Friday morning, seven o'clock, lying here in my blankets, and there is music blaring at me coming from a camp site just forty yards away. It is not ten o'clock. It is not even nine o'clock. It is seven o'clock AM, as in MORNING, as in SLEEP TIME. The pounding from the radio drags upon my ears like a cheese grader. At the best of times I manage to fall asleep around two or three in the morning; having to get up at seven is not something I look forward to. As my friend Johann has pointed out a few dozen times, I am "not a pleasant fellow" when deprived of sleep.

I yank on my pants. I stuff my feet inside my boots, and cram my head into my hat. I leave my warm blankets, zero in on the offending camper (a mobile house as large as a river barge, with satellite dish set up in the road), and make my charge. I do not take the path; I make my assault upon the enemy in a straight line, stomping innocent, blameless juniper along the way. In an instant I come face to face with my adversary.

"What the (such and such) is wrong with you (so and so) people?!" I demand. "There's people trying to sleep, (insert blasphemy here)!" I wave my arms. I stomp my feet. I huff and puff. I am majestic in my outrage, magnificent in my indignation, and damn impressive in my wrath. I am offered an explanation: "We didn't know there was a rule against the noise." It is now my turn to look shocked and dismayed. "A rule?" I think to myself. Must one require a rule from some "authority" in order to act with courtesy, with consideration? I am almost lost for words. Almost. "You obnoxious (such and such) twits!" I turn around and march off indignantly, fuming in my ire.

Thinking back, I suspect I was not hard enough on them. Perhaps, I think, I should have called their parentage into question, suggest that their fidelity to their spouses is in doubt, and that the children they believe are their own really ain't so.

Indeed, when I am short on sleep, I am Adolph Hitler, Lafayette Ronald Hubbard, and Joseph Stalin all rolled into one. A very unpleasant fellow.

My friend Johann is the same way when he is hungry. I have seen him break international treaties and risk provoking wars because red tape has stood between him and a stuffed potato. I'm not kidding. Johann's wife gets the same way whenever she hears (or suspects) that some over-worked waitress somewhere on the planet has been tipped a nickel too much. Awful in their fierce need (in the first instance) for sustenance, or compulsion (in the latter instance) to keep the poor and downtrodden at the proper impecunious and tyrannized level.

I look around me, calming down, and I notice that the sun is shining down upon the land in glorious splendor, lighting the mirror that is the lake into a dazzling golden fire that blinds my eyes. Birds are singing; the trees are caressed with gilded warmth, seeming to glow slightly with their own incandescence, their own spirit, their own happiness at the touch of the sun. Without the least bit of compunction, with not a infinitesimal twitch of shame or rue, I realize I am very happy to be up and about so early this damn fine morning.

Yes, I must do something this morning while the sun is still shining. I shall rent a canoe.

I drive to the lake's office, having already this morning expended much of the energy I normally use for walking, by yelling and stomping like a football coach.

No one is in the office at the moment, but Della yells a "Hello" through her window. I tell her that I yelled at two campers this morning, and that I feel badly for doing so. "I should apologize," I tell her. She pointed out, quite reasonably, that I should only apologize for the way I delivered my angst at the noise, and not for the fact that I was upset. Quiet time is from 10:00PM until 8:00AM.

I tell Della that I heard very weird noises last night around two in the morning. It sounded like someone was playing a tape of a wounded rabbit, trying to draw predators. "Oh, you mean the elk!" she tells me. I'm a desert rat, not privy to the ways of the forest born. The elk sounded like the wailing of the damn. No wonder the Old Ones hit them over the head with clubs. No wonder the Native Americans shot them full of arrows. No wonder modern people slay them with high-powered rifles and SUV bumpers. It's the only way to get any quiet at night! The elk sound like feedback in a public address system.

Candy is sweeping the walk in front of the office. Weekend visitors are expected later this afternoon, many if the sun stays out, few if it continues to rain. Uncharitably, jealous of my peace and quiet, I hope for rain.

I bid Della a good-bye, and I greet Candy. I ask Candy if she has heard any "new good questions" that people ask her, in person or via the telephone.

"Sure, I got a call not too long ago. 'Do you guys stock the lake?' one person asked. I said 'Yes, we do.' The person asked 'Is there fish in the lake?'" Candy paused here, breathing in and out with deliberation. "I said 'Well no, we stalk the lake with kangaroos.'" Candy rolls her eyes.

