The land rises again and I pass Aunt Margaret’s house and the church, a pasture, and another cornfield. Then it is only apple orchards, late in the picking season but still some fruit left to dab some red and yellow onto the brown branches. The spring’s heavy rains, the rains that had brought me up here in May, have ensured a good harvest.

At the stop sign I turn left, because there is one more place to go before leaving. I pass Billy’s store and Luke’s cabin, following the land as it leans toward the river. I park on the road’s shoulder and walk out until I am at the center of the bridge.

I place my hands on the railing and look down. Poplars and sweet gums hold clutches of gold and purple, but many leaves have already fallen. The thinning foliage makes the river seem wider, as if the banks have been pushed back a few yards on each side. Enough color remains for a good photograph. My camera is in the front seat of my car, but I let it remain there.

The Tamassee is shallow. Rocks underwater in May now jut above the surface. What was once white water flows slow and clear. Two trout waver in the sandy shallows. Their fins break the surface as they drift a few feet downstream then scuttle back to where the female has used her caudal fin to dig a nest. I can see only their black backs, not the blood-red spots on their flanks or the buttermilk yellow of their bellies.

I hear voices from under the bridge, and in a few moments a yellow raft appears, PROPERTY OF TAMASSEE RIVER TOURS stenciled in black on the side. It’s late in the year for a rafting trip, probably some business or church group with enough money to talk Earl Wilkinson into pulling a raft out of storage. They wear yellow life jackets and red, green, and blue helmets. One of the rafters sees me and waves. Earl looks up and our eyes meet. He nods but does not smile. I watch the raft scrape and slide downstream, then through Deep Sluice and past Bobcat Rock. The sun is out and the bright colors refract and merge as I offer a kind of prayer.