My father would take his four children, together, singly or in pairs, on canoe trips down the Delaware River. It is what we did, from Hancock to Port Jervis, for a week or two, year after year. Occasionally, we visited lakes or hiked the Appalachian Trail, but always, we canoed the river.

  We were cold or hot, itchy, our butts and legs covered in an uncomfortable rash known as "canoe seat." We were often made to wear long pants and sleeves, a hat, sneakers and--until we outgrew them--a life vest; all of it wet. We made camp in the wild and rose early in order to get in our daily number of miles with enough time to collect clippers for bait and to fish for the evening meal. 

    It was not a busy river then. Boat rentals, river tourism, and development came later, sometime after we had been imprinted with the alternating wonder and boredom of paddling under the command of a silent father, seeing none but our selves for the length of a day or more.