Departing our last stop on a lengthy cross-country paddle trip, my traveling partner Jim and I pull out of Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore late one evening, rack ‘em up and head for home. Or almost home, it’s only Thursday, we still have an "insurance" day to spend, so we decide to stop in Western Maryland to visit friends en route to Baltimore.

I take the first driving shift while Jim sacks out in the open truck bed. I know this shift will be an all-nighter; Jim, while a fine partner in most regards, is, um, how to put this diplomatically...a god-awful menace behind the wheel, especially after dark.

I drive on through the night while Jim nestles in a sleeping bag in the back. Sleeping in an open truck bed at 65 mph necessitates bundling up as best you can - gloves, hat, paddle jacket - whatever warm apparel you can find.

Across the upper peninsula and down I-75. It’s all interstate ‘till we hit West Virginia. Open road, lots of coffee, tunes on the tape deck - man I love this stuff.

I truck us down to Morgantown and, as the sun peaks over the mountains, turn the wheel over to Jim. Whatever trepidation I feel about sleeping in the open truck bed while Jim drives is tempered by my exhaustion and I don a knit cap, gloves, jacket and sun glasses and slip into my bag in the back. I barely get the bag zipped up before I’m off to dreamland.

Odd dreams though. My dreams are usually pretty standard stuff, but this time I’m being chased by a crazed majorette menacing me with a baton while insisting that I play the trombone. A John Phillip Sousa march echos in the background.

And Jim is in the dream too; I hear him cussing and fussing. Too weird. So weird that I wake up a bit, enough to notice that we are going very slowly. And there really is a Sousa march playing. Hey, we don’t have a Sousa tape...

Suddenly I hear a plaintive voice, inches from my head, ask "Mommy, Mommy, why’s that man in a sleeping bag?" I open my eyes and see a row of inquisitive faces scrolling by a few feet away. Startled, I sit up in the truck bed.

We’re in a parade. We’re the last vehicle in a freaking parade passing through downtown East Jesus Nowhere, West Virginia. There is the high school marching band, the drill team, the senior class theme float ("We’re all hicks in ‘96) and us, the "Momma don’t let yer babies grow up to be paddlers" display.

Debating how best to handle this situation I decide to climb up atop the boats and practice my Queen Elizabeth wave. And that’s how we passed through beautiful downtown East Jesus Nowhere - Jim still cussing and fussing, and me sitting on top of my boat, grinning and waving.

I wonder how my yearbook photo turned out?