Just me and Clyde one weekday morning. Bonnie was laid low by an adverse reaction to a medication, but she’ll be back in action soon. I brought along breakfast and guarded it zealously from Clyde’s fiendish status as an aggressive procurer of treats.
Barn swallows dipped and dived above the surface of the river. It ran barely a foot above bottom and the shallow channel invited me to wade across. Thus, I took off my running shoes, used Nikes, black socks, rolled up my pants, and walked barefoot into the water. I hadn’t walked into a river in over 15 years. Absurd.
Two steps in and…forget it! Stones made the footing painful and treacherous. I nearly tripped and fell over, but regained my balance and retreated to the bank.
Dammit, I needed real river shoes, not ones made from oil by child slaves that would never dry out if immersed. I needed my trusty Converse Chuck Taylor high tops, canvas, faded blue, sprinkled with paint, a quarter century old, and veterans of multiple watershed recreation campaigns. I almost got rid of them during my recent terrible hospice care of myself, but somehow they survived the purge.
The Chucks were coming to the river with me. I would ford the Lewis and Clark in them, in corduroy cutoffs and a Rainier stuffed into my back pocket. No doubt Bonnie and Clyde would follow me across. Well, I knew Clyde would, because I planned on bringing beef jerky with me next time, wiggling it at him, and the old German shepherd mix with the gimp would undoubtedly lose his mind and follow me to the ends of the Earth. Dogs are like that. That is their only wonderful agenda.
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