Читать книгу Canoeing with Jose онлайн

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We filled our jugs at the local pub, which appeared to be the only active establishment in town. It was a couple hours past sunrise, but already the stools were humming with what must have been a good portion of Abercrombie’s population. The townies were welcoming, and the bartender topped us off with a genuine smile.

José remained in the doorway while Kocher and I went inside. I noticed him scanning the all-white locals with a worried expression. I thought his fear unwarranted in this case, but after the haunting walk from the river, he was in no mood to test their tolerance. When we came out a few minutes later, José was gone, making his way back to the river.

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We traveled the 77 river miles between Abercrombie and Fargo over two punishing days. A northerly headwind eliminated any advantage provided by the current, and we struggled to make headway. With temperatures hovering in the mid-forties and a near-constant downpour, my bared arms turned to frigid slabs. Kocher settled into the sloshing puddle at the center of the canoe, sacrificing his body to the chills that inevitably resulted from inactivity. In the bow, José cowered beneath a rain hood, muttering obscenities and dipping his paddle weakly.