By Walter McDonald
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Extra info for Rafting the Brazos
Water bugs skate over the boat, pause, skate again past minnows darting and gliding in the bow. Whoever rowed it here that last time years ago must have tired of dipping the lake with a bait bucket, beached it and left it to rot like a horse in the desert. It is the way all good dreams have to end, with a real lake or sunshine seeping in, bass and bluegills swimming away out of reach, the dreamer stepping out on solid ground with his bait and tackle and going on. Page 70 Coming Home 1. Crustaceans hatch in stone pools in Arizona, when it rains.
On a beach, hands clawing through sand sometimes find sudden splendors doubloons, Krugerrands. A baby being born may hear clinical whispers after hours of labor. Think of the blade slicing an inch from eyes that still can't see. 2.. Stones and arroyos drop behind and we are home, the plains level before us, cotton like snow puffed over cobblestones. The sun is polished bronze, the road, hot oil and rubber. Our tires sing the old story of journeys, wind in the rigging, family and friends lining the shore sparkling though it's only sand, skiffs shoving out with garlands from our own gardens.
But mounting a tree not made for climbing I try unwinding the clock to give these serpent vines a chance. We've carried a twelve-foot ladder Page 57 from his garage, wedged it through limbs squeezed like a wheat shock. Step by step, squinting, I shoulder up through branches and pears dangling like bells. I hurl the whole mass outward, coils suddenly dropping in my face, dangling hundreds of grapes like snake eggs. I tell myself pears, fences. Below stipples of shade I see tips of fence like lances.