The river begs for more respect. Humbly, it offers the unique sound of its own body shifting around obsticles in life and earth, or of caressing your feet as they dangle off the sides of the boat, its thousand tongues dripping back into themselves. Paddles have an uncanny way of flattering the waters they dip into. On quiet days one can stare for hours at the swirls and flutter that ripple across the skin of the river made by a wooden paddle. Light tends to choose unfamiliar hiding places in the folds of such affection. No other form of travel seems more natural. And no other way of living seems as fitting as nomadic or transient camping.