Oregon - It is dawn of the third day.
Soft sunlight filters through the cathedral trees, brightening the meadow on the opposite bank.
Soft shushing sounds tell me Allen Wilson is down at the side creek, panning for gold. I slip out of my sleeping bag, stand, and deeply inhale the fresh, bracing air. A few yards away, the sun is caught like a prism by froth spurting from the restive river that has been the focus of our journey. At its edge I reach into clear water flowing over striated stones, feeling the refreshing droplets on my face. The Chetco is not a raging torrent but a river of moods, varying from hissy and irritable to mesmerizingly tranquil, with long flat stretches that invite contemplation.