There had been a dry spell in the North Country, and a warm one at that, perfect for celebrating the end of a long and snowy spring semester with some "studying" at St. Lawrence University. The growers all around are worried about their parched veggies as they run around with sloshing buckets and hissing hoses. The students are worried about their papers, their exams, their departing friends as they lay out in the fresh sunlight or take procrastination trips to the ice cream stand. It's all very delightful in that teeth grinding way for everyone accept me, the visiting alumni. I am sitting at the canoe shack enjoying the bug-less early burst of summer with book in hand and toes tapping on the downed hemlock needles. Above me ironwood branches push out little leaf buds, racing the maple to its have left and the oak to its right. Its roots are pumping up gallons from the little river which is part of the reason why the water is running a foot beneath the last boat launch step.

I walk over to check out the river, dipping my hand in the water. The kayaker in me is disappointed at this unseasonal low flow, but the swimmer is already disrobing. My finger thermometer reads the water temperature between 65 and 70 degrees Fahrenheit (it's very accurate). A week of unseasonal 80 degree heat has warmed up this 2-8 foot deep Grasse-St. Lawrence River tributary to an initially shocking but conformable swimming temp. A fisherman lowering his dingy into the water watches me stumble over unseen stones wearing play-station pattern boxers. My clumsy feet kick up the fine river bottom silt, masking my view of the bottom with plumes of brown algae and mud. Eventually I give up and lurch towards a deeper area feeling the water gulp me in. It's wonderful. A first of the year.

After enjoying a little float, I turn back up river walking/treading slowly with my hands cupped in a visor-goggle position around my eyes looking down too see what the river critters were up too. A group of three small panfish were hiding behind a boulder, their bodies rounded like sunfish I used to catch with macaroni noodles in my lake at home. Their dorsal spines rose up from their back at 11-3 o'clock, but they darted away as I moved closer. They could have been little small mouth bass, but I can't some to any conclusion except for panfish which means, unscientifically, but fittingly, a fish that can be easy fried up whole in a frying pan. I kept going, scanning for crawdad that might mistake my pinky toe for lunch. After a few cautious steps, the New York State fish meanders past me, a good sized maybe 14-18 inch brook trout with that unmistakable pink belly and white tipped pelvic, pectoral and anal fins. These pretty guys actually belong to the char family, but we call-em trouts anyway, or brookies. The sun beat down on my back and I kept going after Mr. Brooky glided into the abyss behind me.

Reaching the deepest part of the Little River, right in front of the canoe shack, I tip toe from rock top to rock top and I noticed one of the boulders in front of me seems to have a tail, a long straight pointy tail. I focus on it. Why did this 1-2 foot boulder have a tail... and ridges...in a pattern? Yikes! I yanked back and froze, my instincts preventing me from stepping on the back of the large snapping turtle. After taking a few deep breathes, I moved for another look to make sure, Snappers have raised jagged ridges on their carapaces (shell) and their tails display the same ridges like the stegosaurus, but this figure had very small ridges on its tail and a nearly flat shell. I still needed to be sure so I slowly rotated around the unmoving turtle until I could see its head, mostly tucked into the shell, but with an unmistakable beak like horn protruding out of its upper lip. The fear washed over me, I had seen enough.

Back on shore I air dried and warned a few prospective swimmers about the snapper and dove back into my book while my friend working at the shack studied furiously. After a bit of quiet, a chipmunk came out of her hole to see what was going on. I knew this old girl with her black and white racing stripes from face to tail. She often surprised me out here, scampering over my feet on quiet cooler days scampering back and forth on her endless quest to fill the stocks for winter. I imagined her multi-roomed home, walled with acorns, dandelions, and bits of chocolate-bar wrappers she pulled from the garbage bin. The little ones would be ready to come out soon, to test scamper along the dead logs and sniff the stinky toes of shack workers. Most of her sons and daughters would become snacks for house cats, owls and falcons, but not yet. They were safe and small for now.