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Later that evening, after José had been passed out in the tent for several hours, Kocher and I sat in the back of his van, conversing in hushed tones. On the eve of his planned departure, I was trying in vain to think of an angle that would convince him to continue paddling with us.

Kocher could hear the turmoil raging in my brain. To avoid being confronted with it, he inventoried the food he had accumulated for us, some of which had been stored in the van for the past few days. “A half pound of gouda cheese,” he reported in a monotone. “Three dozen garlicflavored crostinis; two sacks of salted and shelled pistachios; three half-pound pouches of teriyaki beef jerky; one large sack of organic dried fruit; two packages of Fig Newmans.”

This went on until the eastern skies glowed faintly amber, and culminated in one final exhausted exchange.

“Are you sure you’re not coming?”

“I wish I could, brother.”

By the time the sun rose over the prairie on the Minnesota side of the river I had organized everything into two piles. Gear that was already damaged (camera) or deemed superfluous (screen tent) was stacked to my left. Gear deemed vital (GPS unit, water purifiers, maps, clothing, food) was stacked to my right.