We’ve often prided ourselves at how much we accomplish in the boatshop, on the river, and in our travels. Well, in late August my body and mind informed me, rather abruptly, that in my 70th year I might need to take a break now and then. It was not a subtle request. So I took a couple months off from frenetic activity, sought wise counsel, and mostly stayed in the living room watching the world turn. I kinda liked it. Here’s the view from my reclining chair.
The view from the hammock:
The hammock chair also spent a lot of quality time with me.
Sunrise from my morning world:
I made an expedition to the driveway.
A few events transpired in my time out. The gas line spontaneously failed. Fortunately I found a guy who knew how to fix it. It involved the most adorable excavator you’ll ever see.
All better. Hot water is a good thing.
We had another in our record-breaking series of flash floods.
Ed stopped by after a flawless Grand Canyon run in his Doryak. He’s also now run the lower Gauley, the New, the Cheat, and the Ottowa in his adorable little boat. He appears to be enjoying it.
A few of our boats got to go host a Tiny Boat concert.
My high school friend Diane came to see Northern Arizona. Here we are on top of the world.
And at Desert View. Such wonderful masonry.
Sunrise in the cinder cones after an incredibly starry camp out.
My first foray into a new career as a chain saw teddy bear carver. This is a mere egg. Maybe it’ll hatch into a teddy bear.
Meanwhile Cricket and VK were savoring the monsoons in Grand Canyon. Yee haw!
I finally left the property after two months of reclusive recovery. My friend Leah joined us for a Diamond Creek to Pearce Ferry run in our wee boats. We’re up early to make breakfast while the others snooze.
Cricket and Daisy in the pipe organ room.
Scouting the infamous 232-Mile Rapid. Three of us chose the invisible left shore slot; two ran the center line. For the first time in our recent wooden boat private runs, no one crashed into the fangs.
A happy Rocket Man.
Much as I hoped to take this wee stone home for my yard, it wouldn’t fit in a Doryak.
Daisy inspecting bugs at a yummy waterfall.
Inexplicable squiggles. How, just how, does this happen?
Mud sculptures at the campfire
There are close to forty miles of moving water on the mud slopes of former Lake Mead. Is it a liver? Is it a rake?
Cricket towing us across the long flat stretch.
Once we got the boats back on the trailers we made the requisite hike to Pearce Ferry Falls. Although it had recently evolved into something almost runnable, it seems to have changed its mind–unless you’re into becoming part of an omelette.
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