The canoe ride was interesting. Used to our heavy river canoe at home, this narrow plastic ship was squirrelly, and wobbled. I told my son to sit still and hold on. We crafted past herons up on one leg, herons down-beaked after fish, herons standing and stretching in their best John J. Audobon poses. We glided as kingfishers cackled and darted cross-river before us.

We paddled through lily pads and milfoil thick enough to choke a frog. With water green as a leprachaun's sweater, murky as Montana fire skies, visibility of no more than six inches, there wasn't going to be any swimming.

The green was oppressive, the flatness terminal. An unbroken line of trees made up the nether bank of the stream, and docks tethered with motorboats made up the residential side.