[Here is Part VII. Regretably, I have to handwrite this one. The folks here at Falcon State Park and Falcon Dam have been especially helpful, but I wasn't able to 'scam' the use of a computer.]

My late mother was fond of quoting the old cliche that "if you want something done right, do it yourself." No disrespect intended to Hayesy or anyone else who has ever boated with me, but I was certainly happy to be alone for the 85 mile stretch between Laredo and Falcon Dam. Few people are crazy enough to canoe the entire Falcon Lake, and I an likely the only candidate not only to canoe it alone, but to have a blast doing it.

Except, of course, I wasn't alone for the entire 85 miles. San Antonio Express News reporter Jesse Bogan tagged along for the 7 or 8 miles between the two Laredo Community College campuses. As if my canoe wasn't overloaded enough already, I had to add 6'2", 200 pound Jesse and his bicycle to the craft.

Getting down the slick bank at the main campus proved every bit as challenging as taking out there. We guided the boat into the water, but it was clear the moment we boarded that I had done a poor job of distributing the weight.

Even after we straightened the gear, I never felt comfortable with Jesse in the bow. Since he was working on a story (i.e., writing notes, taking pictures, generally moving more inside a boat ni two hours than I would in two weeks), his attention focused on his work. My attention focused on keeping the tippy boat upright.

At the very first turn, several kids high up on the bank showered us with rocks. One pelted the canoe six inches from my hip.

Just below the railroad bridge a half mile later, we saw a large Zodiak-style raft assisting a diver. As the men on shore shouted for us to stay clear, Jesse thought he saw a body bag in the boat.

He chuckled and said in a tone which mixed bewilderment and sarcasm, "Wow, this is a pretty eventful first two miles on the river."

As much as I enjoy Jesse, I was relieved when we reached south Laredo, and we unloaded his bike for his shuttle back home. The canoe felt more stable immediately.

Going south on the river out of Laredo, you're going to see more people crossing the river illegally than in any stretch from El Paso to the Gulf. One group of twenty-five floated in their underwear on inner tubes. Only half bothered dressing again on the Texas side before they dashed up the embankment to El Cenizo.

In total, I saw well over a hundred people crossing in the afternoon after I left Jesse. Few were daunted by my presence in the canoe.

I made camp on an island about two miles below the colonia of Rio Bravo despite having traveled far fewer miles than I had planned.

The second day required me to do at least 25 miles because Sue Rickles, a good friend who lives by the river in San Ygnacio, was expecting me for supper. Fortunately, the current is good most of the way, and I was able to do the 27 miles to her house by 4:30.

San Ignacio has a "bird sanctuary" where dozens of people were gathered to view a  roadside hawk. I paid ten dollars to Joel Ruiz for the privilege of setting up my tent between his makeshift observation platform and the river. Although Sue had invited me to stay in her guest house, I didn't want to take on the arduous job of carrying the boat and the gear up there (and back).

Sue prepared a tasty supper of pasta salad, and another good friend, Michael Sponberg, stopped by on his way back from "harvesting" quail at a nearby ranch. Both Sue and Michael were curious enough about my canoe to make the long walk down to the river. I was moved.

In the morning, I went up to have breakfast at Sue's and was deeply saddened to learn that our colleague Charlie Brassel had died the day before, suddenly from a massive coronary.

If I hadn't had the resolve to take on Falcon Lake before, the news of Charlie's death provided it. I decided immediately I would dedicate the remainder of this trip to Dr. Brassel.

Below San Ygnacio, the river has no current; however, thanks to the sustained drought, the channel is clearly defined by stands of willow. The problem is the willows are partially submerged in water. You can't find solid land on either side for miles. In fact, from San Ygnacio to my next camp at a rock ledge on the lake shore below Zapata, I counted exactly three places I could land on shore without having to explore the bayou-like world between willows and the new lake shore. I was out of the boat just once all day, and it wasn't as if I didn't want more rest breaks.

Of course, now that I was back on a lake, I had to deal with power boats, and the Falcon boaters have no more etiquette then the Amistad boaters. In one particularly harrowing episode, I found myself in between two hard charging Mexican boats, the closest of which couldn't see me because hos overweight outboard motor tipped the stern so much lower then the bow. Fortunately, the first to pass alerted the guy, but not before he, too, sent a rolling wake which I barely had time to turn toward.

My camp was a beauty, and after dark, I could see the light of the dam's causeway far in the distance.

I was at the beginning of where the lake begins to widen, and I knew from my experience on Lake Amistad that the going would likely be far more difficult from here on.

Sure enough, the winds picked up during the night, and in the morning, I lingered a long time in camp trying to summon the mettle to cross the choppy waters to the next poimt. Once I did get in the boat, I found the entire force of the current working directly against me.

After an unnerving hour and a half crossing, I took a long break, trying to decide if I were already done for the day despite that I had traveled only four miles. I found hundreds of very large -- the size of lobsters -- dead crawfish, and then, several live ones feeding in the shallow water near shore.

I could see the next point far in the distance, about six miles, and I knew getting there would require my complete attention and effort.

The good thing about being alone is you don't have to consider anyone else's welfare when you're contemplating a dangerous crossing such as the one I faced. But, then again, I don't think I could have talked a single person I know into the canoe to take on those waves for even half that distance.

