He's never daunted by the prospect of a long drive to arrive at an area he's interested in. But then, in fall setting out later than intended can have its consequences. He'd meant to leave earlier, but didn't manage to depart until ten on Saturday morning. He never packs his gear in advance of one of his outings. But since he has everything down pat, it takes him no time at all to get things set up. So he figures, in any event.

Leaving Vancouver at ten in the morning, he arrived at the place where he'd leave his little truck at four in the afternoon. Which meant, after getting his canoe into the water and geared up, it would be another hour before he reached his destination. But it was a beautiful day, not too cool, with a wide open blue sky. Others felt the same way he did, he could see, paddling along and having to knock a warning on the side of his canoe to fly-fishermen along the way.

They were there for the same love of nature's environs as he was. As a biologist he was curious about everything; as fishermen they loved the landscape, and the challenge of sending out their invitation to trout. Knowing they cannot keep what they catch, and must return them to the river. Which is why hooks aren't used, but the challenge is still there.

One of the men fishing hadn't noticed him at first, and sent his fly over in a long graceful arc. Later, when he arrived at his destination he would discover the hand-tied fly lying at the bottom of his canoe, when he pulled it up onto shore to chain it around a tree. He recalled how both the fisherman and he had laughed together at the sheer pleasure of their situation.

By the time he arrived, dusk was already fallen, and he put his little tent up through familiar rote, not having to depend on daylight to perform the familiar. The river glistened darkly beside him, lapping at the shore in gentle hushed tones he was familiar with. It wouldn't be until morning came that he would discover, looking around him, a net that he'd forgotten months ago when he visited in the early summer. Not far from where he discovered it, there was that lock that he hadn't been able to find, and which he recovered with great amusement.

The pleasant but cool day had turned into a cold evening. He'd anticipated that there would be frosty conditions that night, but felt his down sleeping bag was equal to the challenge. Rummaging in his backpack he withdrew a headlamp and adjusted it over his forehead. Plunging a little further into the pack he took out his camp stove and its fuel. He positioned the stove on the canoe's underside, now upright and lit the burner in preparation for cooking dinner and tea.

Just then, he felt a terrific whomp! at his back. A wind percussion of some force, enough so that he was completely startled, and turned instantly to try to determine what had hit him. The air concussion could only have resulted from an explosion of some type, his mind immediately concluded. He turned to look upsteam and could see in the wanly lit near-distance made partially visible by the beam of his lamp, that the river was calm. He turned downstream and the same conditions prevailed, the water quiescent, gently lapping the shore.

Then a sudden movement was caught at the corner of his eye and he raised his head in time to identify the departing, widely-flapping wings of a great bird. An owl, likely; a raptor unchallenged in its predations of wildlife, obviously vetting him as a potential meal, ultimately realizing on closer inspection, perched on a nearby branch, after swooping down to his back, that it was not to be.