As the campfire wanes, ceases to illuminate the underskirts of trees, turns to more smoke than flame and you lean back to the left or right dodging its moonlit spiral, no more perfect a time arises that the post smoke rondevous with the moon.
Hundreds of years ago the only insight into a river trip was the map. A graphic representation or scale model of a spatial concept. A crooked blue line, was all you had to dream by. Things have changed.
These days are the keys and lamp-posts by which we gain access to ourselves.