A push of the paddle against the bank and the kayak floated free into narrow Dyberry Creek. Another push brought the boat to mid-stream where the fluid fingers of the current wrapped around the hull and began to carry it downstream. Dim, early morning light surrounded me. Wispy gray mist floated above the water. The temperature hovered at a chilly 45 degrees.

Suddenly, a clump-island of tall grass with narrow channels on either side loomed menacingly. Quick decision made I aimed for the gap on the left where tiny wavelets roiled the surface hopefully offering enough depth and a safe passage. I shot through millimeters above the rocky bottom. Another patch of frothy water emerged. I studied the surface, picked my path, and zipped through again, but this time heard and felt soft thumps against the bottom of the boat.

Dyberry Creek was narrow, shallow, and filled with bends and turns. I encountered more rapids to thread through, narrow spots to navigate, overhanging tree limbs to duck, and even two bridges to paddle under; all of it challenging kayaking demanding full focus. This wasn’t the peaceful drifting downstream I had imagined.

Gradually, I worked into a pattern of paddling and picking my course. Slowly the stream widened, the challenging spots came further apart, and I was freed up to look and listen. Lush green weeds, grasses and reeds grew in profusion along the banks. Further from the water thick dense bushes merged into tall trees. Sometimes tree branches stretched across the creek creating a green leafy tunnel. I heard traffic on the nearby highway and occasionally saw the back of a house, but I knew this wild stripe of river land was ideal bird habitat.

Yellow Warblers, looking like luminous saffron feathered darts, flew across the creek, flitted from branch to branch and sang their musical “sweet, sweet, sweet, a little more sweet.” Brown-tan Song Sparrows hopped along the shoreline and chanted, “maids, maids, put on the tea kettle-lettle-lettle-lettle.” Crows cawed, blackbirds and grackles “chacked”, blue jays” jayed”, mourning doves cooed, and from a quiet eddy a Great Blue Heron squawked into flight. Ahead, a Bald Eagle flapped silently and majestically into the air, long wingspan, strong wing strokes, bright white band across its tail feathers.

The Lackawaxen River flowed in from the right absorbing little Dyberry Creek. I was paddling on a real river now, wider, a greater volume of water, flowing insistently, relentlessly downstream to the Delaware River, on to Delaware Bay, to finally merge into the vast Atlantic Ocean. This was a working river constantly scouring its bed and changing its channel.

The river wound through the town of Honesdale. Houses and back yards appeared along both banks, but only a few had walkways to the river or chairs along the bank. It was a mostly under-developed and under-appreciated view. Past the river bank I saw old brick shoe factories and further away tall church spires piercing a pale blue sky.

There was refuse in the river, cans, plastic bottles, a bright red fishing bobber, and an old black, half-buried tire beneath the surface. I looked ahead and with alarm saw two storm-downed trees splayed across the river completely blocking the channel.

I jammed my paddle in the water, slowed the kayak, bumped softly into the trunk of the first tree, and carefully stepped out onto the rocky slippery bottom. Crawling, climbing and crouching over and under tree trunks and between branches, I dragged my kayak forward while the current pushed and slapped and swirled against the boat and around my legs. I managed to just squeeze through the tree barrier. With a sense of relief I climbed back in the boat and once again floated free.

The temperature remained in the 40s. Chilly mist lingered above the water. My fingers were numb; my torso chilled, my butt wet. I hadn’t dressed warmly enough, no vest, no gloves. I glanced up and saw bright sunlight caressing the spires of the church steeples. Warmth and sunshine would eventually find its way down into the river valley. There was nothing to do but to paddle on.

I drifted into a wide, quiet stretch of river sided by wooded back yards and brush covered banks. On a little stony point two fawns stepped exploratively, playfully into the shallow water. They were improbably small, like perfectly sewn stuffed animals come to life; light tan fur, delicate white spots, dainty black hooves, black button noses. They spotted me, froze, backed up, cowered, and watched me warily with soft brown eyes as I slid by.

Once past town I saw the back of the commercial sprawl that stretched down the highway; metal buildings, auto repair shops, tire stores, gas stations, and warehouses. I heard the steady hum of traffic along the highway. But the river remained a hidden swath of wild nature.

Ducks swam on the water, a half-dozen bright green-headed drake mallards, a warm brown hen mallard followed by a trio of ducklings, most likely the survivors from a larger clutch. A mother Common Merganser with her reddish, tufted, punk feather-do led a convoy of little brown ducklings. Robins, catbirds, orioles, and yellowthroats sang. A dark brown muskrat slithered off a large rock, dove underwater and swam away.