I did manage to talk myself into it, and I'm very happy I did. For one, the winds began to ease early in the crossing. Secondly, about two thirds of the way across, a power boat manned by four guys from Zapata, killed the engine to spare me their wake, and treated me to cold water, specific directions for the remainder of the lake, and ice for my cooler. I wish I had gotten their names, but since we share a mutual friend, I feel confident I can track then down later. By the way, they were fishing in a manner I had only previously seen in the movie Deliverance, using a bow and arrow.

Once I reached that next point, I set up camp, even though the lake waters were considerably more placid than they had been all day. I calculated that I was likely about 15 miles from the dam, maybe slightly less.

An elderly couple came by shortly afterwards to fish the rock ledge from where I had set up my tent, but they couldn't agree on the distance to the dam. Theier estimates ranged from ten to twenty miles.

Not long after I awoke this morning, the winds began to ease, and the rolling lake waters offered what I thought might be a very brief window of relative calm to make it across the fours or five miles to the next point. However, the current was plowing directly into the cove/inlet I had to cross.

I found the waves pushy enough that I was forced to tack in to get a better angle, adding extra distance to my long crossing. I would travel half a mile or so on a diagonal away from my next point, then cut back into the waves to make for my intended destination. I found it a slow process, but I had no other choice.

And then, almost miraculously, the wind died completely, so utterly still that I realized for the first time all trip, the day was muggy.

The problem with these lakes is there can be an utter absence of wind for hours, but still the current rolls in the direction the now-faded wind last sent it. In my case, that direction was contrary to every point I needed to pursue, not contrary in the sense that I had to canoe into waves, but contrary in the sense that I had to slice through, from side to side, the waves. A guy could get seasick doing as much, and then likely think that was a far superior alternative to anything else that might happen.

I paddled and paddled and paddled. As I reached each point safely, I gained yet more confidence for the next one.

And, then, suddenly I found myself heading in the exact direction of the mounting surf. Once the sun broke through the overcast skies, the wind picked up and the waves began white-capping. Except for this time, those waves were rolling in the direction I was going.

My elation at having the swells going in my favor was quickly tempered by the rising size of the swells. I noted that when I finally reached the IBWC landing at the base of the causeway (because I overshot Falcon State Park), my canoe had plenty of water inside, all of which had broke over my stern while I frantically tried to keep the boat from side-swiping the swells.

I don't know how I missed the boat dock at Falcon State Park, except that now that I'm back here, I'm surprised I ever believed I would find it. When you're roller-coasting with swells the size I navigated the last couple of hours before the dam, it's not surprising you would miss the blatantly obvious, let alone a small dock tucked in a cove far out of view from the main thrust of the lake.

Having missed the state park, I simply ran out of lake. Suddenly, I was at the base of the causeway, and I had no other choice than to pull over when I espied an Americam flag flying a couple hundred yards above the lake shore.

This turned out to be the flag for the office of the International Boundary and Water Commission, and luckily for me, the gentleman who found me at the locked gate between the office and the lakeshore had seen me paddling the lake a couple days previously while he was fishing near Zapata. He thought no more highly now of me as he did when he saw me then, but he was very willing to help. And, having overshot the state park by riding swells, I wanted no part of the lake in any direction. I was a guy who really needed help.

While I was taking my 8-day rest break in Laredo, I had driven down here to inquire about who might take me around the dam. I had the name of a woman who is a guest host at the state park, and once I met her, she was gracious enough to introduce me to Ed and ROsalee, also camp hosts, and between the three of them, I had the shuttle around the dam covered.

Once I explained to the IBWC man my original plan, he shook his head patientlyand said, "Well, I'll just have to drive you over to the state park so they can get your boat out of here."

And, so he did. I found Ed and Rosalee in their trailer, and Ed and I followed the IBWC gentleman back through the gate to my canoe.

One of the ironies of making a long solo trip of this proportion is that it requires the aid of dozens and dozens of people, most of whom are strangers at the outset and then friends when it's all over.

Unbelievably, Ed helped me load my canoe and all my gear into the back of his immense pickup, patiently drove me to get ice, then delivered me at site number 57 of the primitive campground here at Falcon State Park.

And, that IBWC guy, as wryly straight-shooting as any man I've ever met, deserves countless thank yous. Unfortunately, I'm such an ingrate that I never bothered to ask his name.

Fran, the delightful woman here who leads birding tours, will drive me below the dam in the morning, and hopefully, I will have my wits about me enough to get her full name as well as Ed's and the IBWC guy's.

Now, I face 274 miles to the Gulf. Jesse wanted me to phone him from here so he could meet me to do a couple days of river below the dam, but I've noticed the state park doesn't sell calling cards.

Finally, for those who monitor these letters closely and worry if I am late in sending in the next report, I caution that I may be unable to report again until I finish the trip. Although I do expect to sneak into the U. S. at a couple points along the way, I don't anticipate being able to send another river letter until I reach the Gulf and find my way back to Laredo.

Mom, I did learn the lesson about if you want to do something right, to do it yourself. What I've noticed however, is that doing anything alone requires the assistance of an entire team of kind-hearted starngers.

I paddle and paddle, and then some guy or woman, who thinks my entire pursuit is evidence I need intensive therapy, instantaneously appears to rescue me.

God bless Charlie Brassel.

He provided a relentless motivation on this leg of the trip, and, frankly, I don't think I'd be halfway across this lake if it weren't for his tailwind.