Sticky pine and pot-black stained hands, the stench of BO and bug spray interrupted by cool rain fresh wind off the bow. Sweet exhaustion, shaky limbs - now fed, finding sleep. Whose home is this? The nasty pine bug, the crooning loon, First families still walking this land. Solace for me, one tent site at a time. Waking to the sunrise, something warm in my mug. Preparing for a day’s journey over water until the next soft spot is found for sleep. Family is made over the fire. We commune through shared meals after a day of paddling. We know each other by the way we went - through -or around - or in - the last set of rapids. On calmer waters there may be stories, memories of past adventures, always laughter, sometimes tears, often, song. Taking in the sunset from a not-so-special spot, leaning into the shoulder of this moment’s companion. It is nothing less than magic, we know this: the crumbling corner of the dock, our occasional encounter IS EVERYTHING. Despite what no one else knows - this is emblazoned upon our memories  Maddy Vertenten, Vice-Chair |