It didn’t make sense but I decided it didn’t have to make sense to anyone but me. The cold water sliding over my bare feet sent a November chill up my body as I stepped out into the water and shoved my canoe down stream and jumped in. I had floated the Green River the previous six years and vowed that I’d do it again this year. Summer slipped into fall and other responsibilities crowded out my scheduled trip down the river.
The desire to experience the solitude and beauty of the river wasn’t dampened by the turning of the weather. True, slipping out of the canoe in the middle of the river and cooling off from the hot summer sun wouldn’t be my experience with this trip. But that didn’t discourage me from thinking of and looking for the blue herons, the turtles, and the occasional cougar footprints often seen down near the edge of the water. Dipping my paddle in the water using a modified “j” stroke that works best for maneuvering a canoe all alone, I set up a rhythm and the ripples that ran off my paddle and splashed back into the river with each stroke became music to my ears.
That music in my mind recalled another trip down the river when two of my daughters were paddling and singing, their voices drifting down the river like soft butterflies on the wind. Each time I thought of that day a lump rose in my throat and my eyes became wet with tears of tenderness. I was filled with gratitude as I reflected on the love that my children have shown me all my life.
All day long I paddled and enjoyed the wonders of the river. As darkness chased the winter sun close to the horizon and I began to see my breath on the calm air, I knew it was time to find a sandbar and camp for the evening. I took the wood from my dry pack and started a small fire. An Indian saying came to my mind as I sat and watched moths dance around the small flames. “An Indian builds a small fire and is warmed through and through while the white man builds a large fire and is too hot on one side and too cold on the back side.”
As I sat there in the darkening evening I was warmed by the memories of past river trips as much as I was warmed by the fire. I looked up and once more witnessed the multitude of stars in a moonless night and felt so much gratitude for all my blessings and opportunities in life: family, friends, freedoms fought for by others, and my health. Looking up at the night sky brought to my heart again and again that although I sat alone on a wintry riverbank I did not feel lonely in this vast universe. Appearing small and insignificant in comparison to the expanse of the huge star filled sky, I didn’t feel small when I thought of the love I feel from those I hold dear. They have treated my feelings as though they were soft butterflies on the wind just like the music my daughters created with their voices on this river one summer day in my life.
The desire to experience the solitude and beauty of the river wasn’t dampened by the turning of the weather. True, slipping out of the canoe in the middle of the river and cooling off from the hot summer sun wouldn’t be my experience with this trip. But that didn’t discourage me from thinking of and looking for the blue herons, the turtles, and the occasional cougar footprints often seen down near the edge of the water. Dipping my paddle in the water using a modified “j” stroke that works best for maneuvering a canoe all alone, I set up a rhythm and the ripples that ran off my paddle and splashed back into the river with each stroke became music to my ears.
That music in my mind recalled another trip down the river when two of my daughters were paddling and singing, their voices drifting down the river like soft butterflies on the wind. Each time I thought of that day a lump rose in my throat and my eyes became wet with tears of tenderness. I was filled with gratitude as I reflected on the love that my children have shown me all my life.
All day long I paddled and enjoyed the wonders of the river. As darkness chased the winter sun close to the horizon and I began to see my breath on the calm air, I knew it was time to find a sandbar and camp for the evening. I took the wood from my dry pack and started a small fire. An Indian saying came to my mind as I sat and watched moths dance around the small flames. “An Indian builds a small fire and is warmed through and through while the white man builds a large fire and is too hot on one side and too cold on the back side.”
As I sat there in the darkening evening I was warmed by the memories of past river trips as much as I was warmed by the fire. I looked up and once more witnessed the multitude of stars in a moonless night and felt so much gratitude for all my blessings and opportunities in life: family, friends, freedoms fought for by others, and my health. Looking up at the night sky brought to my heart again and again that although I sat alone on a wintry riverbank I did not feel lonely in this vast universe. Appearing small and insignificant in comparison to the expanse of the huge star filled sky, I didn’t feel small when I thought of the love I feel from those I hold dear. They have treated my feelings as though they were soft butterflies on the wind just like the music my daughters created with their voices on this river one summer day in my life.
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