The Narrative Image

From my supine perspective in the giant mosquito-net house, the snoring noise emanating from the S.E. corner is, by deduction, Kip, who must have migrated from his chair sometime before dawn. But it is the heat-lamp-like beams of the sun that have prodded me from unconsciousness as my body begins to glisten like greasy chicken on a buffet island. I shed my sleeping-bag cover and risk the mosquitoes outside, seeking shade. Outside, I see Rico’s sleeping bag in the shadow cast by his cot. Whether he got there by accidental tumble, instinct, or conscious strategy is uncertain, but I’d guess some mixture of the last two options. The inexorable advance of the sun prods us to action (even if it is sluggish action). Our sleeping accouterments get folded, stuffed or rolled. Beer cans are policed. Cookware and plates are cosmetically cleaned under a less than rigorous paper-towel protocol. The bags and boxes and ice-chests are re-sorted into the vehicles. Finally, the appropriate lures are...

In the summer I seek out shade. In the winter, I get in touch with my inner flower. If the winter sun should happen to poke a finger through Portland 's perpetual cloud ceiling, and if the wind is not blowing at gale-like velocities, I'll throw the kayak on the truck - well O.K. - I'll strenuously leverage it onto the ladder rack (all the while making old man sounds) and head for a nearby river or lake.  This is how Smith & Bybee Lakes looked two weeks ago. The fickle sun had stopped diddling the clouds by the time I got to the lake, but I had been taking steps to make friends with the rain, even if my camera had not... ...and so I launched my kayak anyway and enjoyed the spectacle of cat-like clouds stalking the Willamette valley, looking for some dry place to lie down. Sunday, the Sun wasn't teasing anymore. It grabbed the cloud ceiling firmly in two hands and yanked (like a housekeeper yanking the sheets off a hotel mattress) to unc...