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Beaver Tales "Life is not measured by the number
of breaths we take, but the moments that take our breath away."
At the aptly named Pleasant View rest stop, a golden sun finally broke through depressing cloud cover. Streams of buttery-yellow light coddled us in warmth. Sharon even removed her rain pants! "Your legs are looking fit," I commented, glimpsing sight of her gams for the first time in days. "Thanks," she allowed. "But they're tired ... like the rest of me." We were still feeling the effects of our deadline drive. We pushed westward. The landscape around us became drier. Papery leaves scrunched under our treads. Beneath an arched bridge, Androscoggin River reflected hues of shimmery autumn crimsons and golds. "Ah, fall in New England!" I exclaimed, breathing in the pungent, yet pleasant, fragrance of burning leaves. A cool breeze waltzed through stands of oaks and maples. Leaves drifted downward in their final, silent, earthbound dance, swirling, sailing, pirouetting on unseen eddies. "This is exactly what I hoped to see," Sharon said, a radiant smile stretching across her face. "When the sun is shining it's perfect." But perfection is not of this world, and it began to rain.
In late afternoon, skies clearing near Bethel, we stopped at a rest area to refuel. Cumulus clouds, flecked with pink underbellies, dramatized the sky. We were still oohing and aahing when darkness fell. Oof. The air drained from me like a well-placed kick to the solar plexus. We hadn't planned on staying overnight at the rest area. Near us, a prominent No Camping sign waggled in the breeze. We debated. Which was worse? Riding in the dark? Or breaking a rest area's no-camping rule? "Let's ignore the sign," I suggested, not at all eager to ride in the dark. Staying at the rest area was the healthier of the two evils. Sharon wasn't keen, but she agreed that riding in daylight hours was hazardous enough. We pushed our bikes along a riverbank trail. Small woodland creatures scurried through the underbrush creating a tense calm - their tiny footfalls cracking like shotgun blasts. A small clearing, ten feet from the river's edge, came into sight. "This'll do," Sharon whispered. We pitched the tent in near blackness and total silence, worried that someone might see or hear us. A beaver's tail suddenly smacked the water, breaking the forest's dark tranquility, and echoing through the woods like a jealous lover's slap. A small gasp broke from me. Sharon laughed. "A little jumpy are we?" "I always jump when a female cracks the whip," I joked, quickly regaining my composure. "And how, may I ask, do you know it's a female?" "Well ... it's a beaver, isn't it?" "Ohhh," Sharon groaned. "I'm way too tired for your asinine jokes." "Ooh, baby, I love it when you talk dirty." In the dark, I couldn't see her eyes, but I knew they were rolling. |
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