The Kind of Thing That Can Only Seem Like a Good Idea at 23.

Tuesday night I had an orientation thing at the hospital that ran just about all evening.  6 to 9:30 or something.  It had snowed heavily all over the state a few days prior, and some of that snow was just beginning to melt in the watershed of my favorite river in the Saint Francis Mountains of Southern MO.  I had been expecting this, and had been watching the USGS gage regularly throughout the day to see whether the river was rising enough to go paddle.  So during a break, I call a good friend of mine with a proposition: we go kayak the first good flows of the paddling season, in the moonlight, and don't sleep a wink.  

I show up at SLU and he's got all the gear laid out in front of the Rec Centre.  He's even more stoked about the idea than I am, if that's possible.  We leave sometime a bit after 10 to start the almost 2 hour drive.  You can imagine the looks we were getting - driving down the the road with two brightly colored boats on the roof, middle of the night, middle of the week, middle of the winter, etc.  On top of that, the two of us are running on nothing but pure stoke and the thermos of coffee sitting between us.  The night was  that cold-crystal-clear and the moon blazing. Once I turned on to highway 67, I killed the lights and drove by its light alone.  

We arrived at the put in and unloaded.  It was probably about midnight now.  Our plan was to drop off everything we'd need to boat the river, drive the car to the take-out downriver, then hike back up to the boats on a wilderness trail that runs the 3 or 4 mile distance between the two.  The temperature was probably mid 30's and dropping steadily, so naturally there was some discussion and thought put into what gear to leave, what gear to hike in, etc.  That kind of strategic worrying is inevitable sometimes.

I wish I could better describe this place to you.  The geology is some of the oldest in North America; it's a deep igneous layer that only surfaces in this part of the state. As a result, there's very little soil - it's mostly granite.  The river valley is steep here, about 100-200 feet deep and is lined with shortleaf and white pines, so much so that the air is heavy with their tannins and smell.  The trail follows the river almost exclusively, but continually changes elevation above it. Tuesday night, all that rock and pine was sitting under almost a foot of snow and the moonlight was sparkling off every inch of it. The treetops and branches were iced, and they sparkled too.  There was too much ambient light for good shadows. The moon was maybe 10 or 15 degrees off vertical and lit up both sides of the valley; the river glinted below in the reflected light of both sides of the gorge, center stage.  

I've been hiking that section of trail for 3 years now and know it well enough to love it.  It sounds really corny, but everything about visiting that place is an act of love to me.  That night was no different.  We got to the boats around 2 or 2:30 and found all our paddling gear icy and stiff- clearly colder now than we thought. We thawed it, creased it, unstuck it from the boats, whatever it took to get it on.  

You've never seen whitewater quite like it looks by moonlight. It softens without as much contrast, and looks more like it does in longer exposure photography - smoothed and fluffy.  In the daylight that river would be perfectly clear, and reflect those deep blue/green colors and sharp contrasts that are so picturesque.  In the snow and moonlight though, the color palate of the whole environment changes instead to every shade of blue and violet between the luminescence of snow and the cold dark of shadows.  The distinction between steep hillsides and river vanishes; the colors of the whole microenvironment of river, gorge, and sky merge.  It's stunning, and unlike anything else. It's a cold kind of beauty that doesn't give a fuck whether you're around to see it or not.  And I like that.  

We get back down to the car, build a fire, and I brew pot of earl grey.  Thermometer reads 20 degrees even. Things freeze with alarming quickness.  It's just before dawn, but "just before dawn" seems always to come remarkably early when you've watched the colors of sky changing all night.  We hit up a diner on the way home and are the only ones in there.  I eat ridiculous amounts of hashbrowned potatoes.  The cook is making them for the morning and keeps filling my plate every time I finish.  I can't remember the last time I felt happier.