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Show RIVER our skiff on the Cumberland River on the Forth of July, and Richard and Ann took the van and went looking for a home. From the moment the skiff hit the waters of the Cumberland we fell under the spell of the river. The Cumberland was a completely different river than the Mississippi, swift and narrow, bordered by high, craggy, tree-lined bluffs, its green waters deep and smooth. During the seven days that we drifted between the Kentucky border and the town of Carthage we hardly saw another soul. Even the weather was cool and light, sweet relief after Arizona desert and Arkansas swamp. We mooed at the cows along the banks (we got so good at it that some of them mooed back) and pulled bug-eyed mud puppies off trot lines. The magic of drifting in a small boat down a fast river made us as playful as groundhogs in the springtime. After so many miles pounding down the highway, it was sweet relief to drift without sound on a peaceful river. During most of the trip the weather treated us kindly, but on our last night out it began to rain about two in the morning. So far the rain had sprinkled once or twice, but it had always blown away quickly. Except for a yellow plastic tarp and two cotton sleeping bags, we had little in the way of camping gear, and Rosie tried to wake me up to make some sort of tent out of it all. I was sure the rain wouldn't last long and I dreamed on for about ten minutes, by which time everything we owned was soaking wet. Torrents fell for another half hour and then it eased into a steady drizzle. It was a moonless night, pitch dark under the leaking clouds, but we knew we had to get out of our campsite before we sank into the mud. When rain finally quit, it turned cold. There was nothing much left to do but get back into the boat. - I l l - |