We put in at a bend on the Little Bear River. While the boys chased a marmot back into its hole on the steep banks, Michael and I wrestled the canoe from the top of the van. Mid-April in northern Utah, the temperature dropped ten degrees each time the sun slipped behind a cloud. Daffodils and crocus dotted the sides of the busy road, bobbing in the breeze. When I looked toward the Wellsville Mountains, I could see a raft of cloud heading our way and wished I had packed our fleece jackets.
The green canoe was awkward and heavy, and I tried to balance it on my head as we moved away from the van.
“You got it?” Michael asked, when the canoe wobbled like a drunk.
I didn’t answer, just swung it… More…