OK, so it goes like this… Tamia is so busy catching up on her work that she asked me for help. I’m Jacky Chipmunk, and as anyone who knows my tribe at all well realizes, if you want something done, ask a busy chipmunk to do it. We don’t let the grass grow under out feet. But before anything, I suppose I should show my face:

 
I hope you don’t mind if I pick up a few sunflower seeds while we talk. Waste not, want not—that’s my motto, or one of them, anyway. Those birds, they’ll get in the way of my tidying up, and they’re messy, into the bargain. Where were they raised, in a barn? And look at this, a rabbit passed this way, and I mean passed! Musket balls all over the place.

 
I can talk while packing seeds into my handy cheek pouches, don’t you worry. That red squirrel who was here the other day—Ratatosk was his name—he just didn’t have a clue. Squirrels. They’re alright, if a bit squirrelly, if you get my meaning. They don’t have cheek pouches. They have to make many trips to store as many nuts or seeds. Not like chipmunks, who are far more intelligent, by far. I don’t mind telling you that. We chips have been around for 35 milion years without any real change. What does that tell you? We haven’t needed to change, that’s what. We’re perfect. I might be biased, but I doubt it. Excuse me a mo’, I’ve got to take a bath. Ahhh, now, I’m more presentable. I’ve even cleaned between my toes.

 
My front paws have four fingers and a short thumb pad, and they’re very dextrous. I really don’t know why you monkeys need opposable thumbs. I do very well, thanks. I open seeds, and grab them, and defend myself, and climb trees (yes, you heard right)…

 
We might dig into the ground to make our homes, but we climb trees, too. Surprised? Don’t be. We’re chipmunks. Anyone who takes the trouble to get to know us realizes we’re quite capable in any number of ways.

 
Need a for instance? We lived through the Ice Age. Imagine that. Snow holds no horrors for us at all, whether it’s a few inches deep of a mile or two deep, who cares? We just dig and thrive. And when the going gets really tough, we’re not about to struggle for nothing. No way. We just take a nice long nap. And when we wake up a bit peckish, we head down the hall to the pantry and have something to eat. Why do you think we are so thrifty, because we’re obsessive? Don’t you believe it. We’re thrifty because You Never Know. You might have to ride out a few thousand years between fill-ups to your pantry. Of course, what goes in has to come out, and we have a latrine set aside for that, too. But I’ll not be so indelicate to go into that.

 
Our thick winter fur and the ability to carry home lots of shopping distinguishes us as superior creatures. I don’t want to belabor that point too loudly or Ratatosk will get a complex.

 
We chipmunks have beautiful stripes which help keep us camouflaged in a world of predators looking for an easy meal. Predators, hrumph. Lazy so-and-sos, they loaf around much of the time then go looking for a free lunch at our expense, then gorge, then loaf around. They don’t know the meaning of the words industry, thrift, virtue, and prudence. Where would they be without the rest of us? Extinct, that’s what. But I don’t want to think about that, it’s a distasteful subject. Luckily I’m also fast. It’s the chipmunk way. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got to head back to add another load to my pantry. Tamia’s just going to have to get off her backside and carry the load for awhile. Bye.

 
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A Note to the Reader  It’s April 1st, 2001. Ed, Brenna, and the rest of the “April Fools” have eaten lunch, and the Battenkill shakedown cruise is drawing to a close. As the end of the day approaches, Ed and Brenna are worrying that their “Trip of a Lifetime” might already be coming unstuck. Could they be right?

 
Our story continues…

 
Chapter Nine

 
A perfect day, indeed! Sunlight bathed the valley and the surrounding hills. The four canoes continued on downstream. Playing the river was now forgotten as Ed, Brenna, and the others strove to avoid the lines and lures of fishermen. In the chutes above every pool, anglers struggled to hold their own against the steady shove of the Battenkill’s high-water current. This was New York’s “trophy section.” Only artificial lures were permitted, and most of the anglers had light spinning tackle. A few determined fly-fishermen cast weighted nymphs, dreaming, no doubt, of low water and the Baetis hatches to come.

But there were no Blue-Winged Olives in sight. Only high, cold, swirling water. Paddling in line, the canoeists ferried from side to side, hoping to slip between each angler and the bank. Relations between canoeists and fishermen were never good on the Battenkill. Today, however, was worse than most. Opening Day of trout season! Ed cursed his stupidity in picking this day, of all days, for their shakedown cruise.

