Across the stream a flier is hitting its head against a tree. I climb down the bank and swim across to the other side. But up on top I lose the scent, come back, swim back across and have a good roll. Ever so slowly, we walk farther up the stream, past the place where last summer the underwater animals had built a dam clear across a shallow part of the stream. It's not there now.
Ice hangs down from the roots of trees that have blown over.
We go about a mile and then come to where wire stretches across our path. There are only a couple of strands, and I go under them like they're not there and try to lure him farther up the stream. But Clumsy always turns around here. There's so much more stream to explore . . . I really don't get it.