That Airedale pup has brought new life to Albert and Leena. Swinging on the end of a stick Albert grabbed. Albert is gregarious enough, but when he sees boats at the putin, including a beautiful bairdarka some daytripper has, he can't stop talking. As one of the two landowners who control my favorite River putin, he always gets my undivided attention. Plus, he has great stories, and is a master woodworker to boot. If Albert and his neighbor have to shut down Aldrich Point over their squabble with the County, dozens of sea kayakers, a couple hundred duck hunters, and many more rubberneckers will be sorely disenfranchised. If that happens, I'll hope Albert still likes me half as well as he likes his Airedale, so I can sneak across the dike from Albert's back yard, when the ramp and beach go under.
Enough politics. Slide those boats off. Haul gear, shivering in the pre-noon coolness. Maybe 6 knots of downriver breeze. Becky is eager -- she has not been on an overnighter in two months -- so she has the yaks packed before I am done jawing with Albert, the baidarka guy, three friendly duck hunters, and the Airedale. Duck hunters shag gear and pack up. Albert ambles. The baidarka guy lifts his boat with one finger and lightly lilts to the water. Becky eyes me and I slink off her direction. She is a stern mistress ... paddling awaits.
We fight a little head current to the top of the island across the channel and slip into smooth tail current, turning past Tronsen and along the upstream edge of Woody Island, barely sliding over the shallows leading to the main stem of the River. Tail wind and tail current make for an easy trip over to the Point and onto the beach.
This seems like cheating -- only 45 minutes of paddling! Nobody here! And nobody has been here in a couple weeks, with scattered fire ashes and smoothed footprints near the fishers' shack. Lunch slides down easily and we kick back in the sun. Sun? Oregon? In mid-October? 'Fraid so. Must be La Nina, softening us up for a wet, cold winter.
Tent pops up, gear out. Snacks go down, and we inspect the shoreline. Skittering fry in the shallows and a plethora of coon tracks add to the ambience. A hundred yards from the tent, a swath of branch swishes tells of a beaver shopping in the local willow emporium. An otter track complements Mr. Beaver's endeavor.
Puff, puff! This firewood is heavy! Gotta have coals for the weenies. Cedar strips for kindling, and away we go, spuds simmering on the stove. More celery and red pepper anointed with hummus and cream cheese to whet the appetite, before the big franks go down, followed by a cuppa joe and some high-maintenance cookies. Paddling is just an excuse to eat, methinks.
Only two freighters (grump, grump), and we're off to bed, just as a lone duck hunter sprints his skiff around the point, sees us in his overnight spot, and does a quick U-turn. In the night, half a moon lights a dozen freighters ghosting by. As it gets light a handful of tugs, hustling barges, wake us. And none too soon, either -- we were both cold in our summer sleeping bags, fleece comforter not withstanding. Must be old bones.
Coffee, fruit, and hearty oatmeal power us up for more basking, and a small navy boat lumbers by. We inspect Mr. Beaver's new swishings, dotted with the evidence of a do-si-do with Mr. Coyote. Buck teeth and big tail against fangs and speed. Wonder if the coyote fears the beaver? The beaver made off with his branch, by the evidence in the sand.
Against the current and against the tide, pulling hard, across the channel as we look both ways, remembering what Mom told us as kids. Duck hunters converge on the ramp and we hit the beach, reversing the gear shuffle. These duck hunters want to talk, too. One admires the boats and thinks he will get his wife into a double. She does not hunt, but loves the water.
So do we. Sanity has returned.
--
Dave Kruger
Astoria, OR
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