The wind is in my face as I advance, out of the north and heading toward the south aimed at the extreme low pressure of a hurricane several hundred miles away. It is somewhat gusty and somewhat variable, but the direction is almost written in stone, such is the strength of hurricane weather.
Under Big Hill Tom, I turn up the sleepy Moodus entering a calm and closed in world of forest and swamp. I scan the bottom as I go, the water clear enough and shallow enough to show bits of people's history...pieces of ceramic or glass...things that have tumbled through the years down the river and found rest where the currents flow with little speed. The histories are hidden, no context to anything found here except that it came from up river. What it meant to someone is left to imagine. Anyway, today I find absolutely nothing...a rather notable first. I turn back at the cobble bar below Johnsonville. Usually a wade, the bar is well above the water today.
I head out and up the Salmon, spotting four great blue herons as I go. My next tucking in spot is the little unnamed (to me) creek that comes in from river right. It is lush with wild rice and hundreds of birds cling to the stalks until I begin to pass. They fly off to the nearest trees and wait for my eventual disappearance.