At The Confluence

Aside from a dog that rambled out of the brush, looked us over, and trotted off like he was expecting to find someone else, we had the river bank to ourselves.  My daughter, who threw a pole and tackle box in the car at the last minute, searched the rip rap for anything that would serve as bait. I stared at the river, considering the swirling eddies that quickly popped up and disappeared like frustrations and anxieties that make a morning spent in a canoe so appealing.

"Dad you won't believe it! Look at this!"

No one else I know has the luck of my daughter. When I turned around she was holding a white carton of night crawlers that had washed up or been abandoned.  We spent the morning watching her tight line and snacking on fruit and summer sausage on the dry bag that served as our table cloth.

The Missouri was at eleven feet that morning and we decided to briefly test our strength against the 72,000 cubic feet of water that flowed downstream each second. We paddled out and then looped back into the creek to begin the mile long trip back to the ramp where we parked.

A breeze at our back allowed us to fish and float back without paddling. Almost too quickly. As we loaded up, both of us wished we were still at the confluence of Perche Creek and the Missouri River.