When you pull down the coin that we do on the road the temptation is to stay in posh hotels every night draining the mini bar; however our street credibility is everything so we bid adieu to the heated towel racks and headed out to the woods. Old School. The School so damn old you gotta catch your dinner and roast it over the camp fire ("Ingenious" - Slim Dunlap, 7/13/97).

Watershed come from a long line of frontiersmen and outdoor types. So after catching our marinated chicken breasts at the local Piggly Wiggly, we fired up the Quick-E-Logg and damn it, we were camping.

Our Reps in tact, we got back to our roots and had the opportunity to work the highly sought after Park Ranger/Nature Lover market. Those are big dollars my friend. If the response of our fellow campers is any indication we were an unqualified smash. ("Damn It Kids! If you don't have anything nice to say to each other, don't say anything. I'm tired of it!" - Our campground neighbor whose kids somehow managed to learn some salty language while listening to the crickets, 7/14/97.)

After waking from a fitful night's sleep to the smell of roasting flesh (Damn, I've gotta remember to wear sunscreen when sleeping 'till noon outside on a 90 degree day), the natives shared with us the custom of rafting down the old Appleoconomowoc (Sanskrit for "Little Tinkler") River. It seems a ritual for those new to the area to be sent careening down the Raging Appleoconomowoc with nothing more than a baloney skin tire, a cooler of beer, and their own quick wits for protection. Halfway down the river and with a nice buzz on, it became apparent that we forgot the name of the outfit that set us up with said tires. Thus and Thus we sailed right past our point of exit.

Luckily the skilled traders and trappers that work the river spotted me trying to swim after the lid of our beer cooler before I went over the dam ("Manifest Destiny," I said. Oh how they laughed). After assuring us that we had at least a mile walk back up river, they tracked down the cooler lid (Yeah, they laughed all right. Next they'd be leading us on a Snipe Hunting Expedition).

We walked upstream barefooted over gravel trails, rocky rapids, and poison ivy, inner tubes in hand (the beer was long gone) just to scale the final hundred yards of broken glass (and pull tabs believe it or not) to meet the bus that would take us home. Dodging the farmer that was miffed at our sampling of his fresh, vine ripened raspberries, we stumbled onto the bus. The driver was about to make his daily shuttle to the strip bar, but we convinced him to drop us off at a carry out to buy more beer.

Life on the road sure is tough.