I head up the Duck, not remembering too mush about it not having been up there in a year or so. After less than a mile, I get to the culvert under the road that blocks further passage. Now, I remember why I haven't been here recently.
I head back down on the beginnings of the ebb, pass the put-in and head up the Black Hall River. Even now, the edges of the extensive mud flats and shallows is becoming apparent and I hurry into the river's main channel. I was here last when the ice was breaking up. But, it's a good river, an hour or more up to where it becomes dense cattail marsh, and there's always a change to the scene at each bend.
I'm canoeing enough at this point that I have to encourage myself to go out. But, I know well enough that this is the point where I get a deeper payback. This is the tipping point where I begin to not be a visitor, where any remaining novelty is gone. It is the point where I stop finding things in nature and nature starts finding things in me.
|Black Hall River|
Where: Mouth of the Connecticut River, Duck River and Black Hall River