I thought it was bad when I forgot the tent. Then we almost killed the chief justice of the Maine Supreme Judicial Court.

For our annual Upside Down Canoe Club trip we decided a return to the Allagash River. With faithful companion Walter Griffin committed to his daughter’s law school graduation, we conducted a statewide search for a replacement. Since rumors of our disasters are well circulated, we had no takers.

For reasons no one can explain, Chief Justice Daniel Wathen decided to go, after listening to club founder Phil Galucki (a full-time court reporter who only works part time) and his stories of the trips.

After the drive in with guide John O’Leary on Saturday morning, we paddled several hours on Long Lake to the dam. Wathen said he would use all his influence to get the pond renamed to (expletive deleted) Long Lake. As we unpacked countless bags of gear, Phil said, “Why don’t you set up the tent and we will unload the canoes.”

I said, “What tent?”

In the pandemonium of five people packing O’Leary’s truck, somehow the tent got left in my car.

We had a 40-pound Dutch oven, three stoves and a barbecue device, fresh asparagus, marinated chicken breasts, food for 3,000, clothes for a year and enough L.L. Bean’s doo-dads to sink the Titanic (if it ever rose again). We even had wine-in-a-box, thanks to Wathen. But no tent.

Naturally the dam site (no kidding) was as muddy as any good swamp. We would have to sleep in the mud with no tent. My fault. There were rumblings of mutiny and my imminent demise. Wathen, who is a County boy, rides a Harley and would have made a fine lumberjack, took it all in stride. He grabbed duct tape (100-mile-an-hour tape in the County) to lash the tarp to the nearest tree, providing adequate shelter for the night. Thanks to my 350 Hail Marys, it did not rain.

The second night we stayed at the luxurious Jalbert’s Cabins on Round Pond where hosts Dana Shaw and Dale Buck got to listen to Wathen’s war stories. We were there several hours before he told them what he did for a living. I watched their faces. They didn’t believe a word. Like the chief justice would paddle in with three gypsies who didn’t even have a tent. Right.

Once again it didn’t rain. Two days down, one to go. After all, it was the driest spring in 60 years. Shaw told us as we (reluctantly) paddled away, “You will have great weather.”

About 18 miles later we pulled in to Michaud Farms where Ranger Hope Calley told us she didn’t have a tent for loan. She never heard of anyone doing the Allagash without the benefit of a tent and never thought of keeping one in the cabin. Right away I didn’t like her. She also told us that the approaching clouds would bring “just a sprinkle. It happens every afternoon.”

I didn’t believe her. My instinct is always to be as comfortable as possible in any situation. I wanted to stay in the warm and cozy ranger’s cabin. Wathen, who apparently sometimes thinks he is Teddy Roosevelt at San Juan Hill, insisted that we all “press on.” Since Galucki works for the guy and has three kids to raise, he agreed. Off they went. I still lobbied for the warm ranger’s cabin but my bowman Tom Wright said river etiquette (and safety) dictate that the group stays together.

Take a guess.

The “sprinkle” turned into a full-blown thunder and lighting storm five minutes down the river. Wright and I had the tarps. We were able to pull over, huddle under the tarps and wait out the storm for 90 minutes, bored to tears.

Wathen and Galucki were about a mile ahead of us on the river when the storm hit and once again, “Teddy Roosevelt” insisted on a full-bore attack on the campsite rather than pulling over to find shelter.

They didn’t know that the “danger of death” sign was missing and the red ribbon warnings in the trees just before the Allagash Falls had been removed by the ice. They missed the portage and got into the rapids before they realized where they were. Galucki saw the falls ahead and paddling as hard as they could, the two managed to muscle their way off the river at the last possible moment. “Two more paddles and it would have been too late,” he said.

They scurried to shore and took shelter from the downpour in two adjoining outhouses, where Galucki considered his future occupation. “Am I still employed?” he yelled from outhouse No. 1 to outhouse No. 2. There was no answer.

By the time we found them, they were both laughing at their near death experience. They had written their own obituaries and Wathen decreed that the site would have been named “Wathen’s Falls” if he had died there. I said the Bangor Daily News headline would have read, “Wathen, unidentified companions missing in river accident.”

Wathen did the tarp honors again and we thoroughly enjoyed Galucki’s spaghetti and meatball dinner even if his (expletive deleted) dog ate the garlic bread the day before the trip. Thanks to 250 more Hail Marys, it did not rain that night and I was home free for my tent omission.

The grueling portage around the falls was made easier when Wathen put a canoe on his back and carried it alone to the put-in point. Galucki tried and gave up after five steps. I remembered my original concern against taking a chief justice along on a river trip. I thought we wouldn’t be able to drink beer, swear like sailors or tell disgusting, obscene jokes around the campfire.

It wasn’t a problem.