The River

Sarah and I had a wonderful trip on the North Fork of the Shenandoah yesterday. We started at Red banks and went to Narrow Passage, after leaving the van and hoping we would be able to rouse Ernie to pick us up and get us back to the van. All good adventures commence with the headaches of logistics, but I try to minimize these and give the rest to fate.
Azure blue sky; bold, vibrant and virile greens of early summer; the alternating deep gray and shallow tan of the river bottom, punctuated by the dash and dots of carp and walleye. I was pretty rusty in my navigation, so we had a few brushes and bumps till I got my eyes readjusted to the river after two years of absence. Sarah snapped a photo of me after we launched, and I reflected I looked happier than I had in some time. Joyous, even. I much prefer the stained glass of the un-endowed river.
We were not as tired as we would be later in the day, and our paddle strokes silently crisp and rythymic, kyrie eleison, kyrie... BUMP! Sorry dad, didn't see that one. Not a problem sweetie, I shoulda seen it coming. I was looking too far ahead to the next riffle.
We were like two kids, my daughter and I, ages apart but equal in our children enthusiasm for the visual treats of the Shenandoah. A blue winged teal on our left, about 11 o'clock off the bow of the boat, shepherded her small ones into the shadow of the left bank and then made a noisy procession straight across our watery path, seeming to want to take off but beating her wings loudly and obviously on the surface of the water. What is she doing, dad? Drawing our attention away from the little ones, offering herself so that they can stay alive.
I think it's pretty much instinct, although maybe she learned it watching her mother. I suspect it is DNA driven, a kind of biological pay-it-forward thing.
That rotten shelf about 2 miles in was in no mood to give us a break, but we almost made it. I had to get out and push Sarah and the boat over the shelf. Just a half inch more in the water level might have done it. But I never had the pleasure of that, every time we hit that spot there is nothing for it but get out and push. Too bad, because I think in flood stage it would be one hell of a ride!
Osprey eyed us from above, and I suddenly could not get the song, "High Flying Adored" from Evita out of my mind. It stayed with me the whole damn day, and I would break into a line or so now and then, with Sarah looking at me as if I was nuts. Blue Herons stood like sentinels on the shore, waiting until we got about 30 yards and then hunching up and flying downstream. The little green herons, more demonstrative, flew downstream shouting like evangelists that strangers were coming, motive and purpose unknown. Rounding a bend we saw a doe halfway across the stream, fording carefully but sometimes splashily. She knew she was vulnerable and didn't waste time for how-de-do's when she reached shore, but she needn't have worried about any evil from us.
The riffles were pleasant I enjoyed zig-zagging them, but my aim is getting old. Once or twice we got spanked for my miscalculations, which began to make me a little indignant. I made alot of mistakes, and I tried not to repeat them, with mixed success. Sarah just laughed that who cares kind of chortle.
We portaged the damn Edinburg dam, which they have not removed because someday we may need the hydroelectricity that could be resurrected from it. Frankly, I would derive more power from the canyon drowned behind it if it was allowed to run free, but I've never had much feel for politics. Below this point the river widens considerably and runs broadly and smoothly and predictably , very pretty but not much depth. It was then we caught the fleetingest glimpse of a bald eagle. He crossed over the river and hid in the trees. A little later we saw an osprey acting lonesome. Eagles are know to steal fish caught by ospreys. They let the osprey catch the carp or walleye or catfish, then swoop in with shock and awe and badger the osprey into dropping his meal, then bank in to grab the prize and make off with their loot. The osprey scratches his head a little and returns to hunting. High flying adored.
We got to Narrow Passage and found the Narrow Beach crowded with swimmers. I didn't want to disturb them by coming in on the beach and scaring the little ones with a fresh water, aluminum version of Jaws, so we came in discretely a little up stream. We had to haul the canoe up and over a sandbank thickly encrusted with vegetation, and Sarah flatly refused to cross the wilderness. What if there are snakes in there? No snakes. What about poison ivy? No PI. Well, I'm not going. OK honey, just help me get the prow to the top of the sand and I'll drag it from there. Which I did. Through ten yards of stinging nettles.
Connected with Ernie by cell phone and he came by and picked me up in his County Animal Control Vehicle, which he is not supposed to do, but I said I looked enough like a wild animal he had to control and he said that would do. Sarah stayed with the canoe, and when we got back, Ernie took a picture of us with the canoe in the back of the van, like a coffin halfway out of a hearse. We were very reluctant to leave the river. But the picture shows us all smiles. Mine was not as gleaming as the one Sarah to when we started out, and my shoulder were a little more slumped than I remembered, the hair bright not so much blonde but gray. But I remember being unspeakably, serenely, almost tearfully happy. There had been not one hint of the Doctrine of the Atonement all day. It was one of the best days of my life.