Breakfast is over. We have no place to be. We gave ourselves three luxurious nights beside the White River this year — the journey is the journey.
The morning fog is gone. Boats of fishermen labor up river against the swift current and then drift swiftly back. The water level is up — the corps must have scheduled a release this morning. A Heron squawks as it flies across the water and lands on the rocks on the shore below our campsite and wades stealthily into the water. Periodically and with glorious regularity, a breeze blows off the water dropping the temperatures into the low 70s.
“How is this even possible?” Trudy marvels.
Izzy concurs.
