The quiet opened and revealed the end of the Nob, which seemed to widen with each paddle stroke as it nudged its shoulders toward Chesuncook; the end of the trip, the final night. The sound of phones and traffic, nines & fives, un-raked leaves and the burden of watches and noise of motors arrive, the machinery of everyday life, all seemed closer now, and our beers were warmer than the water we fought through on our way towards Gero Island. The quiet was heavy until it was ripped through.......
Friday, November 13, 2009
The late afternoon brought a slow river of taut cellophane, it's flat sheets disturbed only by the random surfacing bubble. We cut through it easily, slow and quiet. The river's soundlessness only amplified the slosh of paddle-blades, cutting at the flesh of the Penobscot. The water dripping, littered a trail of cylindrical ripples that echoed through the corridors.
This stretch between Big Island and Chesuncook was the most flat, dead water we had yet encountered; which lent to a mood of childish boredom. Every turn had something new, every stump erect in the distant water was a staring moose, every downed tree and protruding river stone an obstical worthy of a skate park.
As we approached (pronounced in a low baritone native accent): "Chesuncook".... the winds seem to hold their breath.
Posted by Rick Beaty at 8:37 PM