"The water was murky from algae and I couldn't see exactly where I was placing my feet. If I had been in a movie, something unseen would have grabbed me with fish-like hands and dragged my struggling body below the surface. I assured myself that it wasn't a movie and continued on.

Suddenly the lagoon around me exploded. Water splashed everywhere, and I could see loathsome forms sliding beneath the water. I couldn't move.

When I finally regained my sense, I realized that I was perched on a nearby boulder, Buck knife in hand. A dozen and a half good-sized carp circled in the water below. I spent the better part of the afternoon searching for the monster that had tried to attack me, but all I found were my pants and the carp."

--Scott Anderson, Distant Fires

See? It's not just me, man. Zombie moose! They're out there.

At this point even I can admit that paddling season is over, but this is not stopping me from reading extensively about boats and the mad, mad people who paddle them. It seems that most everyone who paddles wants to tell some sort of tale about it, but the quality of those tales is by no means as uniform. Also, it appears to have relatively little to do with how well the expedition went.

For instance, Michael Tougias' smooth sailing of the Connecticut River makes for stultifying prose in River Days, while Joe Kane's entry, Running the Amazon is a thrilling re-enactment of Apocalypse Now with kayaks. Different strokes, for different folks.

However, as I pointed out to my sister yesterday, for whatever reason, a large part of my current river reading has been made up of what I like to call the "70s Divorced Women Flotilla". I maintain this is a literary sub-genre, mainly published in the 1970s and 80s, of wome who threw off the shackles of marriage for a few good rivers. These tales are by far the most exciting of the bunch. The two most notable are Audrey Sutherland's Paddling My Own Canoe (divorced mother of four leaves children annually for remote Hawaiian island paddle) and Yukon Wild: The Adventures of Four Women Who Paddled 2,000 Miles Through America's Last Frontier by Beth Johnson. I know, I've been talking about this book for days. But it really is that good. It's good enough that my officemate, who doesn't paddle (or go outdoors for any reason) read the Preface and has now had the book for two weeks. Anyway, of the four women who make the epic three-month trek, two get divorced shortly afterwards.

The effect of all this Helen Reddy-in-the-water lit is not without its drawbacks. For the past few nights I have had dreams involving backpacking and kayaking that involve the loss of El Yo in some manner, and he reports that I have become prone to nocturnal violence. Not so good.

But really I am just doing research. I have enough vacation saved up that I am trying to find somewhere warm enough to take 10 days of paddling over spring break in March (yes, Finland is still an option, although this needs much more research) and if my calculations are correct, I should also be able to take two full weeks off this summer for a more local paddling trip. The Connecticut River (which runs along the border between VT and NH) is definitely an option, source to mouth.

But in planning trips like these, one of the allures of the Helen Reddy river crowd is that they have the same concerns I do: if I am to undertake a paddling trip alone, will I need a gun? What is the likelihood I will be attacked, probably by a member of the opposite sex? (Although I have my eye on a particularly fierce lesbian duo in Sacramento). Do I really have to budget in the cost and weight of mace, or should I brush up on the defensive use of a canoe paddle? Personal safety comes up as an issue in almost every female paddling narrative (Audrey Sutherland's book being the one exception I have found so far) while I have found it rarely mentioned in those tales by their male counterparts. Or if the worry of danger rears its head, it appears in the form of bears. Apparently men fear bears, so apparently a bear costume may be a better investment than the can of mace. Note to self.

I am lucky in the patient and supportive El Yo, who professes interest in all these paddling trips this spring, and who also, when questioned, professes that dumping your wife because she was going paddling for three months seemed "exceedingly lame". Rrowr! Ladies, he's taken.

So as I type this, between books, I am trying to decide what to read next. Alone But Not Lonely, one woman's tale of hiking Vermont's Long Trail with only a dog for company? Living on Wilderness Time, one woman's tale of bopping around the U.S. in search of "wilderness"? Although that latter one has a happier outlook for domesticity: her husband of 30-years waits patiently and explains her actions to their kids, before joining her for two weeks of married wilderness-search. Ah, true love.

Or there's Tim Cahill's newest collection. I'm unsure of Cahill's outlook on domestic relations but, having read the other collections, I know that he's afraid of bears, sea snakes, guerrillas and malaria. A man after my own heart.