Lewis and Clark

    
     Sunday we paddled nine miles down the beautiful Contoocook River, one of our favorite paddles. My sons—aka Meriwether Lewis and William Clark—paddled part of the way admirably, begging to do so. My husband and I last traveled this stretch sans children because our sons were too small at the time to sit a) still and b) in the center of the canoe.
     I've read pieces of journals from the Lewis and Clark expedition (1803-1806), a great read full of mishaps. No leather-clad members of our party were shot by their nearsighted colleagues, mistaken for deer. We didn't even capsize!
     We did see strange and amazing sights—a great-blue heron, kingfishers, sleek otters swimming, a leach in the swimming hole of the island where we ate lunch, a bat climbing a tree, many mosquitoes, and a deer lying in the river just looking around (injured? staying cool? avoiding those mosquitoes?). The boys thrilled themselves with a rope swing and cannonballs after the quiet river of the heron gave way to the raucous scene of smelly pontoon boats and tattooed guys diving into the river between cigarettes. Trust me, no snacks taste as good as the ones bought from the market you paddled to under your own power.
     Of course, we have no photos of all those marvels—only this one of our well-rinsed canoe in our yard after we returned home—because we've had bad experiences combining cell phones/cameras and water both in rivers and washing machines. Perhaps old dogs can learn new tricks.