Before Jessie and I even picked up our paddles, I could tell there were going to be some problems.

As we sat in the office of Rocky Mount's outdoor recreation coordinator, David Griffin, who was helping us map out our trip, all Jessie seemed to do was whine.

We could have paddled eight hours a day; he wanted to do two. We could have canoed right through the reservoir; he wanted to get a ride. We could have simply thrown down our sleeping bags and slept under the stars; he insisted we bring a tent.

Before I go much further, let me get something straight: I like Jessie. He's a great sports writer, a good co-worker and a genuinely nice guy.

But if I were stranded on a boat in the middle of a lake and needed someone to help me row to shore, he wouldn't be my first pick – I'd probably rather swim.

From his horribly awkward paddle grip to the way he freaked out when I paused to take a picture, it was obvious that he just didn't get it.

But this was only a two-day canoe trip – not a matter of life and death – and I was willing to deal with a learning curve. I thought it might be fun to go along with a novice, if only to boost my ego. It would be a chance to introduce someone to a new experience, open his mind and hopefully make him appreciate the great outdoors.

That missionary appeal becomes less attractive, however, when said novice starts vomiting in your canoe.

City Boy thought he could start a full day of paddling without breakfast. His empty stomach led to exhaustion, which led to nausea, which eventually ended up mixing with the river water at the bottom of our canoe, sloshing around my Tevas.

Though Jessie and I get along fine, anyone could have seen this wasn't an ideal match. Each of us comes from different backgrounds – he from New York City, I from Colorado – which was no doubt on the minds of our guileful editors when they assigned us this project.

He could rattle off the New York Mets bullpen without a thought, while I couldn't name their division; I've never joined him for a pickup game of basketball, and he's never joined me for a bike ride.

That culture clash came full circle on the paddle trail. Despite scarfing down several handfuls, I still don't think he really knows what gorp is. And had I not found a compromise way of setting up our tent without stakes, he would have slept without shelter – something I opted to do anyway.

On top of it all, the dude packs like a 17-year-old prom queen. I might be willing to ignore the three pairs of extra socks, the sheets and the precious sky blue pillowcase if it weren't I who had to lug it all to the canoe.

Jessie did one-up me at times. I couldn't have gotten the canoe up the pull-out ramps without him, but ask him to switch sides with his paddle, and you'll inevitably ask him 50 more times.

Moral of the story: If you can't handle the river, get out of the boat. Or at least lean over the side as you hurl.