share a beer with Walter J.
He is my hero.
(The tent was left in the car. It was everyone’s fault. I was innocent, your honor.)
Emmet Meara lives in Camden in blissful retirement after working as a reporter for the Bangor Daily News in Rockland for 30 years.