The sky is overcast yet there are some breaks of blue mixed in.  A curious morning.    This is the morning ritual on trips, coffee first, conversation second, sitting and looking around third.  To do else is sacrilege.
    Cups in hand and a new pot brewing they begin to pack up.  From the marker in the river bank they see that the water has dropped perhaps a 1/2 inch or so.  They put in and begin to pole upstream.  The current is swift and muscles slowly lose their stiffness as they push their way upstream.  They ferry several times and notice camps along the shoreline. Progress is much better then the day before.  Hal consults the map. "We're well up the river, over halfway."
    The river narrows and the current picks up.  Leaden skies bear down on the duo as they pick their way through the eddies.  Hal comes to a tree collapsed into the river, still hanging on with its roots.  All progress is stopped.  The current is too strong to paddle around it, to try to drag the boats over it is to dangerous and the bank is a mass of young trees and river driftwood.  The only option is to fery across. Hal, in the lead, edges his boat into the current, punching his paddle into the onslaught he crosses the river almost directly across from where he started.  Scooter repeats the move and they move upstream.  A rock outcropping diverts the water into a chute.  To pole or paddle this is out of the question.  Taking turns they line and push each boat up the turbulence, Hal hacking his way through the wooded banks.  Just beyond this a stream cuts into the main current and they pull up there for a break.
    The stream is a shallow affair and the banks are steep.  A perfect poling opportunity for some other day.  Hal decides to look around and climbs the bank to find a condemned camp.  Good a spot as any, they break out lunch in a misty haze.
    Back on the river and to their amazement the river widens out, gets much deeper and poles are packed away.  Hal heads to the middle of the river and dips his paddle in. To his delight, he finds that he's making easy headway. The sun comes out and starts to heat the day and it's time to shed some layers.
Lake Mattawamkeag should be within reach by mid-day, the lake traverse toward evening, and the portage during dusk.  In this section camps abound, a satellite dish hangs from a tree in the river.
    They break away and paddle alone, each with their own thoughts.  Around a bend appears a nice cabin, painted white and in good condition.  It has the name "Lenten Ledge". This has to be Bible Pt., according to the map. A couple of bends later it should open up into the lake, but instead a bridge abutment comes into sight. In the protective harbor of an eddy they look at the map and confusion reigns.  Could they be much lower down the river then they thought?  Hal mutters to himself as Scooter looks up the river and shakes his head.
    "Damn!" is all he can think.
    "Let's keep going, I'm betting the lake is just ahead." says Hal.
    They sink their poles into the water and grunt their way against the current. Just upstream Scooter's canoe denies his commands and rockets into the main current.  Once again he drops to his knees and grabs his paddle, poling is out of the question at this point.  Adding insult to injury the headwind whistles downstream and he barely makes it across to some idle water.  Looking cross river he sees Hal struggling against the odds but making progress. His jaw is moving and Scooter guesses that a nasty slur of swears is being uttered.
    Pushing his way up the slitter Scooter looks for an opening back into the main current.  It's a dead end but as he turns his boat a beaver in the shallows slaps its tail and starts bounding out to the deeper, quicker water.  He follows the beaver and ferries across to a small island where Hal is consulting the map once again.
    Hal says, "I think we're about two thirds of the way up.  I think I recognize some landmarks."
    Both look up river.  The current is picking up again as the banks narrow.  Overhead the sky is thickening and the daylight is starting to fade.  At this rate they'll never finish the trip in the allotted time.
    "I'm beat, this current is killing me!" says Scooter, "I'm all for turning back."
    Without hesitation Hal says, "Ok, this is more than anyone should have to expect.  But, lets go up to that tree and then go back!"
    "I'll wait here for ya."
    Hal looks upriver and then says, "Forget it."

Scooter invokes the time-honored Squatter's Rights

    Morning comes quickly and they pack without haste.  Gear is carried to the river and piles are made. With empty boats and poles in hand the push upstream.  This stream is narrow with high banks and the water level is enough to support the boats and yet leave enough rocks to have fun.  With bows pointing upward they ride the current with each push of the pole, and progress is made quickly.  Ahead a drop in the river level creates a series of little rapid, small yet strong.  A hard quick jab stroke is suited best and Scooter sideslips up the levels to the next calm spot to watch Hal's ascent.

Hal doin' what he loves.

    In the calm of the eddy notes on performance are compared.  Scooter is jabbering like a mad man.
    "Damn, that was sweet, I slide through those ledges and it felt awful good!" he said between a grin that nearly toppled the back of his head off.
    "Ahhhhh, Scooter, this is what poling is all about!"  Hal replies.  His attitude and tone of voice are one of experience and satisfaction.  Quietly look around he repeats softly, "This is what it's all about!"  Then he's gone again drifting his way upstream.   Up ahead the bridge looms into sight and it was there that they turn around.  Poling upstream isn't all that is involved with lost art.  Snubbing down the current dodging the rocks is just as difficult as pushing and steering yourself up the current.  The partners gleefully do so, hesitantly but rivers have a way of moving downstream whether you like it or not and they soon find themselves back at the piles of gear.
    They pack quickly and enter the main branch. The canoes pick up speed.  All Hal and Scooter need to do is dip the paddles in and steer, the only effort being applied around obstacles and when they wanted to drop into an eddy.
    "Can you believe that we came up this damn thing?" says Scooter, in awe. "How the hell did we do this?" he stated, more a question to himself.
    "Hell, we did a load of work!" said Hal, "We went further upstream in flood water then anyone else I know."
    They look at the flow of the stream, an occasional hunk of wood slides by them.  They peel out into the stream and wind their way down the river.  In no time they come to the ending of their piece of the river.  Driftwood lines the edges of the bank and beyond.  They play in the slower water before taking out.  Although short in duration they both know it was an accomplishment few had achieved in recent years.  The Abenakis had made this a part of their lives but it is a lost art.
    The hiss of sand meeting canoe bottom fights with the river noise.  Two older men in a pickup with metal detectors show up and give Scooter and Hal a local view on the river.  For this time of year the river was low.  Scooter sighs heavily on this news, anything higher and this river might have damaged him for life.  The beeping of metal in the ground accompanies the packing of the Rodeo.  They stand by the river's edge and silently ponder the past few days.  One or two hours the first day!  Seven  hours of fighting their way upstream took up the second day but from the point of turn around to the takeout was a mere, yes a mere, two  hours.  Watching the river flow by they wonder if they have learned a little more about themselves, the river, or both.
    With one last look they get in the car and start their long journey home.