Читать книгу Canoeing with Jose онлайн

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I was increasingly frustrated by José’s rickety stroke, and eventually I agreed to search for a relatively hospitable bank. Ankle-deep in inky goop, I fired up the single-burner camp stove and let José have at it. He boiled oriental-flavored ramen and fried squares of summer sausage, then combined them to make soup. I swatted flies off my back, and watched the conveyor flow past without us.

After filling his belly with a hot meal, José paddled hard until sundown, by which point we had logged just 25 miles since setting out that morning. We had had enough for the day, but our map showed no campsites or landings nearby. I anxiously searched the shore for a bivouac in the dying light, but this part of the river wound through a vast grassy wetland. I couldn’t find a circle of earth that would support a tent.

As the last solar strands were extinguished by the closing sky, the darkness became absolute. We pulled on our headlamps and scanned the shores, the beams lighting steam phantoms rising from the surface. An unsettling quiet moved in with the mist, and although we discussed possibly paddling all night, we were both exhausted, a little spooked, and anxious for our sleeping bags.