Craig signaled left before turning, noticing last year’s cornstalks were the same faded yellow as they were 15 years ago. The cold weather made for a late melt and the Oconto River was up. An easy-peasy run if the Rangers are right and there ain’t down trees across the river.

Rain was forecast for the weekend, and mid-afternoon on Thursday the campground was empty. He found his favorite site along the river; he’d camp there when his old girlfriend was along for the run. Too bad Irene decided I loved running the rivers more than I like running my tongue over her. Craig grunted, grabbed the old-man strap above the door, and hoisted himself out of the car.

He spit at the post for the camp ticket thinking he’d go back and pay up later. Rivers can surprise you. Computers, I told Irene, I never trust a computer. You wait, they’ll figure out how to gang up on us, some kind of AI stuff, and kiss mankind goodbye. If she glared at me, I’d bitch,  "OK, kiss womankind goodbye too.”

He stood on the bank of the river and cleared his throat again, watching the spittle run downstream. Nice flow, bet it’s at least 400 cfs. Upriver on his right were a couple of drops. Water channeling much like he recalled, the tongue of the river to run was where he remembered. Don’t need the river maps. Flow is fast, be a fun run.

He smiled, felt around for a pen in the glove compartment, and stomped to the registration station, laces of his open construction boots striking the wet grass. Three days. Use tomorrow to get the kinks out, play in some of the pools. Go over to section two of the Wolf Saturday, then the Pesh on Sunday with the old group. Remember to keep it to two drinks. Too late for Irene now, bitching, “It ain’t the drinking, it’s the driving.”

Irene must have heard how I ditched the car on 64. Jeez, I thought I saw some skunks crossing 64 on the way back to the campsite. Burt was right behind me. Chained me and I was out and running ten minutes later. Haven’t seen or heard from her since. You wonder though.

Craig paid and posted the tag when he got back to the site. He unloaded the van, putting his kayak and river gear to one side. Time to set up camp. He bent over and tied his laces, cursing at the effort. You drop a six-pack once, it’s one time too many.

His pop-tent went up in five. He tee-peed the kindling and got the fire going with a spark from his flint, muttering, Old boy still got it!

First night supper, as always: hot dogs and beans in the cast-iron skillet over the fire. Craig did a quick cleanup, kicking the ashes over the dying flames, the yellow reminding him of Irene’s hair.

Kenneth M. Kapp was a Professor of Mathematics, a ceramicist, a welder, an IBMer, and yoga teacher. He lives with his wife in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, writing late at night in his man-cave. He enjoys chamber music and mysteries. He was a homebrewer for more than 50 years and runs whitewater rivers on the foam that's left. His essays appear online in havokjournal.comand articles in shepherdexpress.com. Please visit www.kmkbooks.com.