I make camp at mile twenty-five, on a sand island in the middle of the river. A fine campsite, at first glance: clean brown sand, plenty of driftwood for a fire, a splendid view upriver of the red-rock cliffs, the golden clouds.

Three o’clock in the afternoon. With the sun going down by five, I am determined to cook my supper by daylight. There is nothing more unsatisfactory than cooking and eating in the dark. I explore the island, gather wood, build a fire on the damp sand near my boat and fix a supper of chicken and rice, with a miniature bottle of rum and one fat cigar from Safeway (Garcia y Vega) for dessert.

The sun goes down, the temperature drops ten, twenty, thirty degrees—within thirty minutes. Cold on this slender isle, the icy Rocky Mountain waters rolling by on either side. The sky is clear, clusters of stars like blazing chandeliers hanging overhead. A chill wind blows in from the north. I pitch the little tent—may need all the insulation I can get tonight. I put on thermal underwear, crawl into my mummy bag and read Tolstoy by candlelight for as long as I can stay awake. “The hero of my tale,” he writes, “is truth.” How true.

The wind moans about the tentflaps. I blow out the candle around eight o’clock and pull the hood of the bag above my ears. A long and bitterly cold night—should have known better than to camp on a sandbar. I do know better—but did it anyhow. Who can resist the appeal of a little, lonesome, one-man island in the middle of a great river?

Monday

In the morning I find my tent stiff with frost. Ice tinkles in the water jug when I raise it to my lips. I build a twig fire in the twilight of dawn and boil a pot of water for coffee.

Two ravens flap across the river, silent, bound in a straight line toward business of importance. A V-formation of ducks flutters by overhead, headed downriver. As I load and launch my rowboat I hear the splash of beaver sliding down their mudbanks into the water. I pull into the stream through the shade of the cliffs, under an overcast sky. My breath vaporizes when I exhale. The one thing we do not need, I think, wishing I had the power not even to mention it in my mind, is a storm. I don’t mind being cold; I can bear getting wet; but I loathe the two together.

Don’t think about it. Keep going. Once we get to Spanish Bottom we’ll set up camp in some rocky nook with a southern exposure and let the wind rave, the sleet come down, the snow blanket everything. If I’d been ready, I recall, I could have taken that deer: I’ve got the Ruger .357 Magnum in the big ammo can, bedded between two loaves of bread. Loaded? Oh yes.

Eleven A.M. Weather improving, at the moment. I drift downstream on water like oily glass, aided by a gentle breeze that blows, for once, not against but with the current. The sunshine is pallid but warm, the sun barely visible behind the scrim of haze. We are headed due south into the sun.