What a beautiful day in Mississippi. At 8 am we loaded into the Suburban and drove along the coast, north towards the Black Creek in Desoto National Forest. At the horizon, lightning licked the Gulf from a swath of darkness in an otherwise blue sky. (Fans of my other work notice my astute use of foreshadowing). At ten, after an extended stop at the Winn Dixie for intricately assembled poboys, we pulled into Soggy Bottom Canoe and Kayak. 
Kitted out in “Typhoon” model kayaks, we dropped into the river and started our lazy paddle, just a bit quicker than the current. The surface of the river was broken only by floating leaves and the dip of our paddles; the only human sounds were our splashes. We looked up at blue sky and down at still water, gathered to see a turtle or a snake (which disappeared as soon as they saw us), and pulled our kayaks on shore to take a swim. I haven’t seen such beautiful country in years. I kept thinking, “this is the earth as God made it.” I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, and then turned to laugh at a joke.
As the only one who could make it up the slick side of the riverbank, Jeremy enjoyed the rope swing for all of us.
After lunch we took a long, floaty swim, goofing at the drop-off into deep water, and remembering old camp trips. Thunder rumbled in the distance, which only underscored our pleasure at the blue sky and puffy clouds above us.
Back in the kayaks, it was only fifteen minutes before the dark clouds rolled over, and only a few minutes more before a light sprinkling dotted the surface of the water. All seemed well for a cooler paddle—until the wind kicked up and pushed us sideways faster than we could paddle ourselves forward. We paddled. Lightning darted ahead of us. We paddled. The storm moved closer, the lightning crackled closer, and we found the first flat place we could to pull the kayaks ashore and get out of the water. Lee, earlier our hero for thinking of a kayaking trip in the first place, was now the object of much scorn and derision J. At first we figured we would drop right back into the water—a storm that came up so quickly would certainly blow over just as fast—but ended up hitting the deck as lightning struck 50 meters away. We crouched on the bank for 45 minutes. Nonetheless—better to get soaked to the skin on a riverbank than in downtown DC.
Note that there are no pictures of our soggy interlude; it was too wet to get the camera out of the Ziploc bag.
Nobody has ever been happier to see the guys in ponchos waiting at the landing, and to hear Axl Rose welcome us to the jungle in the camp van.
Kitted out in “Typhoon” model kayaks, we dropped into the river and started our lazy paddle, just a bit quicker than the current. The surface of the river was broken only by floating leaves and the dip of our paddles; the only human sounds were our splashes. We looked up at blue sky and down at still water, gathered to see a turtle or a snake (which disappeared as soon as they saw us), and pulled our kayaks on shore to take a swim. I haven’t seen such beautiful country in years. I kept thinking, “this is the earth as God made it.” I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, and then turned to laugh at a joke.
As the only one who could make it up the slick side of the riverbank, Jeremy enjoyed the rope swing for all of us.
After lunch we took a long, floaty swim, goofing at the drop-off into deep water, and remembering old camp trips. Thunder rumbled in the distance, which only underscored our pleasure at the blue sky and puffy clouds above us.
Back in the kayaks, it was only fifteen minutes before the dark clouds rolled over, and only a few minutes more before a light sprinkling dotted the surface of the water. All seemed well for a cooler paddle—until the wind kicked up and pushed us sideways faster than we could paddle ourselves forward. We paddled. Lightning darted ahead of us. We paddled. The storm moved closer, the lightning crackled closer, and we found the first flat place we could to pull the kayaks ashore and get out of the water. Lee, earlier our hero for thinking of a kayaking trip in the first place, was now the object of much scorn and derision J. At first we figured we would drop right back into the water—a storm that came up so quickly would certainly blow over just as fast—but ended up hitting the deck as lightning struck 50 meters away. We crouched on the bank for 45 minutes. Nonetheless—better to get soaked to the skin on a riverbank than in downtown DC.
Note that there are no pictures of our soggy interlude; it was too wet to get the camera out of the Ziploc bag.
Nobody has ever been happier to see the guys in ponchos waiting at the landing, and to hear Axl Rose welcome us to the jungle in the camp van.
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