“Would you go down Rocky Falls in that?” He pointed to a submarine in the yard at River’s Edge Resort.
Earlier that morning, we had hoped to launch from the Prongs. 33rd year. 33 canoes. 33 degrees…almost.
But a raging flood sidelined us for the day, and we sought refuge at River’s Edge. Among our group, most had never seen Rocky Falls.
Even though the previous day’s flood had crested, the falls were gushing, and pulverizing up a fine mist.
Dozens came to see the show.
That night we camped
with Cap’n Jack’s ghost,
and dreamed about falls and barrels,
and awoke to snow…
…and a river fat with water.
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