by Al Mueller

The phone rang loudly on a warm July Saturday morning. The old man's head rolled off his pillow. He wondered who would disturb such a great morning to sleep in.

He answered the phone in a manner that would make telemarketers wish they had never been born.
On the other end of the line a young man asked, "Are you all set to go, Mr. Mueller?"

Go where? the old man thought. The only place he wanted to go was back to dreamland. as one of his former Boy Scouts.

The old man had been a Scoutmaster for about 10 years. He had worked with the same group of youth from second grade until they were seniors in high school. One of their last projects was to build kayaks. But as high school graduation came around, they all scattered like a dried-out dandelion on a warm, breezy day. They had never floated the kayaks as planned.

The old man had contacted a few of the former Scouts and they had set a date to test the kayaks on the North Platte River. Today was that day.

A few hours later, the kayaks were loaded on a vehicle and headed west. They decided to float the North Platte River between Hershey and North Platte. It was only a fifteen-mile run. The young men thought this would be a piece of cake. They had done ten times that distance in Canada just a few years back. But, were the homemade, untested kayaks up for the trip?

From the moment their feet touched the cool, late morning water of the river, their hearts raced. When they pushed off the cattail-covered bank, they knew they were in for a unique experience.
The water was running high and fast. Their first test awaited them as a large cottonwood tree that had succumbed to the high water blocked the main channel. The kayaks responded well to the double-edged paddles.

The river became kinder and the trip became a relaxing float trip. They enjoyed catching a glimpse of deer drinking from the backwater. Turkeys cackled at them as they passed. Sunbathing turtles looked annoyed as the group passed their sandbars. A blue heron played tag with them, flying just far enough down stream for the group to wonder where he went. Then he would surprise the group and take flight just as the kayaks rounded a bend.

Then there was always the challenge of venturing away from the main channel to explore a mysterious side channel. That could end up being too shallow to float and mean having to drag the kayaks through a patch of poison ivy.

"Leaves of three let it be," reminded the old adage.

The trip was over in about five hours. Take away the occasional stop for a swim, horseplay and swamped kayaks at Buffalo Bill's campground, and the trip would have been about four hours. The boys could not believe they had had so much fun and seen such natural beauty only a few miles from town. And it was free to anyone who was up to the challenge.

That night in bed, the old man pondered the day's events and rubbed his sore shoulders.
His prayer that night was "Thank God for where I live. It is so wonderful that there are still places like the North Platte River, wild and free!!"