The river reached an open area, grassy, with gently sloped banks. The rising sun finally shone upon me. I pulled over, beached the boat, stepped out, opened my thermos, and poured a hot steamy cup of coffee. I clutched the cup with the numb fingers of both hands trying to extract all the warmth. I sipped the hot black coffee. Every morning cup of coffee tastes good, but this cup, sipped alongside the river, while surrounded by tall green grass, and luxuriating in the warmth of the sun, was an especially good cup.

Warmed by the coffee and sunshine I continued my journey downstream settling into an easy and efficient rhythm of paddling and drifting. In a stretch of wide quiet water surrounded by tall hemlocks, ashes and maples I spotted a Green Heron perched on a snag just above the water; a crow sized bird, greenish back, chestnut neck, greenish-black crown, short spear-like bill, a solitary bird of rivers and swamps. It fluttered up to a higher branch, and then as I came closer flew right over me, and landed halfway up a tree, a shorebird perching deftly in a tree.

Ahead, along the stony shoreline a small animal stood near the water. What was it? A big cat, a little dog, or…? I held my paddle still, floated silently closer, and realized that it was a gray fox pup; pointy ears, gray fur, long fluffy tail, alert posture. The young fox stood its ground as I drifted by, proud predator bearing, gazing at me openly, even a bit defiantly.

As my journey continued the river revealed its ever-changing personality. There were serene stretches with wide calm water, overhanging trees, sun speckled shade, a calm and peaceful side of its personality. Then suddenly the river was filled with roiling water, swirls and waves and dark dangerous rocks piercing the surface as the river showed its dangerous and challenging face. Then, just seconds later I would drift into an open stretch with gently sloping sand banks, surrounded by meadows of grasses, milkweed and goldenrods where blue-green tree swallows skimmed over the water, circled above chirping musically; a welcoming friendly river.

I looked at the water. Large and small chunks of brownish foam speckled the surface and floated downstream. Patches of tiny insects squirmed on the surface, sometimes a hundred or more, sometimes a dense mat of a hundred thousand or more. I peered down into the clear water and saw moss-covered rocks and patches of a seaweed-like plant anchored to the rocks with its stems and lacy leaves undulating in the current. In a shallow area the seaweed edged to the surface and slender stems topped with tiny white flowers reached up into the air. Water flowers in bloom, a remarkable and lovely adaptation I thought, one that I had never seen before.

On my left old stone walls stretched along the bank, the walls of the D&H canal which for many years was a vital and thriving commercial artery for shipping Pennsylvania anthracite coal to the markets of New York City. The rectangular fitted stones, the product of hundreds of man-hours of hard labor, still stood firm, but were being steadily reclaimed by nature, by mosses, weeds, and seedling trees. For a moment I imagined the canal the way it was, the coal laden barges, the tow path with mules and guides, the workers tending the canal, the crews upon the barge, the creaks and groans and rattles of the wooden craft and the harnesses, the yells, curses and conversations of the crews.

On my right another stone wall, this one bracing the right of way of the Delaware and Hudson Railway that in its day had been equally busy and noisy; steam engines chugging, steel wheels rolling on steel tracks, bells clanging, whistles tooting. I saw the parallel tracks running next to the river. These days the only trains that traveled the tracks were weekend and holiday excursions.

My mind drifted back further in time and I pictured Native Americans paddling down the river in hollowed out dugouts. And further back in time perhaps there were peoples who walked the easier terrain near the river, who hunted and fished along its banks. And now, it was just me paddling silently downstream.

I checked Google maps to track my progress on this 12 mile trip. I had to be alert for the pullout spot located behind a restaurant. The map showed that I was getting close, closer than I thought, closer than I wanted to be.

My journey seemed almost like a miniature lifespan. I had been born under the bankside branches in dim morning light.   I fought my way down the narrow creek channel. Then, with adolescent energy I paddled hard, eagerly faced the challenges, fought through the rapids, and muscled my way through fallen trees. As the river widened and deepened I settled into a more mature rhythm of efficient paddling and drifting, simply going with the flow. And now, feeling a bit of fatigue, I paddled on, bathed in warm sunshine, surrounded by green growth, wanting the journey to continue.

I shot past the easy landing, fought my way back upstream, beached the kayak, and dragged it up the steep bank through thorny brambles and thick stems of Japanese knotweed. I called home for a ride and then sat down in a chair near a pagoda the restaurant owners had built, a scenic spot for photo-ops and outdoor weddings.

I watched the river flow along and listened to its soft song. Usually after a nature adventure I felt excited and energized, but today after being alone with the river I felt quiet and humbled.