"Then there was that other caller," Candy tells me, just getting started, "Wanted to know if they could 'go swimming and get wet in the lake.' Now you tell me, David, how does one go swimming and not get wet?" I thought to myself that a full-body submersion suit would do the trick.

I hand Candy a dollar or so for a bottle of water to take with me in the canoe. The canoes are laying next to the lake, bottom-up like dead fish. Paddle from the barrel, Type Three life vest from the rack, and I am good to go. I up-end a canoe and shove off, heading east.

Dappled sunlight bounces off the lake and into my eyes, making it impossible for me to see. The water hisses along my jaunty craft's skin, while the paddle bites deeply. I cannot see if I am heading for rocks, the shore, or a man-eating plunge down Niagara Falls. I yell up at the sun "Quit dappling, damn you!" but it does not heed me. I shield my eyes with a hand and get my bearing.

Rowing is simplicity itself. Grasping the very end of the paddle with one hand, I grip it tightly. With the other hand I grasp the paddle in the middle. The arm with the hand holding the end of the paddle I keep stiff, without bending the elbow. I use the other arm to dig the paddle into the lake, pulling the water behind me. The shoulder on my stiff arm acts as a pivot, a fulcrum. Now and then I switch arms, and guide my merry, dancing craft across the lake.

Seven ducks fly over my head. I pause on my paddle and I hear the wind whistle softly around their wings. To my wonder and awe, a bald-headed eagle flies a hundred feet or so in the air, off to my left, heading south. This is the male eagle that Candy suspects lost its mate and its chicks in the recent fire. In my mind's eye I see the female eagle, staying in the nest with chicks who are too young to fly, preferring to die instead of abandoning them to the smoke and flames. In my imagination I see the male eagle returning from hunting to find his family's tree in flames, the nest in flames, his family turned to ash. How long did he fly through the smoke, looking for his mate? How long did he wail, grieve, suffer? Perhaps he grieves still---- every morning he heads south to the Hayman burn area, and every evening he returns. Does he go south to look for his mate, his children? Does he return every night in grief and despair? I dunno, but I doff my hat to the bald eagle.

Ninety minutes later I return the canoe. I point the bow to shore and shove hard on the paddle. The canoe leaps onto the shore with surprising agility, as if a shark is on its ass; as if it is afraid of the water and is relieved to get out of it; as if it were a horse at a dude ranch that cannot wait to get back to the corral. I turn the boat belly up, place the paddle in the barrel, and place the life vest on the rack.

In the road, seemingly waiting for me, is a fox. The fox's tail is improbably bushy. Her eyes watch me from her narrow face. The fox looks at me expectantly, as if I am supposed to do something. She stands just ten feet away, staring patiently. I say "What?" but she does not answer me. Behind me Candy yells "Where's that fox? Oh, there." and tosses two frozen hotdogs at the fox. The fox picks up both hotdogs in her mouth and runs off. A minute later the fox is back, looking for more.

The fox has a food cache nearby. She is storing food for the winter, perhaps thinking of new pups in the spring. Seeing no more food is going to be offered today (Candy tells her so), the fox trots off into the woods.

There is good news and bad news, Della informs us (Candy and I). The good news is that the fire ban has been lifted, and that Candy may now start selling firewood. The bad news is, the fire ban has been lifted. I am distrustful of fire, seeing how devastating the Hayman fire had been. If the trees around Wellington Lake burned down, would the lake fill with silt? Where would the bald eagle go? Where would the fox go?

As I buy twenty chunks of wood from Candy, rain clouds swoop in from the east, occult the sun, and look ready to get down to business--- it will rain any minute. I say good-bye to Della and Candy and head back to my camp.

Something has helped itself to my jar of mustard. The lid is off, the jar on its side, and mustard covers the card table. Paw prints, bright yellow, cross the table, pass over my bath towel, and head westward. I put the lid back on the jar, wipe it mostly clean, and put the mustard into the icebox--- I will need it for this afternoon's sandwich.

It is, of course, impossible to make a sandwich without mustard. No one seriously disputes this fundamental fact. I have heard rumors, vague hearsay, tattle, scuttlebutt, that there are people who know someone who know someone who saw someone who made a sandwich--- and ate it!--- without mustard. These rumors I give as much credence to as, say, sightings of Big Foot, Nessie the Loch Ness Monster, Elvis, and Roswell Grays.