Hopscotch Portage

Two days in a row again. Nice.

Bale poled upstream of the put-in, out of the shadow of the steep jungle slope, to feel the sunset warm his arms. Evening came early to the Tall Rock River, but it lasted for hours.

That’s nearly all I meant to write yesterday. Sometimes I get caught up in the mechanics of reproducing the mood of a photograph I use to spark my daily writing that I forget to just write the even and let the reader make up their own mood.

Moving on…

The flow of the slow black water wouldn’t let him enjoy the day’s end long. He angled the square bowed boat so that it would drift downstream onto the sand bar of the put-in.

Hopscotch Portage was as far upstream as Bale had ever been without his father—it was as far upstream as he’d ever been alone. Any other night might find two or three riverers on the down side and maybe a handful on the top side he could chat with or share a fire, but it was opening night of the [something] Rendevous. The Tall Rock was empty save for him and the otters.

He bounced the stern just before hitting the bar and slid in smooth and high without needing the pole to correct. Stepping over the crate amidship and hopping from the bow, Bale made it to shore without getting his feet wet.

xxx words on day 971