Pushing Off from Coal Banks

A male harrier floats by over Virgelle, Montana, on the morning of our departure. A sign of good things to come.



Sometimes things are perfect. Sometimes they're not. Everything this dazzling June morning was perfect. I just couldn't see it.

Although I consider myself an adventurous person within certain strictly proscribed limits involving heights, deep water and sundry other triggers, I was frankly scared. As we divided up the canoes for our guided expotition down the Missouri River, along the trail of Lewis and Clark, I was freaking out. On March 31, 2009, I had taken a bad fall down our basement stairs. I was carrying Chet's bedding, which included a bunch of cozy Polarfleece blankies, down the painted wooden stairs, and I stepped on a blanket and fell down go boompity boompity boompity. I wound up in a moaning pile at the bottom of the stairs, and Chet Baker didn't even come check to see what had happened. Though if a chipmunk had farted 50 yards away, he'd have been all over it. So much for the remake of Lassie starring my thankless dog. He didn't bring me an icepack, whine or lick my face or dial 911. He didn't even rouse himself from his nap at the top of the stairs. I guess he figured I was moaning with happiness at having succeeded in going down a long flight of hard stairs on my tailbone and shoulder.


aside: This thoughtless aspect of his personality is not why there have been no posts lately featuring Chet Baker. I have not been posting about Chet Baker because my laptop is on the fritz again read:given up for dead and I can't download new photos. That is another story for another time. Please be patient, all you who visit here for the dog. I am scrambling again, my world is upside down again, but Apple and I will get it worked out. Until then you'll have to put up with mountain bluebirds and bald eagles.

There were many upshots of this accident, one of them being a bum right arm, which is only just, six months later, regaining quasi-full mobility. So what was I doing taking a 17-foot canoe down an unfamiliar river with a bum right arm? With my daughter in it?? We needed an adult in each canoe, and Bill and Liam were already assigned to another canoe. The only thing we could do was have little 13-year-old Phoebe, both of whose arms worked, sit in the stern and steer. Coming up against this inescapable reality freaked me out. Steering in the stern seems like something a guy should do, or at the very least a mom. But I had to let go and trust that she could do it.

I should have paid more attention to the signs. Phoebe, rather uncharacteristically, was game to be the sternman. And there were mountain bluebirds everywhere I looked on the landing, waving us a cheerful, don't worry-be-happy goodbye.

There were baby mountain bluebirds on the sign where we launched, for gosh sakes.

There was a father mountain bluebird keeping an eye on everyone. O bird of paradise, hang your head, for the mountain bluebird against the clear Montana sky and tan hills is our answer to you.

He dove down to get grasshoppers to stuff in his babies' bills, T.C.B.

It was time to push off.

And bid those pointless worries good-bye.


Everything would be all right, bum arm, maternal freakout, mylittlegirl in the stern and all. The bluebirds knew it, and they tried to tell me. But I'd have to find out for myself.

Just go. You'll be fine!