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Monday morning dawned calm and quiet. While sitting on a tree stump sipping hot coffee, I watched the first hint of sunshine turn the mountains pink in the west. I had packed up the tent and sleeping bag, and everything but the kitchen stuff was already stored into the proper places in my kayak. The boat sat ready on the beach, down by the water's edge. The creek water had been really cold when I took my morning baths the last two days, and that had not changed. The hot coffee felt good later, as did my old sweater.

All journeys begin with that first step, and so when my cup finally emptied, I dropped it into the plastic container, and then carried it all down to the kayak. I bungee corded it to the floorboards, and then did the quick look around to make certain I had not forgotten anything important. Reluctantly, I carried the boat into the water. I hopped into the cockpit, cleverly keeping my feet dry, and then a quick push with the paddle to get us off the sand, and we were afloat on the mirror surface of the lake. The wash from the stream mouth carried me out, so I just let her drift. I'm never in a hurry when going home. The gurgle of the stream faded behind, and I was left with deafening silence.

A sucker jumped in the shallows, flopping down on its side with a smack. A pair of ravens flew by heading west, and I started paddling to follow. I looked back before rounding the point, marking the spot in my memory. Would be a good place to revisit, although I doubt I could ...

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