can you hear the silence?We put in at Roll Dam headed for Lobster Lake. The pile of gear next to the newly wet empty canoe scrambbled our brains with excitement. You could feel it in your toes and in the maiden mosquito bite, "This is your brain on the drugs of canoeing".
It was a real river. Not an anemic excuse for a river, but the bloated, thick-necked exaggeration of one, and we were about to slide the feminine body of our canoe into its belly, and we did.
The gurgle of water, the drippings off paddles, all of it! Slicing our way through the entrances and exits of one century and the next.