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.
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