Overhanging Branches
A scenic vista or possibly an ego-bruising defeat.

I typically paddle down the middle where I can take in the entire view of the river, lake, or strait.​

Then there are those occasions when the most expedient route will take me near tree lined shore where the overhanging branches are homes to birds, spiders, and failed casts of prior fishermen. As these branches nearly touch the water or cast their midday shadows, there is almost always a moment to snap a picture to share with others.

During the day it’s easier to tell if these branches are thick or deep, perhaps impenetrable. At night, I have learned it’s best just to stay away.

To challenge my skill of maintaining a straight line, I seek an open path, often a gap not much wider than the width of my kayak. It may seem simple, but a swift current on a winding river may push me off course a few inches or a few feet. 

When the river isn't cooperative and it appears that I am certain to miss my narrow opening, I must decide whether to muscle my way through or change course. Most times I forge ahead rather than making the safer choice and change course. 

As I approach this predetermined gap that's often too narrow, I know in advance if it’s going to be a moment to celebrate or a time of regret. No one besides me will know of my moments of success or defeat other than the evidence of a scratched cheek, bruised forehead, or being the lead story on the ten o’clock news.