Owls, Our Mascot & Other Things that go bump in the night

(Written Sept. 6 while out of cell range)

Not awake in any real world sense as I write this groggy morn. This is just a dream within a dream journey and I but a psychological botanist of sorts, sailing foreign waters, collecting blossoms & butterflies of hope, a dreamer myself now a missionary of dreams, wishes, hopes heartfelt and sincere. I am dreaming and you are all my dream.

Owl in the trees directly overhead screaches to announce itself to its owl friends across the river, tears open my ears of Nirvana sleep from old B&W Super 8 brain images, a dream scene from some film of Her. Her. I can just barely make her out. The owls across river respond and a lengthy owl conversation ensues. Clyde the beagle chimes in and that's it, sleep's over.

Out here on the river our days are too full to dwell on thoughts of Her, whoever she is. We paddle ALL DAY, offload the gear at dam portages and at sunset, make camp, cook dinner, clean up, attempt to write while nodding off at campfire, sleep like the dead, make coffee, open eyes, eat cereal, break camp, and pack the boat for another day. Packing a canoe is more time consuming than packing a backpack and more technical due to the need of balance, both lengthwise, what's called "trim" but especially sideways, for obvious reasons.

I'm wretched on these camp mornings, a real asshole if bothered before coffee, a condition owing more to the pain I wake up to from long endless days of paddling than anything, but certainly made all the more grumpy for being awakened often in pre-dawn hours by military-timed Frank. It's not his fault he's an early riser, and sleeping with a dog easily spooked and up at dawn ready to chase chipmunks to boot. But neither is it my fault my beaten body battles for an 8 to 10 hour night of rest. We compromise.

This morn I cope by having JetBoil stove with French press ready at arms reach outside my tent. I plug into headphones and play local radio, country western, Christian pop rock, hell anything to drown out Clyde's barking. We are in deep woods here and Lord only knows (God and Clyde that is) what lurks just beyond the curtain of dense underbrush. I reach out of my tent, ignite stove, lay back down, rise again at sight of steam (all of 60 seconds), pour in coffee, eat cereal w/powdered milk as I wait, then the prize is ready! I sit up, sip the wonder drug of the morning masses and sigh as the monster jumps out of me and runs away, sure to return in 24 but who cares now? On my second cup when a country song revs up called "Tequilla makes her clothes fall off." I laugh aloud. Startled, Clyde comes over to investigate. I rub his belly and he licks my arm. I don my glasses, look out at forest and river and see naught but beauty, astounding. The first day of our second week on the river begins. -RSM
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