No one notices when you’re provoked, only when you retaliate.

The choice isn’t between the ‘red’ pill or the ‘blue’ one, but whether you are ‘Alice’ or ‘the Queen.’

President Trump could sell ice to an Eskimo, that’s because he’s already sold rice to China.

The art of fly-fishing is the science of healing everything.

Not all who wander are lost. As for me, I’m searching for coffee, but if it gets much later I’ll be looking for whiskey.

As the sun was beginning to set, I walked back to the reservoir and then south of it. I needed to see if there were a landing or a piece of embankment I could use to put in again – because now I had a plan evolving.

After dark, I quietly picked my way back towards the eastbound road and relocated the shopping cart I’d seen tossed down the embankment. Should it have all its wheels, it would be perfect for loading the over-sized canoe into and moving everything, lock, stock and barrel to the south side of the dam.

With all the wheels intact, I started back the way I’d come. As I approached the corner to turn north, movement on the ground caught my eye – I damn near stepped on a rattle snake. With a large rock, I invited the dangerous reptile to dinner.

It took me another hour to wrestle the canoe up the rest of the embankment, then into the cart, balancing it on one shoulder so that it would not tip out, and to the other side of the reservoir. I had jus’ unloaded the canoe and slipped it over the embankment when I saw a set of headlight approaching from the east where I found the cart.

I dropped down the embankment and didn’t move until the vehicle drove north on the service road I’d been walking.

It took me a few extra minutes to find a place to build a small fire and begin the job of skinning my meal. I left the canoe further up the siding, upside down, jus’ in case it rained again and before the moon was fully overhead, I was roasting my find and preparing to eat.

In the distant western shies, I could see the clouds beginning to build. I knew a storm was on its way and that I had to eat fast and find my way to my shelter under the canoe. It was only minutes before I heard the first crack of thunder after a finger of lightning danced over the desert.

I fell asleep to the rhythmic beating of rain drops on the canoe bottom and I slept well.

Somewhere in the distance I heard the unmistakable yelps and whines of a pack of coyotes. Their calls woke me to the fact that it was nearly sunrise and that I needed to vacate the piece of real estate I’d encamped on. Within 20 minutes, I had completed my portage and had put out for whatever lay ahead on this ever narrowing river.

Through sunrise, morning and mid morning I continued to paddle then to drift with the river’s current. Come noon, afternoon and evening I had spent my day doing more of the same. I saw very little in the way of wildlife and even less of humans; not even the sound of civilization could be heard above the ever-present gurgling of the water and its lapping at the bow of the canoe. I felt as if I were the last man on earth for a while.

At certain points the river narrows, at others it widens. Some points the water flows quickly, still others, it stands still. These come and go, with no evidence which water course you might find. What is true is that civilization does exist along the river, and Fort Yuma is such a place.

After meandering through long lazy bends that end sharply, I heard more than saw the signs of a man-made life ahead of me. At last, I didn’t allow myself to worry about having come down the river permit-less, I was now in company of a town filled with people, possibly a good meal and an easy rest as they had to have grass some place that I could spread my tired body across.

And I was right. I had not known it at the time, but I had floated the length of the Fort Yuma Indian Reservation and never saw a single person since I’d heard the and seen the vehicle approach the Imperial Reservoir. Now, I could hear vehicles and other sounds that I recognized as that of a small city.

Soon I passed beneath a bridge, which sign read ‘Penitentiary Avenue.’ This was quickly followed by a second overpass, much-larger than the last with the name ‘Kimeyaay Highway.’ Beyond that I found a patch of Eden on the eastern side of the river, aptly called, ‘Gateway Park.’ It was here that I put to shore, stowing the canoe in the rocks and bushes and shouldering my rucksack before heading back towards town.

Simply being in proximity to other people felt good. I hadn’t felt this joyful in a long time. I spent the evening, watching, smelling and listening. I even found an open area with live music being played. All to soon though, I had to head back to where I left the canoe and return to my journey’s end.

About 15 minutes down river, I put in again and established a small camp. There was no rain showers this night, so after a large bowl of beans and rice, I rolled out my sleeping bag and slipped into a dreamless state under the now comforting blanket of stars.

