A trusted old friend, who never complains, who also enjoys the quiet times on glass like mornings.

 Interrupted only by the ripple of a fish that is startled by us in passing, or the chirp of the osprey already on another days hunt.  

If only the clearness could tell its story of days gone by. 

The stems of traders and trappers cutting through the morning mist - those were also quiet times.

  Even though the route I've paddled so many times, still hides many secrets which surface bit by bit, but never all at once.

  Whether it's the water, the trees, or the sky - no one knows for sure, but they keep you coming back