I dreamed I was working on the river last night. I was spinning my sidewinder through the cold water breaking up a boom and chasing down loose logs outside of the booming grounds as they sped downstream where a violent waterfall waited. Even as I was dreaming I understood this dream was about my own mortality. The death of Ron Lancaster has got me thinking more about my own end more than any of the early deaths of people roughly my own age.
I am not joining any of those motherfuckers soon.
Many of the characters I met during my time on the river were there. The one-eyed man selling salmon from his stinking boat. "I'll give you a deal if you buys a couple." The tugboat skipper with his cup of sick, strong coffee. "How are you Beer, you dirty cocksucker?" The one-armed man with the cigarette hanging out of his bitter face and a bottle of whisky in his remaining hand muttering, "You sons of whores." And on the river's distant bank a singing woman on her back porch hanging clothes on a line. She sounded a lot like Anne Murray.