Thursday, August 9--
Onto the water shortly before 7:00 a.m. The sun is up, but shrouded
behind heavy haze. The air is thick; humidity 93, temperature 72. We idle
through the narrow boat landing channel, out to the main river, and turn left
into the current. Ducks--this years' brood, are grown big enough to fly, but
most swim alongside. Up past wild rice beds along the sides, tall and thick
with summer growth. Up into the shortcut channel, carefully steering the motor
through a tight two-foot wide path free of weeds. In June the weeds hadn't
yet grown so long; now they're six-feet, weaving in the current. Up past the
old stump in the middle of the stream, showing a two-inch brown stub above
the surface.
Up under a bank with big trees, a great blue heron swoops out of an
oak and takes up the lead. Up around a tree leaning down, back into the main
channel. Up through a graceful long curve, out into wide-open marshes, over
the submerged trunk of a pine, along a stone-laid bank.
Here comes Rufus! A stiff-legged dog runs at the shoreline, barking
a greeting to see us again. Rare is our passing when he's not there to hail
us. I holler "Morning, Rufus," because of his name, which he got
because he "roofs" at us.
Approaching the office channel, the boat begins fussing against the
convergence of two currents. We slow down, soften the wake, slip easily upstream.
The water is higher than it's been for a week, back up where it should be.
The water saddle is flowing again.
This is the last day of heat siege. The predictors have assured us
that the past three weeks of temps in the nineties will lower by this afternoon,
humidity will ease. It's a bittersweet passing. I've come to enjoy balmy mornings
with temps in the seventies. Shady afternoons on the water wearing only dripping
swim trunks, hot wind cooling us, EZ's fur wet. But the change will be welcome,
a transition from dog days of summer.
A bottle of cheap shampoo sits beside me on the seat. EZ's summer foulness
has exceeded a stench. When the sun gets higher we'll make a run to Sandy
Flats, suds her up and scour away the fetid accumulations she presumes are
alluring.