The ninth-annual Project A.W.A.R.E. (A Watershed Awareness River Expedition) recently paddled down the Turkey River and its two main tributaries, the Little Turkey and the Volga. From July 9-16, more than 400 volunteers (200-plus on the first day alone) worked together to pull out 38 tons of trash and debris from the scenic northeast Iowa waterways. Mostly scrap metal and tires, 97 percent of the garbage collected was recycled. Below are the impressions of a first-time "aquatic garbage collector" and State Hygienic Laboratory communications intern Teddy Solberg.

Teddy Solberg (right) hauls in a large 'catch' with fellow Project A.W.A.R.E. volunteer. (Photo by Luke Wright)

I am not an outdoorsman, nor have I ever claimed to be. My family's idea of a wilderness excursion is venturing out to the backyard patio to eat dinner only if the weather is perfect. There's nothing in my past to suggest that I'd enjoy Project A.W.A.R.E., a weeklong canoeing/camping/trash-collecting trip, or even survive it. That's why I was so surprised to find myself saying that yes, it'd be my pleasure to willingly give up a week's worth of air conditioning and melt-in-your-mouth Culver's Butterburgers, served less than a block away from my post as an intern with the State Hygienic Laboratory. Instead, I volunteered to pull rusty car doors and other trash out of the Turkey River.

When I arrived at the shuttle pickup for Iowa City on Saturday morning, I came alone. My trusty mountain-man roommate and my moral support for the trip's duration backed out at the last minute due to family obligations. I wished him God's speed and proceeded to panic. That fifth- grade gym class fear of being picked last for dodge ball surfaced: Who was I going to share a canoe with? What if nobody wanted to paddle with me?

Uneasy, but willing, I threw my duffle bag filled with trail mix, beef jerky, granola bars, bug repellent, quick-dry clothing, borrowed tent and life vest and anything else that I assumed were staples of the average outdoorsman, into the awaiting trailer and took a backseat in one of two 15-passenger Project A.W.A.R.E vans.

Two hours, one helping of gas station cheese curds, and 60 pages of Consider the Lobster later, I arrived at Gouldsburg Park in Fayette County, where the many multicolored tents erected near the riverbank resembled a mid-sized outdoor music festival.

Amidst the enthusiastic greetings and chatter typical of what I assume high school reunions are like, I determined to find a place to set up my borrowed tent. Without knowing how to choose a campsite or how to assemble my tent, I did both. My new neighbor lent a hammer to nail down some pesky crooked stakes. I breathed a sigh of relief that a pole wasn't missing, and she never mentioned that I took twice as long as she did to perform the simple task.

A team of volunteers, including Teddy Solberg (right), maneuver a large piece of garbage from the Turkey River onto their canoe. (Photo by Dan Ceynar)

The delicious dinner of catered flank steak, mashed potatoes, green beans, buttered rolls, and real blueberry pie was so good I almost felt like I was cheating the whole minimalist camping diet thing. The evening's entertainment was led by Brian Soenen, Project A.W.A.R.E. director, who was one of the many organizers in well-worn STAFF T-shirts. Over a crackling megaphone, Brian explained the Project A.W.A.R.E. tradition of everyone introducing themselves, sharing the following information: your name, where you're from, how many years you've been "A.W.A.R.E.," your watershed location, and your favorite Project memory. With more than 200 participants, this took a long time.

And how exactly does a first-year A.W.A.R.E. volunteer respond to the inquiry of "favorite Project memory"? Just say, "This is my first year, I don't have any memories yet, but I really hope to make some," and you'll be met by a healthy amount of friendly applause. When I got the microphone, I took the literal route, "My favorite Project memory so far has been eating the blueberry pie."

If you've ever spent a night in a tent, you know exactly how little privacy vinyl walls offer. That is, to say, they're great for visual separation. Audibly, however, they leave much to be desired. As a newbie, I made the mistake of setting up my tent near the camp's epicenter, or, as I soon learned, the perfect storm of all pitches and paces of snoring.

Wakened up by Brian's megaphone at the always-too-early time of 7 a.m., my fifth-grade gym-class fear was quickly assuaged when I was paired with Joey, a five-year A.W.A.R.E. veteran and late-20s marathon runner, also in the market for a canoe partner. He wore a Crocodile Dundee hat and a pair of polarized sunglasses (an A.W.A.R.E. essential, because they reduce glare off the water's surface, allow for sight through shallow-depths and therefore greatly enhance garbage-spotting ability). More than 100 canoes launching into the Turkey River at the same time is a lot like the start of a marathon: everyone's jostling and bumping one another for position, except in this case it's all extremely polite and not really a race.

The Volga River (Photo by Hygienic Lab Limnologist)

Within the first 20 minutes of paddling, we managed to muscle a hollowed-out refrigerator that must have been from the 1950s into our canoe (with the help of three others). It was at this time that I learned what Project A.W.A.R.E. is all about. I'd like to say that the impetus for people pulling trash out of a river and willingly stepping in mud so thick it may not return a shoe is solely the kindness in their hearts and a genuine concern for the health of Iowa waterways. And though it's true that this is a completely valid and overarching reason for being "A.W.A.R.E.," it's not what fuels the day-to-day wading in currents, the perpetual cleaning out of rock-filled shoes, or the shoveling out of random underwater metal shards while the sun beats relentlessly down. What truly gets you up off your half-inflated Therm-a-Rest in the morning is the opportunity to find The Big One, and, in turn, be the lucky recipient of an approving nod, admiring whispers, or the always-fun opportunity to answer the question, "What ya got there?" from passing canoeists.

This unspoken desire to impress other canoeists with the sheer volume of trash you've collected causes something amusing to happen when eight volunteers (in four canoes) have been sweating and grunting for more than 30 minutes removing a 300-pound, 12-hole hog feeder from the riverbank. There's usually a whole lot of panting, not a lot of talking, but the whole time it's entirely obvious - everybody wants that hog feeder in their canoe. And because this is Iowa, after all, everyone's just too darn polite to outwardly insist that it be placed in their canoe. Doing so would seem unsavory and reek of desperation for the accolades attached with hauling in The Big One to the pickup location three miles away. There's a trick, however. If you ensure that your canoe is the closest to the trash in question, by pure proximity and convenience, you'll stand the best chance of being credited for landing the prized piece of garbage.

Some more veteran volunteers know better. They know that the flipside of paddling with a 200-pound barrel full of mud is exactly that - paddling with a 200-pound barrel full of mud. It's a lot of work, and canoes with four feet of garbage stacked on them aren't exactly stable. In the end, it's really a matter of personal preference. And while most people might think they would prefer to help instead of hauling the heavy debris, being part of Project A.W.A.R.E. changes perspectives. Something happens to you; you actually want to pick up trash. You'll go out of your way to maneuver a low-hanging tree and risk flipping your canoe for one empty beer can. If there's a particularly stubborn piece of trash that just won't come loose no matter how hard you've tried and you have to leave it and start paddling again to keep pace with the others, you actually feel guilty, thinking that if only you would've tried for just five more minutes you would've had it.

By the end of my first day, I had learned all of this. I also learned that the week to come would probably be the only time in my life I'll be excited to find an abandoned Goodyear tire. (Tires are the Golden Snitches of river cleanup. Finding one is akin to winning the lottery, for reasons I still don't quite understand.)

Project A.W.A.R.E. thus seems to evoke something rare. Maybe it's the pervasive attitude that picking up trash is cool. Whatever it is, I've never seen it before. I just hope it's not the last time I'm a part of something like it.