Life for town folk doesn’t always begin as early as it does for someone of the heel. But when it does begin, it is far more noisy than one realizes when they’ve been wild-bound for days on end. I think it was the sound of a garbage truck banging a large dumpster that brought me out of my sleep.

After a stretch and yawn, I took a short dip in the river to clean up. In the mean time I’d begun a small campfire and had some coffee brewing. By the time I finished rinsing the soap from my body, it was ready and I sat on the bank, both listening to the river and town, enjoying the coffee’s warmth.

I jus’ finished watching, ‘The Bird Box.’ It left me hungry for chicken.

By the mid-morning, with the help of the sun and the scorching asphalt, my sleeping bag had dried, which was my main concern as were what clothing I had with me – two pair of socks, a pair of underwear and a tee-shirt and sweat shirt.

“Did you get washed over it, last night?” called a voice behind me. I turned to find a man walking towards me from the dam.

“No,” I answered, “I was on this side, but I was down there when the rain began to fall.”

“Good. Glad to hear it,” he replied as he stopped beside me, looking over my belongings before adding, “Did you come down from Havasu?”

“Yes,” I answered with a certain amount of pride.

“You have a permit?” he asked.

I frowned, “A permit? No.”

“Amazing that you ain’t been caught,” he stated, “You’re supposed to have a permit to come down this far on the river. Most folks never get this far – so you’re a double-rarity. And don’t worry, I ain’t gonna turn you in.”

“Wow,” I answered, “I had no idea I was breaking the law being on the river without Uncle Sam’s permission.”

“Not only Uncle Sam’s, but that so-called Golden Bear,” he commented, “And they’re worse. Doubt anybody’s gonna bug you now that you made it this far. Jus’ you be safe. Can I help you down there.”

“Naw,” I smiled, “But thank you – and thank you for the info.”

Soon I was back on the river, which had picked up pace following the rainfall from the night before. Because I got such a late start, I didn’t go very far before evening appeared. And fearing another rainstorm, I set my camp up above the river bank. It was a good decision because it stormed a second night.

Hours intermittently paddling and drifting left me time to think. While my back hurt from the sunburn, my ribs were beginning to adjust to the activity of reaching, stretching and pulling the canoe along on the edge of a paddle.

My mind was in a state of revere as I slide under a bridge. The momentary shade felt good and I thought about returning to sit for a while in it’s shadow, but ahead was yet another bridge, so I figured I’d pull under it and enjoy some ‘cooling-off’ time.

As I approached the second bridge, my eye caught something bobbing in the water, next to a half-submerged tree. I directed the canoe towards the object, only to recognize my improvised flotation device that tied my boots to.

Quickly, I retrieved them from the water and made way for the embankment. I was happy to have them back as I dumped the muddy silt from them. After a few dips in the water, I had them rinsed out and placed on the seat ahead of me to dry out.

It was perhaps an hour later that it dawned on me that in my ecstasy over having found my boots, I forgotten about stopping to cool-off under the bridge. If anyone were nearby, they would have seen this fool, paddling down river, laughing his head off.

“Shit! Not again!” I growled as yet another dam came into sight. It meant another portage and another opportunity to get caught shooting the Colorado River with out a permit.

Hoping I hadn’t been seen, I rocketed the canoe to the bank on the Arizona side of the river. I had come to think that Arizona might be easier on me, a wayward journey’s, than California law enforcement.

Dragging the canoe up the embankment and hiding it in a cluster of scrub-brush, I picked up a length of stick, and proceeded to the dam. While I had heard of it, I’d come to believe it was further up the river and beyond Lake Mead. But here it was; the Imperial Valley Reservoir.

The second I saw it’s name, I kicked myself for being so ignorant, “Of course it’s this far south – Imperial Valley is in California.”

Now I had to figure out how to get around it without stirring up alarm. I walked across it, to the spillway and watched as the water churned over the cement coffers. Next, I walked back to the road I’d been on and then father down a road that dead-ended into the reservoir.

I love powerful women. But I don’t like to be held down by her in front of all my friends.

Quick, lead me to your field of dreams,
And I’ll take you to the forest of my dream.
There, we’ll build a campfire, cook smore’s
And count the many stars above.

Then we’ll love, laugh and live with the moon,
Until it disappears far beyond our view.
Make haste, tarry not, for we’ve no time to hesitate,
Dreams they call, fading fast from memory.