Still, things went well enough at first. Most of the fisherman ignored the paddlers gliding by behind them. A few, remembering narrow escapes from flotillas of out-of-control livery boats during the summer months, recognized the canoeists’ skill and turned to nod their appreciation.

Then Fenris began to howl. Her tranquilizer was wearing off. Linda Carney, still paddling in the bow of Brick’s boat, made a few perfunctory attempts to quiet the animal, but without success. Soon she stopped trying. Fenris continued to howl. Worse yet, the wolf-hybrid now greeted each fisherman with a snarl. Brick fumed silently. A few startled anglers yelled epithets at the backs of the departing canoeists.

An Irish setter appeared on shore. Seeing it, Fenris tried to leap into the water. Brick executed a desperate brace, holding his paddle in one hand and grabbing for Fenris’ collar with the other. He kept her in the boat—but only just. Several gallons of water slopped over the gunwale as it dipped below the surface. Fenris lunged again, snapping at Brick’s restraining arm. She howled even more loudly. Linda stared ahead, apparently unconscious of the struggle going on behind her. The Dagger yawed awkwardly. A fisherman scrambled to get out of the way, dropping into a hole and plunging over the top of his waders. Shivering and swearing, he struck out for the shallows. Seconds later, a grapefruit-sized cobble flew through the air, missing the boat by inches. The splash caught Brick square in the back of the neck…. Read more…

 
Hooked? A new chapter in our serial adventure novel, Trip of a Lifetime, will appear every Sunday. If you’ve missed a chapter, or if you’re coming aboard for the first time and want to catch up, just use the hot-linked title to go to the archives.

 
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A REMINDER This is a work of fiction. All the characters are figments of the imaginations. It’s NOT a paddling guide. If you’re planning a trip on the Albany River—or any other body of water, come to that—consult the most recent edition of a good guidebook and be sure you’re thoroughly familiar with all applicable regulations. While maps of Ontario show some of the waterways mentioned here, the places depicted in our story exist only in our minds—and in yours.

 
Whenever Selma Patrick goes paddling she returns with wonderful photographs, and this collection is no exception. The Clatskanie River kayak trip she made with her husband Whit proved to be a wildlife-rich adventure of discovery. Here is a selection of Selma’s close encounters of the wild kind, beginning with the little fellow at the right. Butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, but you can see the spark of playfulness in his intelligent eyes. More of Rackety Coon Child in a moment, otherwise he might steal the show away from this family of deer:

 
Selma was quick off the mark with her camera when she saw these graceful creatures at water’s edge. If she hadn’t been quick, only their tracks would be in the photo. Her swift camera work also captured this shy nhabitant of the Clatskanie’s banks:

 
A young green heron—the streaky neck indicates the heron’s immaturity—stalks the riverbank in search of a meal. Stealth is his middle name, but Selma’s sharp eye noticed him before he had a chance to take flight. Note his chestnut neck, but why is this heron called a green heron? In certain lighting conditions, the head and back feathers of adults are glossy greenish black. Immature green herons have a more subdued coloration, with that streaky neck and mottled covert feathers. This outfit camouflages the young birds against predators, and I suppose that very young herons need that protection with raccoons always on the scrounge along the riverbank:

 
Here’s Rackety, poking his nose into the shallows in search of something to eat, but he’s not so hungry that he can’t stop to play a game of hide-and-seek with Selma:

 
Catch that scruffy ear—the result of some rough play with brothers and sisters? He’s not saying, and now that he’s been seen, it’s time to skedaddle up onto the grassy bank and hide again:

 
He knows no one can see him behind the stalks of grass. Enough of this, now. There’s serious business to get back to—catching a meal:

 
After a bit of diligent digging, Rackety unearths a freshwater mussel. That should hit the spot after rinsing it in the shallows. Here’s a close-up of lunch:

 
With delicacy, Rackety dines on his mussel—a well-earned meal for a hard-working raccoon. And it’s time for hard-working kayakers to head downriver now, too…

 
Many thanks to Selma Patrick for letting us reprint her photos so we could all enjoy the wild life of wildlife along the Clatskanie River trip in northwest Oregon. I hope she takes us along on other paddling trips in future!

 
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