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 | 
